Hoping For Noah

Noah had another speech evaluation today. He's making some progress but remains still very different from how babies his age are starting to babble and learn words. It was during of course his nap hour, so he wasn't willing to probably show off all his skills, but he made some efforts to play with switch toys. His evaluator, Amy gave him a Elmo that blows kisses and some other stuffed toys. It was a very nice little surprise for Noah, he rode all the way home with his new treasures.

I especially dislike going to therapy on what I call my "sensitive days." Lately I've found that I'm simply too busy to cry, I don't have the time. I must keep going everyday because Noah needs me as strong and as functional as I can be. So it builds and builds until there are those days when I feel like I fight back the pain and the weight of the world. And going to therapy on those days are harder. You don't want to signal you're aching for them to tell you he'll be just fine someday. That he won't ever need a computer device to talk, that he will walk, that he will even run. But they remain guarded with their positive prognosis, and I understand that no one has a crystal ball and could ever tell me how much Noah will progress. Yet I yearn for a guarantee, reassurance in some form. I want someone to take my hand and say don't you worry another moment, he will be just fine.

I find myself unable to shut my thoughts off to rest peacefully. Although Noah is sleeping through the nights for the most part now, I don't seem to be. I've filled the void of getting up so often with racing thoughts of how to rescue our family financially, how to find the courage and the strength I need to persevere though each day, how to get all the wonderful therapy things I dream will only help Noah get stronger, to be able to turn over my uncertainty about Noah's future to God. There are days when I simply feel powerless as mother, as a person.

When I left the nest, I flew very successfully. In fact I soared. And I feel like someone came along and clipped my beautiful flying wings, and as I felt myself tumble I was unable to catch myself on any branches. I fell hard to the ground and I remain there wounded and flopping around wondering will my wings ever heal enough for me me to fly that same way again?

I've lost all security blankets that I carefully knitted for myself all these years. I hang now by a simple fragile thread. Without the kindness of others that care so deeply for Noah, he wouldn't have even half the things that we've been able to get for his therapy and recovery. My mother had now taken on the task of helping us more than she should ever have to help a grown child that once had beautiful flying wings. Without her, I would simply be lost.

Noah is mobile in all my sweetest dreams. I dream of him running very fast in and out of a train museum, I dream of him shouting mommy. I dream so vividly as if I can taste the future. But it could be such an illusion, something I want so badly that my mind tells me it's true, that it's possible. Is my mind just playing evil tricks on my heart?

I had someone tell me that the key to getting over my pain, is simply moving on and having another "perfect baby" to live through. Maybe their intentions were good, but it's really not that simple. I will forever and always wish for Noah to have a complete recovery even if Chris and I had a hundred babies.

I went grocery shopping today and was bombarded with the simple joys that I wish to experience with Noah someday. Walking hand in hand to cross the street, shouting mommy can I have that cereal, the ability to watch him eat a hot dog. There are days when I notice everything that I wonder if we'll ever get a chance to share.

"If it were not for hopes, the heart would break."

Thomas Fuller

Love,
Stacy, Chris & Noah