“I asked to be put on medication. My doctor said to me, ‘Are you sure it’s not just the pressure of Christmas?’ ‘NO!’ I wanted to scream, ‘This is why mothers don’t speak out. Because people belittle us. They tell us to cope.’ I was so angry. I accepted the prescription and left. I knew I needed to do something more than medication. I felt like the worst mom ever.”
“I was spending every day off work as a first responder on a recliner or in bed, surrounded by pain and fatigue. My disease was here to stay, after it had been silent for 12 years. I’ve always been hard-headed. ‘I will do it on my own.’ But when my health became something I could not hide anymore, I knew it was time to share it, despite the fear of what they may judge.”
“Our number one job as parents was to keep her safe, and we could no longer do that at home. There were rumors. I knew people were talking. Having a daughter with mental illness is not like having a child in the hospital with the flu or a broken bone. There were no lasagnas brought by concerned friends. No one knows what to say. It’s lonely and terrifying.”
“I took a deep breath and turned my teary eyes. An average height man locked his blue eyes on mine. Both our smiles began to rise. This was the moment I’d dreamt of my entire life.”
“My stomach dropped. Katy, still recovering from childbirth, fell to her knees in shock. ‘We’ve done everything we could possibly do.’ It was and is still excruciating. ‘One day, you will be able to ask God why this happened. But when you’re able to ask God why, it won’t matter because you’ll be with your baby.’”
“I don’t let very many people into our lives, mostly because I’m spent. And one of the reasons is because of things like ‘at least.’ When you ‘at least’ me as a complex parent, I feel minimized. I feel unheard. I feel compared. If a person gives you a glimpse of their challenges, honor their experience. Validate them. Meet them where they are. And if you can’t think of anything else to say, ‘Can I get you coffee or tea?’ always works.”
“I started crying a lot and cutting myself. I began smoking cigarettes and drinking. I was stoned all the time. I still missed my father. Every time I saw him in town, he walked away. He ignored me, pretending I didn’t exist. And he still does, and has for 11 years.”
“A few weeks later, we received the results. ‘Julius has a diagnosis of autism.’ I went from raising one special needs child to two. I learned quickly I would not be able to have typical ‘mom’ conversations with other new moms. I realized most things parents took for granted were not part of my journey.”
“Something magical happened. I loaded her on my back. I couldn’t see her face, but I could just feel she was happy. I would show her the world, and I wouldn’t let her diagnosis stop her from seeing the amazing beauty it has to offer.”
“I waited for the crosswalk lights to start flashing, checked again for cars, and stepped into the road. We had almost made it halfway when I saw the car. The sound of the car hitting the stroller still haunts my dreams. I pulled his tiny limp body out of the stroller and just screamed his name over and over.”
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