When E was 18 months old, we went to see the pediatrician for a well-baby exam. The doctor seemed to think that Ethan was a typical boy, and was slow to talk as all of his other milestones were delayed as well. (walking late, sitting up late) He was a tiny bit temperamental, but it wasn't too obvious. He was a typical toddler in all other aspects. Then... we started to lose him. Every passing month I could see it more and more, and while it worried me, I suppressed every bit of that down as Henry was coming soon and I knew I'd have a whole new set of responsibilities to add to my pile. One of those situations where if you choose not to think about it, maybe it won't exist. Or even thinking about it somehow gives it power to manifest itself into something real. I remember shaking my head at parents like that.
And even as I sit here and write about it, I'm not even quite sure how I feel, and what I should say. I've spoken it aloud a few times to people who have asked me, but I really don't think that it's hit me yet. So there we were, back in the neurodevelopmental pediatrian's office. Pretty sure that I was having some sort of weird flashback. Asking me the same questions that I've already answered once before. Whereas some of the answers were different, most of them were the same. Could I possibly be going through this again? Say it isn't so. Is it wrong of me to say that we had such high hopes this time around? Not that we haven't accepted Benjamin as being perfect in every way, shape, and form- it's just that I was hoping for an easier ride this time. I know it's normal to want your child to be normal...
And there is something about the second time around that makes it harder speaking it because it seems to be a reflection of us. That the first time wasn't a fluke. That it's something that comes from us that makes our children the way they are. Sort of as if why can't we produce normal children? In my heart I know that our children are made exactly the way they're supposed to be made, but this is of little comfort to me most of the time these days. And as much as I know about psychology and how the mind works in grieving (so fascinated by that sort of thing), I know that this is a genuine part of the grieving process. I'm just in the why phase. Why do things happen the way they do? I think if I could wrap my mind around the why, I could process the tackling phase and move on from there. And now I'm chuckling at the thought of life being something that you could tackle.
So we were sent home with directions of speech therapy. And of course a return visit in a few months where the inevitable awaits.
