During the first months after Max was born, I cried daily. Even hourly. Even half-hourly. I cried about my newborn baby who'd had a stroke at birth. A baby? Having a stroke? I cried for myself; I'd had a nightmare birth instead of the blissful, soft-focus experience I'd envisioned. I cried for Dave, the most happy-go-lucky guy I'd ever met who now had a tragedy to cope with. I cried some more for Max. How disabled would he be?
These days, it takes a lot to make me cry over what happened to Max. But once in a while, things get to me. Especially when I hear someone on TV or in the movies talking about a stroke. The other night, Dave and I were watching a Tivo'd episode of Nurse Jackie, our new favorite program. Edie Falco rocks. Suddenly, she was dealing with this middle-aged man who'd had a stroke, trying to get him to utter words and lift his arms.
The tears started coming. For a minute, it seemed horribly, awfully, terribly unfair that I have a little boy dealing with the after-effects of a stroke. Then the wave of grief passed and I was back to my usual self.
The trauma I went through when Max was born lies buried deep inside me. It surfaces from time to time, then recedes. But so much less frequently than it used to.
Max's progress, his determination and the joy he brings heal me.
Photo by Tapio Hurme
