Yesterday as we left the psychiatrist’s office and walked to the parking terrace, I thought about the gift that Dr. M is in our lives. It was drizzly and gloomy outside, but I felt like I lived in a garden sprinkled with mirrors, bouncing light around and above me.
We have a psychiatrist who has known us—all of us—for years, and who gets how it really is. She is an ally. She gives us the meds that make daily survival possible.
Despite the February dreariness, I am not dreary. I am filled up and content.
My boys have therapy every weekday in our home. Our insurance covers it. It’s helping them make real progress. All of these things were impossible, even a few years ago.
We have the very best respite helpers and therapists, support coordinator, behaviorist, pediatrician, ENT, gastroenterologist, teachers, classroom aides, speech and occupational therapists, and bus drivers. By and large, my family has faced, almost exclusively, acceptance and kindness when it comes to the boys and their challenges.
The boys have outgrown babyhood, and unlike many moms of the world, this is not something I lament. My children’s baby and toddler years were the hardest time of my life. They were the darkest, most grueling season. Those years felt insurmountable, but we have come through them.
As I drove through the city toward home, Charlie asked me 85,000 questions about Abraham Lincoln and the U.S. Treasury building and how many days it was exactly until St. Patrick’s Day. Truman ate fries and hummed. This thought pierced me, “Do you see how much I have done for you?”
It was a gentle, direct rhetorical question, prompting me to take stock of our path through the valley of misery, and out of it.
With sheer serendipity and angels aligning stars and so forth, we have found a weekend program for Jack. We have been looking for this for literally years. In the past, whenever we would find a place, they would tell us they didn’t take individuals with behaviors (irony, since these are the individuals who NEED weekend supports), or didn’t have enough staff or clients to make Saturdays a go. Or they didn’t like working weekends or holidays despite the immense need (and business opportunity). The few places that did provide Saturday care were full. We faced brick wall after brick wall, all while managing Jack and our other children every difficult weekend into perpetuity.
I have hated weekends for so long. I don’t remember looking forward to a weekend. It’s been years.
Except that is changing. This is the second weekend Jack has attended his LITERALLY PERFECT day program. Saturdays and Sundays, you guys.
God knew all along what Jack needed and what we needed so we could help Jack. When we couldn’t find our way, He found it for us.
This is my miracle.