One Little Hand

From the earliest point of his existence, Ari, my son, knew how to comfort me.  It feels weird and uncomfortable to say. It’s supposed to be the other way around, right? Like what kind of inappropriate attachment are you fostering Ms. Therapist?

But. 

This is also how I see God. 

Ari was a little tricky to conceive. We lost a baby in August so the following February amid the constant appointments with the fertility clinic and the demands of work, I thought to myself “If this month isn’t it, I need a break. I can’t keep doing this right now.”

And then, there it was. That word on a small stick filled with my own pee: “pregnant.”

The first trimester is a nerve-wracking, isolating mess particularly when you previously experienced loss.  But by Easter we had heartbeats and movement and we knew this sticky baby would make a debut that Fall. 

I dreamed he was a boy sometime between week 6 and 8 though we decided to keep the sex a surprise. So at our first anatomy scan the technician was clever enough to keep us looking away and keep herself quiet when that portion of the body was viewed. She printed out some pictures for us and as she dropped the feather-lite photo paper on my rounded belly, she also dropped a verbal bomb “I’m going to get the doctor – I think your baby has a cleft lip.”

Silence. 

Waiting.

Doctor entering. More scanning. Silence.

“Yes, this appears to be a cleft lip here” the doctor said as she pointed to a small gray space on an otherwise gray-scaled abstract screen. My heart pounded in my chest and all I could hear was it’s echo as I tried to grab onto all the other words the doctor spoke. I demanded my emotions take a back seat, pause; I forced them to draw away into themselves. It wasn’t until we left, facing our distorted, metallic reflection in the elevator doors that the tidal wave hit. 

It consumed me. 

It reached every part of my person – soaking into my mind, my heart, whirring through the blood as it pumped through my body. 

It took me days to realize that through the crying and the talking and the list of new appointments and ultrasounds with specialists, lay in my lap the feather-lite photos of a baby barely formed it’s little hand turned into a fist with the thumb pointing up.

Thumbs up, Mama. 

This little creature’s soul speaking into mine. “Everythings gonna be okay, Mama.”

It’s been over two years since Ari was born. He’s had two surgeries. One to repair his cleft lip and a second to remove his adenoids and put tubes in his ears. We are knee deep in Early Intervention and recently there are more and more appointments with more specialists for more possibilities. 

Ari’s cleft was so minor the surgeon joked it was the easiest repair he’d ever done. All of his palate was in tact and he appeared to have no other craniofacial concerns. His infancy was a delight. Ari slept through the night by 8 months old, he brought women running from across grocery store aisles and parking lots to coo over his smile and his cheeks. He adored the water, and reading books and smiling. 

Ari developed normally until about 18 months when I noticed he wasn’t picking up words as quickly as his peers or responding to his name as frequently. He snored and mouth breathed and had an awful habit of hanging his tongue out of his mouth. By 23 months Ari’s second surgery was complete and it was clear that due to severely enlarged adenoid and significantly hardened fluid behind the ear drum Ari had not been hearing for some time.  

I am a mom, yes, and so I worry about my children. I am also a therapist so my mind works at puzzles in it’s default mode. I can flip through the DSM in my head, naming diagnosis and categories and differentials as easily and automatic as I drive a car or ride a bike or walk. I am constantly opening up mental file cabinets and sorting through compartments of information, trying to puzzle this all out. 

Did his hearing loss affect his speech and social delay? If you can’t hear, you cannot learn to speak. And if you don’t speak you cannot communicate and learn social skills. 

Is it actually something like apraxia? Is that why he looks so astonishingly at my mouth when I speak, cupping my lips with his clammy toddler hands?

Is it Autism spectrum disorder? Sometimes he stims – waving and kicking his arms and legs when he’s excited, running and spinning to give himself sensory input. 

What if it’s everything? What if it’s something I haven’t thought of?

And dear God, how to help him when he’s crying and screaming and I can’t guess what it is he wants? He’s always been so calm, so happy, such a relaxed and independent child. 

What am I missing?

What am I doing wrong?

And then, this week, a friend posed a question: “What is it that is breaking your heart right now?”

First, I was sarcastic in my response. Then, a sudden lump in my throat. I fought it back. I forced the emotions to draw into themselves. I did not truthfully answer the question. And this time, there was no tidal wave. After two high risk babies (Ari has a little sister), a complete job overhaul (now 100% self employed) and all the adjustments that come with working motherhood and wifedom, I know how to keep it all at bay. 

Except for that moment, a few days ago, when I felt it well from the depths. 

Tonight Ari fell off the chair. I heard the thud from the kitchen before I heard the crying. I ran into the living room, scooped him up, hushing and cooing, soothing and rocking him in my arms. 

“I know that was scary and that it hurt. I’m so sorry, baby.”

My voice and my hug did not seem to do the trick. I separated from him to take a look at his face – try to gauge what he needed or wanted. 
Ari reached up and pointed to my lips. 
“Yes that’s mommy lips,” I said. He cried harder. 
Suddenly. It dawned on me. 
I kissed his cheek and his cries softened. 
I kissed his forehead, his nose, his lips, his other cheek. His crying ceased. 
Ari returned to his play and I sat on the floor where he fell, stunned into silence and awe. 

Again, this little boy and his little hand and one of his fingers to communicate everything that needed to be said, everything I needed to know in the deepest parts of me.

“I just need your kisses, mama”
And
“Everything’s going to be okay.”