Looking In.

I've been kicked out of Deak's Speech Therapy.

To be honest, it probably should have happened a long time ago. I was recently told by his fantastic Speech Therapist, that I "talk for him way too much." She is right.

But, how do I stop?

I know him.

I love him.

And, I don't want him to stop needing me.

I take care of things for him. If I am distracted enough fixing others' issues, most specifically Deakon's, I don't have any time to worry about my own. The problem with this coping strategy is the "Ticking Time Bomb" after-affect. There is only so long one can shove all the personal stress to the bottom of the pile, before the bomb disengages and explodes.

My bomb likes to light a lot of fires lately, and it is not the kind of fire that involves marshmallows and chocolate.

Yesterday was stressful. It was manageable stress, but the fuse on my bomb was very thin by the time yesterday came around, and it couldn't stand the heat any longer. After a long morning of desperate tears, missing earrings and answered prayers, I was called to respond to a Crisis at a local Elementary School. The crisis I was dealing with involved death, and I had to quickly de-fuse my bomb, and "fix" a room full of first-graders. The innocent eyes and toothless smiles quickly smothered any residual heat left over from my earlier explosion.

During this experience yesterday, I got the opportunity to visit with a Grandmother whose daughter is experiencing a possible chromosomal abnormality diagnosis with her own daughter. Another friend (who just happens to be a licensed therapist) was with us as we engaged in this discussion. As we began to talk, I immediately put on geneticist hat, and spoke of my own experience using scientific jargon, and unemotional words. This very perceptive therapist spent a lot of time listening, and after I was finished she said something that I have needed to hear...probably for a long time.

"Jenny, you have become a reluctant geneticist, haven't you?"

She nailed it, and I knew exactly what she meant.

I cope with Deakon's struggles by becoming a "fixer." I research, I write, I understand every single component of his syndrome. It's just what I do. I do it to push away the trauma and emotions I felt, and still feel, coping with his diagnosis. Those emotions I keep very private; they are too dark.

I have often said I wouldn't change Deakon's diagnosis, and I mean that whole-heartily. The heartache, the appointments, the sleepless nights, and hospital visits do not even come close to comparing to amount of love and joy his spirit brings into my life daily. Over this past day though, I have discovered that I still am not quite finished grieving.

I am not sure I ever will be.

The thought of him going to school four days a week next year, being attended to by therapists without my guidance, leaving me all alone is terrifying. I keep telling myself, "Oh, he's not ready for that... He can't do it alone yet... He needs me there."

But, I am comforting me, not him.

The truth is that Deakon is prepared and can handle it. Although I hoover as close as possible to the viewing window, Deak has been wonderful on his own in Speech Therapy. He is learning to "fix" himself, and soon I need to learn to do the same.

(I do love it when he practices "Mama" with his therapist and looks for me in the chair I once sat in during therapy with him. I am pretty confident he will always want me around, even if he doesn't need me.)