I never knew that exhaustion and inebriation looked so much alike. But after reading my last post, I can confirm that indeed they do.
A death in the family is always a hard thing. When it is for a family that is out of town, it adds that degree of difficulty. When that family has been plagued with misfortune, the sadness is just that much more. Some deaths, while still sad, are not as much tragic as they are just filled with loss. Grandma S. dying at 97, sad. Grandma M. dying at 78, sad. Being killed by a drunken driver, tragic. A child's death, tragic. Death by a broken heart, also tragic. I feel that our family's death this week, although upon autopsy would reveal a specific condition, was fueled entirely by a broken heart. Not the type of broken heart in romance novels, mind you, but the type that comes from the inability to make sense of someone else that you love's own tragedy.
Probably best that we had the iPad presentation - it would be too easy to dwell in the unpleasantness of this situation for too long. The presentation snapped us back into the land of the living. Although totally unrelated, this instance may have even inspired me more to stay steady the course in our work to reach out to others who I believe are in need.
Indeed I know I did that. A father approached us at the end of the presentation. He told us of his multiply disabled 24 year old daughter. He was a tall professional looking man. He was pleasant, but there was this sadness in his eyes I cannot describe. He spoke briefly of the difficulties with raising their daughter, who at age 24, has yet to communicate a sentiment to them. I knew our iPad presentation was probably unable to offer him a way to meet their needs. I so wanted to be able to give him some answer, some recommendation. The best I could muster up was to encourage him to stay hopeful. He thanked us for our time, knowing how difficult it is when you have a special needs child yourself to take time to share. After 24 years this man is still attending sessions - looking for something that can help give them the connection they likely so long for.
I came home to our babysitter with a smile on her face, excited to share with us that Zach had successfully #2'ed on the potty totally self initiated during her stay. Sophie was already in bed. She told the sitter she was "exhausted", got dressed, washed up, and put herself to bed. She can be so mature!!! I went up stairs and kissed her goodnight. I came back downstairs. Zach took me by the hand and said "Momma come". I followed him up the stairs. He b-lined into my bedroom. I decided to not fight him, and dressed for bed. I got into bed with him, and lay my head on my pillow. He scooched himself over and lay his head on the same pillow staring into my eyes, and then smiled. Connection. Lots of them. Not the kind that others may require - no calling me "Mommy" no saying "I love you" hell no even saying "good night". I don't take that for granted, that ability to connect. I know plenty of people who can say everything they want, can express their feelings freely, and frequently do, usually in the form of disappointment or anger, but they haven't managed to connect with others. How blessed I am to have the ability to read my son and him me. Connection.