Persistent

Grief hasn’t come to me in the traditional albeit earth shattering ways that it has to others. No one died. But I feel it just the same. Tonight, years and years passed a deafness diagnosis and much understanding and acceptance, I felt it again as I clutched a sobbing five year old. Shaking, in the fetal position on his bed, he cried.

Twenty minutes ago, my son was asking me questions but his reactions to my responses clued me in that he wasn’t hearing me. My eyes and hands reached for the processor on his head that helps him to hear and it wasn’t there. I signed to him that he needed to show me where he last saw it and he took me outside and we found it. The hearing device itself was fine, but the dog had done a number to the headpiece, a magnet that connects to another one implanted in his head three years ago. Without that magnet, that four hundred and fifty dollar piece of equipment, my son is profoundly deaf.

Am I mad or am I sad? Oh, it’s for sure both.

But right now? This moment? It’s grief.

I told him that his dog had chewed it up and that because of this, he wouldn’t be able to hear in the water anymore. His understanding is on point in this area. He knows the cost both literally and figuratively. Monetarily speaking, we are out a lot of money. But the other cost is that it’s the beginning of summer in East Tennessee and if you want to make it, you will need a giant pool of water. The other even greater cost is that Abel won’t be able to hear much of our summer vacation. Pools, lakes, splash pads, a rainy day. What previously was a great sensory experience is now diminished quite a bit for him. Not to mention, it will be a safety issue, too. Costly hearing equipment, sure. The true cost is his ability to hear, though.

That’s what will take my breath away. That’s what turns my anger into gut punching sadness. His eyes filled with tears, he took off to his room, and he laid on his bed and he cried. I went to him trying to console him as he tried to get it together. He’s tough. He willed himself to stop his body from shaking with tears, he slowly dried his eyes, and finally he stood up. He straightened up his clothes and he went outside to enjoy the rest of the evening.

He knows life doesn’t stop for him. He knows how to be persistent. He’s five years old. I was nearly thirty when I learned that lesson. It took him to make me see that. So, again I’ll take a page from Abel’s story. I will stand up from the catharsis of my keyboard, dry my eyes, and straighten out my running shorts. Life doesn’t stop. Goals aren’t reached by sitting in sadness. Get it together, Mama. You’ve got this. You are stronger than you’ve ever imagined. YOU are, too (you who are reading this).

Thanks for the lesson, Abe.