I’ve been thinking about vision. Every night I sit in Cooper’s room in the rocking chair. We read books, I shut the light off, say a prayer, sing a song, and we rock.
I’ve had terrible vision ever since I can remember. One of my earliest memories is falling asleep on the couch while wearing my glasses, waking up and realizing they were smashed, and crying as I told my mom what happened because I knew that they cost a pretty penny and would need to be replaced.
I tried fixing my vision with Lasik surgery when I was 24, nearly ten years ago. My perfect vision lasted two years, and then it slowly started shifting again. I started with night glasses, then needed glasses full time. Contacts were permanently out because Lasik changed the shape of my eye and no matter how many different contacts I tried, none of them would work.
So, I now wear glasses. All. The. Time. And have a hard time seeing well without them.
But there’s one thing I can see so clearly. In my mind, at least.
It’s the night after learning about Cooper's Down syndrome. The weight of the unknowns falling heavily onto my entire body, onto my entire soul. The way it took my breath and gave way to a flood of tears. The way I tried to look at my baby and feel love, but only felt a crippling fear for what his life would look like.
Weeks passed. I was in a daze. Unsure. Insecure. Afraid. People asked how I was doing, and I could not answer without crying. I'd say, "I just want a crystal ball to be able to tell me what the future looks like."
To see the future would help me, I thought. It would help me see that we could do this. It would help me believe in myself and my son. It would give me just enough confidence to get through this time of grief that seemed never ending.
"Just wait. He will change your life."
"You'll see. This will turn out to be the best thing ever."
"I know it's hard now. It won't be this way forever."
I heard these words and tried to believe them. I wanted to believe them.
Time passes. The moments that weighed so heavily fade. The memories stay, and the feelings are a vivid part of the memories. But the moments fade. And with the fading, something starts to shift. It's like new eyes are put in place of the old ones, or perhaps just a new layer being peeled away from the old eyes to reveal something tender underneath. It's a slow peeling and drying, peeling and drying process. Like the way a sunburn peels or a scab heals, but slower and more painful. A pain that is deeper than the surface. It reaches down to the soul.
I’ve been thinking about vision because when I sit in Cooper’s room with the lights off, when we’re done reading books and start singing songs, I take my glasses off. There is no need for my glasses when it’s dark. There is no vision in the darkness. Imagine if the sun always shone and we all walked around in the light all the time. Imagine if our eyelids never closed and we never had a chance to feel darkness behind them.
I had wanted to see the future,I had wanted a perfect vision of what was to come, but that wasn’t what I needed. I needed the darkness.
The darkness brings rest.
The darkness brings an appreciation for vision.
Time passes.
I’ve also been thinking about weight. Somehow, it seems like overnight, our little Cooper has grown up. When I sit in his room rocking him to sleep, he takes up all of my lap. I have to hold him sideways, with his head resting in the crook of my elbow while his legs reach across to the other armrest. He used to fit nicely between my shoulder and my waist, tucking his head into my neck and curling his legs underneath him and against my belly. When did he grow so much? I can feel his growth. I can feel his weight. He really is not so much a baby anymore and on his way to becoming a toddler.
I remember the weight on the day we learned about Cooper’s extra chromosome. And how heavy it was. It seems almost magical the way that heaviness has lightened, while at the same time Cooper himself is getting heavier. Like a perfect proportion that was thrown out of place that day is now being put back into equilibrium right before my eyes. It’s like with each pound he puts on, a pound is taken from the weight that held me down that day. I have a sneaking suspicion that our boy’s weight will not need to grow astronomically before I am fully free of the “diagnosis weight.” I have a feeling one day it will have faded almost entirely.
I won't ever have perfect vision again. And there will be other heavy things life throws me that I won't know how to handle. But I know this, I am entirely more grateful for both vision and weight the way that My Cooperman has given me the chance to experience them.
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