We have been away from home now for nearly 3 weeks. Intensive therapy for our small hero was more than I imagined. To be honest, I didn’t have expectations. No expectations, just celebrations, remember? I stuck true to this and left for California with an open mind and three identical favorite monkey blankies. You can never be too prepared.
The very first day we arrived I met a couple of other moms and we instantly hit it off. Wish I could say this for my extremely-attached-to-mom-and-monkey-boy and his reaction to new therapists! As time went on the wailing turned into whining and he soon started flashing his magical smile to his new friends. Big celebration there! I cannot be near him during his sessions or he looks to me to save him, so our brave boy has been working tremendously hard on his own with the most genuine and kind-hearted therapists. I feel beyond blessed. He is leaving this intensive having made so much progress; tears well up as I think about it coming to an end.
I am most definitely looking forward to going home but I’m reluctant to leave. Is it the progress? Type of therapy? Fabulous therapists? Or is it the parent lounge?
As I reflect on it I believe it’s a combination of all of the above. I’m elated for him and the gains he’s made. We’ll go home, continue to work hard, and we’ll likely continue to see progress as his body and brain are still processing all of the new information. I’m also sad to leave a place where I feel I belong. The parent lounge with the other moms. The green face moms. (See Elphaba post)
Every day. Hours a day. I was surrounded by moms who “get it.” Moms who you don’t have to explain tears to. Your child’s tears or your own. A mom who said “me too” when I said I was relieved when our neurologist called me and said his condition was genetic. I recall sobbing when I found out I didn’t cause it. We smiled and laughed remembering the ridiculous things that went through our mind when everything was unknown. Did I eat too much lunchmeat? Was I too active? We all talked about fears and hopes for our children. We never had to explain ourselves. We speak the same language. I belonged. We talked, celebrated, hugged, and sat silently. I loved every hour of it. I feel renewed. I’m incredibly grateful for this experience for him…and for me.
I knew our little warrior would end his three weeks changed, but I didn’t know I would too.