Sometimes—often lately—I get sick of the whole damn thing. It all feels so ludicrous
and pathetic while at the same time heart wrenching, tragic and
miserable. I am sick of the seizures and the medicine. I get sick of
Calvin’s idiosyncrasies; his incessant eye poking and staring at the
sun, his wretched screaming, his constant drooling, his manic flailing and coughing. I get sick of him throwing everything on the
ground as soon as we give it to him. I get sick of changing diapers. I
get sick of his poor balance, of his inability to truly explore his
world. I get sick of him trying to bite everything: tables, chairs,
magazines, mullions and windows, his shoes, the car, the counter, the water faucet, the hamper, the bookshelves, his
books and toys, the zipper on his coat,
his glasses, his bed, me. Sick, sick, sick of it all.
And though Michael has helped me begin to understand that I may have some sort of superhuman patience and the ability to maintain calm vigilance over these things, I often don't feel like I do. At times I get so sick of it all I just have to scream at the top of my lungs at the whole sorry situation. While it doesn't seem to faze Calvin it does me little good but to feel wretched, but then—too late—I look at my beautiful boy who can't talk and is on massive antiepileptic drugs, and am reminded that he can't always help himself. In an instant all of my feelings of anger, self-pity, annoyance and tension dissolve into tenderness and love. For all of his peculiarities and quirks Calvin is a darling. He’s pure through and through, lovely and affectionate. There isn't a cruel or malevolent bone in his body, rather, he strives to do his best to please in most any circumstance, (though is developing a stubborn streak.) But I couldn’t ask for a finer son who shows me every day how I can be a better person.
And though Michael has helped me begin to understand that I may have some sort of superhuman patience and the ability to maintain calm vigilance over these things, I often don't feel like I do. At times I get so sick of it all I just have to scream at the top of my lungs at the whole sorry situation. While it doesn't seem to faze Calvin it does me little good but to feel wretched, but then—too late—I look at my beautiful boy who can't talk and is on massive antiepileptic drugs, and am reminded that he can't always help himself. In an instant all of my feelings of anger, self-pity, annoyance and tension dissolve into tenderness and love. For all of his peculiarities and quirks Calvin is a darling. He’s pure through and through, lovely and affectionate. There isn't a cruel or malevolent bone in his body, rather, he strives to do his best to please in most any circumstance, (though is developing a stubborn streak.) But I couldn’t ask for a finer son who shows me every day how I can be a better person.
Originally published 11.30.10.
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| June 2007 |
As we say in our family, "I hear you barking, big dog."
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