Dave and I went out for sushi tonight; we haven't seen each other much this week, and needed time to ourselves. We were in the middle of downing spicy tuna rolls when Dave glanced up and said "Hello!" It was Mindy, Max's first physical therapist, on her way out. I hadn't seen in her in years.
Mindy came to us through our state's Early Intervention program when Max was a month old. She stayed with us till he was three, and I credit her with really helping Max learn to walk. I can still picture her in our family room the first time she stopped by: Max lying on the carpet, Mindy wiggling his legs and checking them for stiffness, me sitting there and telling her about Max's stroke and all the awful things he was at risk for.
I pulled out my wallet and showed her a photo of Max. "He's still so handsome!" she said. Couldn't argue with her there. I got her phone number, so we could make plans for her to come see him. And then I mentioned I'd been doing a blog about Max, and that I occasionally got e-mails from moms with babies who were at risk for problems and it made me feel good to console them, because I knew what they were going through.
"Yes, those years were rough," she said.
WHAM.
I started tearing up.
"Sorry," I told Mindy. "I guess I still get emotional about that time." I was a little mortified to be upset in front of her, in the middle of the restaurant. She nodded, knowingly. We agreed she'd visit, then she left.
I kept crying for a bit as Dave held my hands. Seeing Mindy brought me back to that time in Max's life, and mine, when I was a walking mass of worry and fear. I was surprised that, nearly seven years after Max's birth, I could still recall how I felt when he was a baby. Viscerally recall.
In my head, I am no longer sad about what happened to Max.
In my heart, I may never be over it.
Photo by juicybits/istock
