Noah's Miracle : When Disability No Longer Pulls on Heartstrings

It's so cliche when they tell special needs parents that things get easier. That's so much pure bullshit. That's just fluff to make you feel better in the moment. The raw and hard truth is that the entire journey is messy, complicated, and gets harder every single year. Our cortisol stress levels are variable at best - but it's not smooth sailing when you get to age five or six or seven. There are lots of elements that do change however. In the beginning there is generally more support than you find in later years. I remember back and it felt like I had so many hands reaching in to rescue me. I had friends once upon a time that would hold church fundraisers, co-workers who rallied to pay for the thousands of dollars that it cost for Noah's flight for life bills to be transported to Children's to try to save his life when our insurance policy didn't cover it. People fed us, restaurants hosted days to donate, people came to the hospital to visit, to pray, to hold my hand. Gifts and prayer books poured in and served as comforting reminders that I'd find my way out of this - as I clung to the hope that my son wouldn't die. I had people in my corner. Lots of them. Too many to count. And needed every single one. The truth is I still really do.

And then things started to change. The older Noah got people started to realize that all the support in the world wouldn't "cure" him or make him "better." No amount of money in the world would fix Noah's catastrophic brain damage. It became too hard for those closest to me to witness my pain and to see a little boy in their eyes that struggled physically. People drifted both casually and quietly. It didn't happen all at once. People disappeared at their own pace dwindling until the point of there being no one else left. And with them left all the comforting hugs, the listening ears, the support and the shoulders I needed to soak with endless tears. I was now forever alone in all this. And it's been that way ever since. I'll grasp in the dark here and there for someone only to realize that I'm simply a stepping stone for them as they fight for their own child with special needs or until they realize the gravity of my special needs parenting and all that comes along with my life now.

Help is no longer volunteered or offered. People will no longer just take it upon themselves to rise to the occasion and see your struggle. They put blinders on and let you fend for yourself. Which resulted in me murdering my pride in an ugly cry in the middle of the kitchen floor and asking and begging for help. It was brutal and heartbreaking much like a broken child that you know would never be whole again. That precious Stacy has died a thousand times - all because of the hand she's been dealt time and time again.

But despite intentionally and brutally killing of pride, the fundraisers and pleas for help were mildly successful at best, and now that Noah is nine fundraisers don't amount to any help at all. There are a variety of reasons for that. Noah is past the baby-stage where his sweet blue eyes tugged on people's heartstrings. His precious tenderness has grown into a little boy trapped in a body that doesn't work.

The most successful fundraisers and help always comes when you post the tragic reality of our lives. A picture of our child being rescued by EMT workers; carried off in an ambulance; or laying helplessly in a hospital bed. In all of Noah's moments of crisis it's never been on my field of vision to take pictures of it or document it in that way. The first thing on my mind is always please God just let him live, not how many pictures can I take with my cell phone and post it as quickly to social media as possible. I'm just different in that way - even though I know that is what tugs on people's heartstrings. I know that pictures speak a thousand words and that help will go to those who appear to be in a dire situation. But Noah's situation is dire. It's just how I chose to present that to the world.

Noah's needs are no less because of his age, or because I don't attach a really scary and sad picture to his fundraisers. No less important because I am more selective on sharing the harder parts. People see a crystal blued eyed little boy who looks "typical" in pictures. It is such a misconception that disability comes with a physical deformity or appearance. That the severity of Noah's disability must not be that bad if he can smile and look precious. The reality is that Noah's cerebral palsy is the worst that it gets. Short of having a trach and a g-tube it can't get much worse. He will never have any level of independence. He will be forever dependent on 100 percent care. And a lot of stuff comes along with that. He needs much more equipment, he needs more supplies, he needs more support than the child with cerebral palsy that can talk or self feed, or that is only wheelchair bound or one that just uses a walker but has all other bodily functions. Noah is like having a nine year old baby.

But none of that tugs on heartstrings. Now that he's older even in public he's just seen as another wheelchair user. A older boy who is adored and loved beyond measure by his devoted parents, but one that isn't suffering enough in the eyes of strangers or social media to warrant any kind of incredible heart to be his hero.

What about Medicaid and his Waiver? The ultimate failures in Noah's life right now. I fight so incredibly hard for him - harder than most are capable of fighting. I have lost everything so I have nothing else to lose but to claw and fight back. All of it making made me a very unpopular parent advocate with the State, I'm highly educated, I know the legal system well - I have a lot going for me that makes me an intimidating presence for the State and they strongly dislike that. I'm not an easy push over and I know rules and regulations and limits all too well. And Noah has paid the price as they continue to send me a strong message that they will continue to reverse every favorable appellate Judge ruling in Noah's favor. It still feels so unreal that they have that legal capability. How on earth can Medicaid override a Judge's ruling - but they can. And no one seems to want to change legislation to block them from doing so.

So this means that Noah goes without the simplest of his needs even down to a $50 therapy ball that was recommended by his treating therapist to the highest of a wheelchair that fits him correctly. So I'm in a very unique category of completely alone in this. And no amount of fighting will allow me to win at it. It's designed and set up for Medicaid to be victorious no matter what. It's such an incredibly helpless feeling. We are now living with the Internet and a social-media-obsessed culture, which further adds to those isolating feelings of being disconnected. People have given themselves permission to be distant because they can now watch you from the sidelines with ease without being an active participant in your life. I always compare it to a car crash, where you slow down to see it but no one gets out to help. You hope in your mind there were no casualties, but lack wanting to get involved to see if you could have resuscitated the injured.

Special needs parents never get to unpack their worries, we never get a reprieve from hundreds of emails and phone calls and mail that pour in weekly related to our child's extensive needs - which are usually problematic at best. We have no one to hear us that is present and that kind of social media expression is met with comments like "suck it up," "aren't you over it yet," "you're whining," "all you do is complain" - which are of course responses to make others feel better about their absence in the set of circumstances, but further adds to the heaviness that you carry in your heart.

“Certain voices hold this odd pull on our heartstrings. They are like sad oboes or something, something that makes you want to throw all your money at the radio while yelling, "I love you." But what happens to those of us who have lost our voice?

Love,