It’s a grating sound of suctioning and sucking. A high-pitched whistle. I take stock of my body and realize my shoulders are tense, my breath short and shallow. I have a hum of anxiety and a layer of sadness that feels saturated inside me.
My son is in the other room, under anesthesia, flying free from his body while they do dental procedures. He had been in pain unbeknownst to me—a massive cavity deep down into his root. I only found out from his behaviors increasing: the smacking of his head on the wall or my car window, so many times it made his forehead swollen.
I’m fighting tears from flowing. In this space, I need to show up as strong and confident. How could I have missed it? How long had it been hurting? Why does it have to be so fucking hard for him—and for us?
The layers of guilt are tremendous. I want to avoid the feeling and numb it.
My son is non-speaking. He doesn’t take to his AAC (iPad communication) readily. I am a professional detective, searching for his needs and pain when something is wrong.
But here we are now, at least getting his solution. He can’t sit for dental work, so we have to put him under to do things most moms do for their kids while they’re awake.
I still see the look on his face when the gas mask is on—fearful. I tell him, “You’re safe, I love you,” over and over until his eyes close and he’s out. Honestly, it’s exactly what I need right now too: someone to tell me that I’m safe, it’s going to be okay, I am loved. I feel so alone, deeply alone in these moments. Like I’m Wonder Woman saving the world—staying strong and constantly moving to not sink into the feeling that I’ve let him down, that I haven’t done enough.
It feels like I have a weighted vest on my heart.
I know he’ll be fine, but it’s the absolute vulnerability of it all. The fact I didn’t know he was suffering. That he was afraid and has no way to connect deeply about it. The fact that there must be something—many things—I could do differently. The feeling that I’m failing him.
I close my eyes and imagine his spirit in the sky. I send prayers for him and his body. I go into a deep, internal, heart-opened dialogue with him while he is floating.
“I don’t know why it’s this way for you. I wish I could change it for you. I trust in your deep strength to carry you. I am always here, loving you. I see you surrounded in light, healed and healing. Loved and loving. You walk with light beings and angels in Truth and Grace. You are a constant blessing to me. I don’t need you any other way.”
I’m reassuring him—and myself, too.
I do wish it was different for him. Any sort of ease for him. He’s so brave; he has no choice. To live in a body that limits you like this. How much we all take for granted, that he must be hyper-aware of—and, by way of being his mom, I am too.
I believe that life flows. You can be in this depth of guilt and sadness, but it doesn’t have to stick. There are ways through to the other side of this emotion.
I notice my body. I put my focus on my heart. I breathe into it. I ask what it needs, what it feels. I presence it and allow, without judgment.
I feel a warmth and a lightness. A hope. A depth of love for myself and my son.
What remains is the present. The gift that my son is to me. The laughter we share. The deep, loving connection—and how it is more potent simply because he can’t speak. We rely solely on feeling.
I hear laughter around me, and I wonder if he can hear it in the office as he’s away from his body. I’m so aware of how readily we all take so, so much for granted. The preciousness of it all.
Why spend a moment not choosing love?
What fucking reason could I dare to have to defend anything else?
Choosing Love in the hardest moments
In the depth of the hardest moments, I remember that I must always cherish the present. I feel with wonder the lightness in my body, the image of him smiling, the hope of a triumphant future for him, the belief in my ability to navigate us there, and the amazing people who love and care for him.
It’s that simple—and we sometimes miss it.
What are the ways we can lean into love? What would love say, choose, and be?
What is one thing that you could feel gratitude for in this moment?
I pray the clouds open up and pour rain of joy, like teardrops of laughter from the sky. Soaking our hearts. Soaking your heart. So we all feel the depth of the pain while we allow it to shift into the sweetness of our joy, together.
There is no time to waste. Lose no moment.
Laugh more.
Smile more.
Even when it hurts.
