Memories.
They are usually what keeps people alive in our hearts. Remembering the laughter and smiles of friends and family. The stories from years past keeping history alive. They make up who we are as individuals and families.
Where I work, we have many elderly people who don't remember things. It's scary and confusing. My heart aches for them even on the days their confusion can be maddening.
Sometimes.... I wish I didn't have memories.
I would gladly forget many of the memories from the last 10 years. My heart wouldn't ache every day. I wouldn't weep for the things we've dealt with and the things we've lost.
Several years ago I started a blog to document the struggles of dealing with the life we were left with after that horrific night. As I started trying to write out the first few months of D's life.... I realized I just couldn't do it. It's therapeutic for me to talk about it.... but it's so hard to sit and recall everything. To make the posts coherent through my emotions so people understand.
The truth is.... unless you've lived it.... you wouldn't understand.
Others can comprehend how tough it must be.... to a point. Yet over the years, I've heard lots of remarks that show me just how little people really do understand about our lives. It's not black and white like people seem to think it is.
I've been fortunate over the years to "meet" lots of amazing people who truly understand the struggles of dealing with special needs. We all deal with different needs and we've been through different struggles with those needs. But the most important part of our relationship: we all *get* it! It's nice to have such a close knit group of friends who understand. I don't talk with them often because our struggles here have eased over the past few years. Just knowing they are there is enough. When I do need them, I have them!
With all that said, I believe it's time to get to the memory part of this post.
I wrote this out several years ago (7 in fact) but it's the memory that forever feeds my mind on this day. One I wish I could forget or even go back and change completely. I usually don't say I'd change my past as I try hard to live with no regrets.... but this is one I'd gladly make an exception for.
[[Let me make plainly clear, I do not regret my son or his life. I just wish I could have changed that moment in his history that made his life what it is today. That took everything away from him and left him trapped forever.]]
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The "father" and D were kicked back on the couch. I was in the recliner watching another show about abused and neglected animals on Animal Planet. How ironic considering how the night would end! D finally fell asleep and the "father" took him to his crib. I remember watching him gently lay my baby down in the crib all swaddled up in a warm blanket. The "father" then returned to playing his war game on the X-Box.
After about 10 minutes I decided I'd better get to bed before the next feeding. I proceeded to turn off the TV and head for the bathroom. I don't remember what had caused me to be stressed that evening but it involved the "father" and no one else. D could easily take away any stress just by laying in my arms and looking up at me. He still has that power even today.
While in the bathroom, I turned on the small stereo we kept in there to listen to music while showering. I turned up the one CD that could always calm me down--*NSYNC. No more than 5 minutes had passed when the door burst open. Standing there with my infant baby in his hands was the "father". My child not responding to anything--his name, the touch of my hand, the gentle tap on his cheek with my finger, nothing!
The only words the "father" spoke will stick with me forever!
"What do I do?"
I knew what to do. CPR. The only problem? I had not been trained in 4 years to do infant CPR. I was afraid if I attempted it on my son that I'd kill him by crushing his ribcage. I remember saying, "Should we call an ambulance?" Then in the next breath telling the "father" to get the car! We had to get him to the hospital!
I sat in the backseat with D. Holding his head to keep it from flopping around. Gently tapping his face and calling his name to get any kind of response. Nothing.
The "father" sped through town doing 60 MPH. We even ran a couple of red lights. As we turned onto Crawford, heading for the hospital, we passed a cop. He immediately flipped on his lights and started following us. The "father" had the nerve to ask if he should pull over. I told him, "You can pull over once my son is at the hospital! DRIVE!"
As we pulled up to the hospital, without even shutting off the car, the "father" grabs the car seat and runs inside with me directly behind him. The staff quickly rushes D back to a room but shoos us out into a waiting room just inside the ER. There time seemed to stand still.
The police officer who had been following us came in to talk to us, as did the hospital's Chaplin. The "father"--a man I'd never seen shed one tear in the nearly 2 years I'd known him--was sobbing hysterically and couldn't talk. After I finally calmed myself down, I tried to calm him down. I needed to know what had happened... as did the police.
It was more than my mind could wrap itself around. All the answers came in waves. Nothing seemed right.
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On the 6 year "anniversary" of that night, I took this photo:
Originally it was just a photo to capture my sons together, to show them as they were that day.
After I took the photo I started thinking back to who D was on that night in 2004: how big he was, what he'd already done, etc. That's when I realized that - although he was almost 4 months old - L was the same size his brother had been the night he'd been abused. That made the photo take on a whole new meaning! It is now one of my most treasured photos!
Today marks a decade. A decade of my life I never would have imagined would happen. It's been the worst and most rewarding decade of my life. I've learned who I truly am as a person and what I can handle. My knowledge of the medical field is more vast than I'd care to admit. (I won't ever have a PhD or MD tag behind my name but sometimes I feel like I do.)
I know some people probably think I dwell on this too much. That I should just move on and get over it. To them I have 2 words:
Fuck. You.
My son will never be able to "get over" what happened to him.
He will always have seizures. He will always be blind. He will never speak or walk. He will never be without his wheelchair or someone taking care of him.
I am, and always will be, his voice.
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