I Would Change It

I've heard the question posed at times: Would you change/take away your child's diagnosis if you could?

People fit into two camps on this one, of course. Yes (take it away!) or no (I wouldn't want to change my child and the path we're on).

Me? I'm in the resounding yes category. That doesn't mean I don't love and accept my child for exactly who he is, but if I could change things I definitely would. And it doesn't mean I don't understand why someone might answer the question with a no; I'm well aware that we would be different people without cerebral palsy in our lives. That's both a good thing (we have more compassion) and a bad thing (we struggle daily).

A couple of mornings ago, Elijah woke up early (before six). Andy let Eli out of his room and we let the little guy run around upstairs for a bit as we tried to convince ourselves that it was indeed morning. About ten minutes had passed when Andy got out of bed and that's when Andy noticed something on Elijah's face. Oh, Eli must have gotten into some of Lisa's make-up, Andy thought and he wiped off Elijah's face.
Except it wasn't make-up, it was a raw wound. Somehow Elijah had injured himself in that span of time and we had no idea how or where.

But how? How? How? How? How?

The question has been repeating over and over in my head for the past two days. I examined our room, trying to enact any possible scenario that could've caused his injury. We hadn't heard him fall, he hadn't made a peep or cried.  The last two days I struggled with guilt (how is it that our child hurt himself and we didn't know it?!) and grief (our child is unable to tell us what happened).

Every time I looked at Eli I was reminded...he's hurt and he can't tell us how by talking or pointing. His wound looked almost like a burn. What if we're missing something? I kept wondering. What if it happens again?

And it did happen again. This morning Andy heard Elijah wake up and he went to let Elijah out of his room.

"Lisa," Andy said, waking me. "Come here. Look what happened."

Standing next to his dad in the hallway was Elijah, his face covered in blood, his eyes still squinting from sleeping.

"What in the world?" I said and glanced towards Elijah's room. There was blood all over the carpet next to his door. We had thought Elijah's wound looked like a carpet burn, but I couldn't have imagined that he had been harming himself like this.

The first day, before he re-opened it this morning

We think he got up in the middle of the night, made his way to the door to leave, but being tired laid down on floor next to the door and put himself back to sleep by rocking and rubbing his face on the carpet. He hadn't hurt himself in those ten minutes the other morning, but rather in the night. We couldn't have known, couldn't have protected him from this unknown danger.

I'm glad we have an answer finally as to what caused Elijah's injury. It's not what I had expected, although, I can't say either of us are really surprised. Being able to appreciate pain is such a blessing; Eli had no idea that he was even hurting himself.

So, would I change Elijah's diagnosis if I could? You betcha. I would sign up for healing today. Today, Lord?

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In the Rocking Chair: A Tale of Two Brothers

Playing together

Sitting in the rocking swivel recliner where I spend so much of my time nursing Oliver, Elijah often comes over and looks at us.

Sometimes he walks away, having been told many times already that "mommy is feeding Oliver right now, I'll be able to help you soon."

Sometimes Elijah wants to watch TV, the same first minute of Yo Gabba Gabba over and over and over again.

Sometimes he wants me play basketball with him; surely I can multitask.

Sometimes I will be rocking Oliver and shushing him to sleep. Elijah will come over and smile at us, his body blocking my ability to rock. A few times he's even crawled into the chair with us and I rock and hold both boys while I think about how ridiculously blessed we are, all the while trying to protect Oliver from his brother's long legs.

And for the past month or so, little Oliver will watch his big brother with great interest. Weeks ago, sitting in my lap, with my hand under his chin, little Oliver smiled at his brother for one of the very first times.

My eyes filled with tears.

I cried because it was so very sweet.

I cried for Elijah because he was unable to notice his little brother's smile.

And I cried for Oliver because his big brother was unable to respond.

And this is the truth I knew long before Oliver was ever in my belly: parenting our two children is going to be bittersweet. Thankfully, the sweetness overrides the bitter so much so that we usually can't even taste the bitter.

Since that emotional moment in the rocking chair a month ago, Oliver and Elijah have shared many smiles. I'll place Oliver right in front of his brother's face and they smile at each other. It's pretty spectacular and the cutest thing ever. They love each other.

......

...And then Elijah employs his "no thank you" gesture, which is a push away, and tells us that he's done with his brother being in his face and pushes his brother away.

Oh, brother. This is going to be an interesting ride indeed.

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