Eighteen Years That Might Not Have Been

Dear Elias,

In the beginning of this month, on February 2nd, you turned eighteen years old. On the eve of your birthday, your Dad and I stayed up too late drinking wine, feeling a mix of wonder and denial that your transition to adulthood dawned.

But dawn it did, with a magenta sky to celebrate you, after a slate sky week of sleet, snow and rain.

You’ve heard your birth story many times, the mad rush to the hospital when my water broke at twenty-four weeks, how I felt you move into my birth canal as we sped through red lights, the agonizing wait for someone to see us, the surge of medical personnel when the nurse couldn’t find your heartbeat, how they whisked me off to emergency surgery without your Dad by my side, the NICU doctor’s first words when I woke up: “He’s alive but I can’t tell you he’s going to survive.”

The doctor didn’t sugarcoat the truth of your one-pound, twelve-ounce existence. Your APGAR score of 0,0,3. The fact that you looked more like a science project than a baby.

I have written your premature arrival into poetry, spoken word, blog posts, and essays, circling and re-circling your beginning, as if through telling your origin story, I can change the trajectory. Or find meaning. An escape hatch. Peace. 

“I’ll write my way out,” Hamilton sings, in the acclaimed broadway play, and I can say I too have been writing my way out of grief and despair, towards understanding, towards hope, towards you. 

You, my son who survived. 

My son who lives with lifelong challenges that affect communication, vision, balance, and mobility, but somehow manages to channel the sun amidst a storm. “Isn’t it beautiful,” you used to say, on even the ugliest of days.

“I wonder where tomorrow is?” you asked, shaking me from my stupor of trying to rewrite history.

“Mom, what are you wondering about?” reminding me to harness more awe, less angst.

And yet sometimes you are the storm. Wreaking havoc on what started out as a beautiful day. You are the bear lurking in the woods as I walk, ready to pounce the moment I think how lucky I am to be in this particular forest, on this particular day. Claws raised you swing your beefy paws at my heart.

And then an eagle passes overhead and you are my charming sweet boy again. 

The one who eagerly invites folks over to our house for sledding and eggs Benedict, even if we’ve only just met, even if your Mom and Dad rarely follow through with all your invites, too overwhelmed by life to plan something new. The one who says to friends and family: “I’m so happy to be with you!” “I can’t wait to see you!” “Thank you for being here!”

Elias, thank you for being here.

If I’m really, really, honest with you, Elias, there have been dark moments when I’ve wondered what my life would have been like without you. Or when I’ve grieved the boy you might have been, born full-term and healthy, helping your Dad with house projects, leaving me in your shadow on the mountain, looking after Olive your younger sister, hanging out with friends, playing sports, reading.

I let myself imagine a different version of you. And alternate reality for me.

But what I often fail to recognize, in these moments, is all the gifts you’ve given me over the years. How you’ve taught me to slow down, to celebrate small steps, to laugh at myself more often, especially when I fall. You gifted me increased compassion, a greater tolerance for differences, strength long buried beneath false aspirations, and the ability to advocate for those who can’t speak up for themselves. 

By breaking and remaking my heart, you made me kinder, softer, more present, less selfish.

I can’t image forty-nine-year-old me without eighteen-year-old you. 

I am me because of you.

You, my eighteen-year-old son. An adult in the eyes of the law but not yet ready to stumble away from our home. Next week a judge will most likely grant us guardianship, a decision you support— and for years to come your Dad and I will submit reports to the court on everything from your medical history to your social life to your finances. A judge decides whether we can keep doing what we’ve always done, assist you as you navigate this world that wasn’t designed for kids like you.

You will not take the path well traveled. You can stay in school until you turn twenty-two and then what? Where will this overgrown trail lead? The college highway is not where you amble. Exploring the world on your own, not your path. Stepping right into a career seems like a substantial leap for your particular shoes. 

What comes next? 

I can’t jump ahead to pen the chapter after this one. You will write your own story. In fact, it’s always been you, the narrator behind my lines, the protagonist who builds the paragraphs, word by word, step by step, breath by unsupported breath.

“Mom, what are you wondering about?”

“I wonder where tomorrow is?”

“Isn’t it beautiful.”

If I circle back to your birthday, to the first time I lay eyes on your tiny body that didn’t belong outside of mine, as I stared at my heart on the outside, and reached my hand towards yours, you gripped my pointer finger with a strength impossible for your premature size, the bear in you already awakening, telling me: “It’s ok to love me Mama, we got this— I’m going to survive.”

And here we are, eighteen years later, celebrating your transition into adulthood.

I love you Elias, we got this, whatever this may be. 

I’m so happy to be with you.

Love always,

Mom

 

Comments

[Ebeth]

You are an incredible writer, mother and friend. I love you.

[Christy]

I love you too Ebeth, thank you!!❤️❤️

[Karen Erickson]

Love you and your family…and I am especially thankful to have been a small part of Elias’s life. He taught me to always notice the little things…❤️

[Candice]

Beautifully said, as always. ❤️❤️ I still remember Judy calling me and telling me about Elias’s early birth, 18 years ago.

18 years: what a milestone, complicated though it might be. Lots of love to you and Nick.

[Cindy L Ecklund]

I so love this entry! So much heart! So much love! So much ch reality! Love you all!

[Christy]

Love to you Karen, Candice, and Cindy. Thank you for following along, who knows where this journey will lead next.