Not a Fair IQ~Continued

I think the shock was slowly setting in, if shock can do that. Looking back, I realized that as the conversation continued, as the sound of apology was in their voices; sadness for our news; sadness in having to tell a family something like this…I realized that while our conversation continued about our son’s lower than normal, developmentally disabled, IQ I was retreating.

My eye contact stopped. I started looking at the ground, the door, my daughter. Anyone but them. Not my husband. Solemnly, I looked away.

With our goodbyes, I gave gratitude for the consideration of allowing us to hear this without a room full of people calculating our reactions. Outside, Zach and I gave our usual banter of jokes to lighten what we felt in our hearts; giving us more time to digest in each other’s company. As we drove away, carrying about the normalcy of the morning, we started comforting each other. Softly holding hands. Tightly then. Listening to music. Tears silently falling. No eye contact. We couldn’t look at each other. Not because we didn’t want to. Not because we were ashamed, angry…but because we couldn’t be strong for each other if we looked into each other’s eyes.

When we got to the school to pick Alex up, I all but ran out of the car and into the arms of another mother of a special needs child who is also in Alex’s class. I cried. I finally cried and told her my son’s IQ. I told her that…well, really, I don’t know what I told her other than his IQ. She let me cry. Told me to cry. It was the support of a sister of sorts that I needed; someone who goes through all the fights, the blows, the mourning that we go through. I didn’t realize until that moment that this woman that I was barely starting to get to know was so important to me because she knows all the things I don’t say. She knows all the things I can’t explain. She feels the same depths of pain. She told me what her mother told her when their daughter was diagnosed…she reminded me of the promise Zach and I gave to each other almost 5 years to the day ago…that the most important thing is to give him the best life possible. Thank you.

At the end of the night, I started crying again. Zach and I had talked more about it here and there. When we both knew our minds were going there. This is just how we do it. This is just how we survive it. Finally, tearing again….he came to me with not a word. He hugged me tight and let me cry.

I thought:

Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow, I will be positive. I will reason it out. Tomorrow we will cheer each other up and cheer each other on and make it not so bad. Tomorrow we will continue our fight. Tomorrow.

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