My Extreme Makeover

by Heather Covington

Dusting my dresser, I pick up all the pictures like my mother taught me, and swipe at the dust underneath.  I give a quick glance at each picture as I lift and then replace it.  At the end of the dresser, I pick up one that gets a longer look and, more often than not, a wistful smile. 

It is a picture of my oldest son when he was 6 months old.  I can still clearly remember when it was taken.  We were visiting my parents on a gorgeous spring day, playing in the backyard with the dogs.  I had just purchased a fancy, new camera so I sat my little guy on the grass and then proceeded to make all those crazy, embarrassing noises parents make in the quest for a smile.  Always a sucker for mom making a fool of herself, my little guy quickly gave in and flashed a beautiful open-mouthed grin while I clicked the shutter.  This is the picture on my dresser.  This is my “before” picture.

Everyone loves a makeover, complete with before and after shots.  I myself am addicted to these things.  If Oprah announces a makeover show, you can count on me to record it and watch it.  I love looking at a room that once had 70’s harvest gold wallpaper and shag carpeting and then seeing it transformed into something from the pages of House Beautiful.  Or, better yet, a person who has been made over.  Someone who once had extra weight and bad teeth transformed into a slimmer version of herself with professionally styled hair, flawless makeup, and a perfect smile.  I see these changes and exclaim “Wow!”   I marvel over the difference.

For me, before and after means something different entirely.  When I see my son’s before picture, the before applies more to me.  When I look at his smile and remember that day, I know it was taken back in that time when I didn’t know.  When I thought I had a typical child.

It was taken when I had all the aspirations of other parents and then some.  When I thought Occupational Therapy was something only people injured on the job had, not something kids participated in.  Back then, if you had told me about Sensory Integration Dysfunction, I am quite sure I would have told you it sounds made up.

My before is not a physical before.  If you looked at a picture of me from that time in my life and one from today, there would only be modest differences.  A few more wrinkles, a different hairstyle perhaps...but definitely no “wow” factor like the magazine make-overs.  I have had an inner makeover. (Or an inner upheaval, depending on the moment or mood you catch me in.) 

When I was pregnant, I knew the child I would have.  Due to my family’s strong Icelandic genes, I knew he would be a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, one that would put the Gerber baby to shame.  I was sure he would be a precocious child who talked in full sentences at 18 months like my mother swears I did.  He would be well behaved and other parents would look at him with envy.  I envisioned teaching him to ski, to appreciate art, to love reading....  My own mini-me.  I realized there would be tantrums, homework fights, and some teenage angst thrown in there as well, but my general feeling was that this child would be exactly as I envisioned him.

When my son was born, there were a few idiosyncrasies that gave me pause but nothing that couldn’t easily be explained away.  And I wasn’t told anything by the medical establishment that would make me think my dreams for my boy couldn’t be realized.  So when that picture was taken, all those dreams were still firmly intact. 

As time went on, though, other things were harder to ignore.  He walked a few months late, he only had 2 words at 2 years of age, and he didn’t eat solid food.  However, I felt these were obstacles that could all be overcome.  After all, I had hard-core anecdotal evidence and vehement rumor in my corner!  I can’t count how many well-intentioned people related stories to me of kids who talked late and then went on to become geniuses or of kids who were delayed initially but “grew out of it”.  In my mind’s eye, I would see myself sitting down with my son, maybe after his college graduation, and telling him that once, a long time ago, he had needed some speech therapy and didn’t want to eat.  He would marvel at that and we would have a good laugh--about that and all the other useless worries I once had. 

As time went on, there were numerous evaluations, but, after each one, I thought, we can still recover from this, he can still grow out of it.  Until he was 4 years old.  That was when I was sat down by a doctor at our local Children’s hospital and told my son had mild CP.  Then, the blow of all blows, I was also told they thought he was mentally retarded. 

That moment, that doctor’s words, completely wiped clean all my ideas of my son’s future.  They were demolished like a dynamited old casino in Las Vegas.  One push of the button and a whole dream was reduced to a pile of rubble, then cleaned up and forgotten.  Gone was the image of a future shared laugh about boyhood difficulties.  Gone were the ideas of grandiose accomplishments.  Suddenly, his future no longer felt ripe with possibility. 

The time that followed was probably one of the most difficult of my life.  I was in my “after” and I found, not glamor and beauty, but a despair that knocked the wind out of me.  I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for me and sorry for him and mourning all the things he might not get to enjoy in life. 

Meanwhile, though, my son hadn’t gotten the memo telling him he had limits.  He continued to move ahead and to be the happy boy he had always been. 

Eventually, I came to realize that no one can quantify a child.  Only time and he himself will tell what possibilities there are.  Maybe there is a freedom to be had in not being allowed solid ideas or expectations. Maybe there is more freedom this way for both of us.  I had to let go of those grand plans and learn to rejoice in the simple.  To cheer for a newly learned word, to jump up and down for a ball caught, to not take for granted these accomplishments.  To just love him for who he is, not for what he might be. 

My lofty goals have been scaled down and edited but they are good ones all the same.  I want him to know he is loved and is lovable and to be happy.  That’s it.  However that manifests itself is up to him and I will be there to cheer and jump up and down all along the way.

As I dust my dresser and look at that picture, I remember an idealistic me whose ideas of success and happiness have since been humbled.  A me before my parenting experience had been completely made-over.  That picture brings a wistful smile because I am smarter now.  I know more about life and love.  I know it is always limitless. 

Comments

[Valerie]

Heather, i just sat down to read this piece and am amazed. You so captured the feelings of so many of us, myself included. And I just know how much you love your son and how proud you are of him. I am so with you on being proud of the tiniest accomplishments and genuinely being proud. You really captured it Heather! I too miss Utah and the fun we had together!

[valerie turner]

You made my heart pound.
After all these years of having my own boy with his own special needs, these make-over emotions - man, they can really still make my heart pound.
Thank you for speaking to my heart from yours.

Val

[diverl]

Very moving piece...what emotional writing. It really touched me. Happiness is what we all deserve. It's really the best thing in the whole world when you get down to it. I'm glad he has you to give him that.

Dian

[Snave]

Hello, I was referred here from "Aye!"

As a speech-language therapist, I love reading excellent, astute stories such as yours. All children are special, all are different, all are valuable to the world. We may see limited potential in some kids at first glance, but when we take a closer look we often find that it is the size of the child's heart that matters most. Most kids we consider "handicapped" have hearts like those of lions: they suffer, they persevere, and they grow. While some of us might choose to quit, many of our kids with disabilities often learn that persistence is what pays in the long run. They try, they try, and they try again. There is so much we can learn from them!

[Carol]

Heather - this was beautiful. I can identify so much with everything you wrote. Thank you for writing it.

[Cassie]

Oh Heather,

What an amazing piece. You are my voice. My heart is touched and our souls are sealed through our experience. I am thinking of the time we spent together in Utah and I miss you so much.

Love,
Cassie

[Teresa]

What a moving piece! The metaphor of the casino blowing up is so true. And then a different and more beautiful casino is built in its place! Your hope and joy in your child is evident. Thank you for sharing.

[Christina]

Thank you heather, that was beautiful. I am still sitting here "absorbing" it.

[Uncle Scott]

Heather,
That was a lovely piece of writing. I can't begin to tell you how much I love you and Kevin and your boys! My nephews that have special needs are wonderful kids,(as are the "normal" ones) and have a lot of special abilities that I find amazing! We may not see eye to eye on everything, but on this issue I stand proudly along side of you!

[steph]

Wow! that captures so many of our experiences.