Have you ever stood up in a rowboat? I have. I used to go fishing years ago in a little pond nearby. I found I could cast my line farther if I stood up in the rowboat. It takes a lot of balance. I had to bend slightly at the knees, clench my muscles tightly, and when casting the line, I had to account for the momentum of the forward motion to know just how much weight and pressure to shift the opposite way. If I didn't do all that correctly, one of two things would happen: either the line wouldn't go but a few feet from me, making the cast ineffective, or I could fall out of the boat into the water. But like anything, the more I did it, the easier it became. I had many failed casts, but tending to be overly cautious, I never did fall into the water. As a matter of fact, I mastered the skill well enough to angle my casts so that I could land the hook and bait under the overgrowth near the edge of the pond where the water stays cooler, so the fish bite better. I enjoy fishing. But I didn't know that years later, I would stand in another kind of rowboat....
When raising a special needs child, I find myself standing in a rowboat. Over time, like when I was fishing, I have learned how to keep my balance fairly well. That is not to say that sometimes storms don't come along, rocking the boat. There are days when my cast falls short, or I fall in the water. But unlike fishing, I can't row back to the shore and get out, where my proverbial lawn chair is located on solid ground. Instead, I must find ways to regain my balance. And like anything, the more I work at it, the easier it gets. I am learning to move with the water.
For 2 years we had no idea why our daughter Addyson wasn't developing "normally." We knew her development was delayed, but nobody had any answers for us until after her 2nd birthday. In May of 2012, we got a diagnosis. It was such a RELIEF! But over time, I have analyzed that "relief." It is human nature to name things. We are terrified of the unknown, the darkness, what we can't see or understand. In many instances, when we give something a name, we feel "better." We move from fear to relief, calm, peace, anger, denial, acceptance--an assortment of other emotions that are available to us, but we the fear and terror of the unknown can subside. However, there is bigger questions after "what is the problem; what is it called?" Is a diagnosis, a name for the problem, a place to start defying the odds, a place miracles happen, our faith can overcome all, or is it/does it become a self-fulfilling prophesy? Where is the balance between daring to have unshakable hope and setting oneself up for the crash when we learn our hopes are unrealistic?
In the vast sea of sanity, there is a large body of gray water to be through which one must navigate carefully: maintaining hope in the face of challenges and hardship so one has a reason to get out of bed every morning, and at the same time, reining in that hope so that one does not have expectations that are unrealistic.... A line cast in the water that falls short can be reeled back in and recast, but when a person actually falls in, the sudden rush of cold water shocks the body, rendering one paralyzed for a moment as reality seeps in. Where is the line between optimistic hope that keeps you moving forward and accepting reality without letting it drag you into the doldrums of depression? I don't know. I have not found an exact answer. But I do know two things that help me keep my balance most of the time:
1. Keep the faith. I rely on my faith in Jesus Christ to stay hopeful. There are many stories in the Bible where Jesus heals people, raises folks from dead. He is the ultimate Healer. Will He heal my child? I don't know. I pray for it every day. I pray for her health, her well-being, and healing. But I have reached a point, most days, where I end that prayer with "Lord, Your will be done." Now, some days, I need to recast--saying those words with more conviction, and then there are days when I fall into the water--shaking my fist and yelling at Him, WHY haven't you fixed her??! But most days, I pray and take comfort and live with confidence in His will being done, accepting the profound realization that I need more fixing than Addy will ever need.
2. Keep an open mind. Even though Addy received a diagnosis almost 5 years ago, I have continued to research, learn and listen to anything and everything that might help her. I do not live in passive complacency that the list of signs, symptoms, and usual treatment options are all that there is. There is always more! One of the most limiting things we do to ourselves is live in the assumption that what we know currently is all there is to know--that what doctors know is all there is to know. Those are intellectual fallacies. But this too, is a balancing act. Sometimes my cast falls short--I begin to tell myself that I know enough or I must have read everything-and I need to recast, pushing myself to expand, learn and grow. And then there are other moments where I crash overboard, falling yet again into the water--I read and question obsessively, fixated on making my child "normal." But most days, I am able to continue exploring all kinds of avenues of healing, reading regularly and maintaining an open mind when I meet people with healing experiences foreign to anything I have ever heard of. And I listen. I observe. I ask questions. As a result, we have found some wonderful healing options for Addy that are not the "norm."
So my lawn chair remains on the shore as I learn to balance while standing in my rowboat. There are days when I long be sitting in it, secure and safe, on solid ground. But I also know that sitting in the chair would stunt my spiritual and emotional growth. Fishing from my lawn chair in that one spot, while comfortable and relaxed, limits my ability catch fish to only the small area that can be reached from the chair. Moving around in my rowboat is harder, but it gives my options to fish the entire pond.
--The Lawn Chair Mom
