As you probably know, since we found out about Will's hearing deficit I have blamed myself. It's hard not to. The way I saw it, I built him in my body and therefore it was my body that had failed him by building that particular bit to a substandard level. I use the past tense in that there sentence because I no longer feel like that to that extent. It's taken a lot of time and blogging but I have, for the most part, accepted that we can't change it and blaming my self was helping no-one.
We recently learnt that Will definitely has Pendred's Syndrome; a genetic defect affecting his vestibular aqueduct and cochlea.
For this to happen, Shaun and I both have to carry a gene defect that when paired with the same, create the syndrome. It has to have been in both of our families for generations, hiding silently. Lurking.
I sometimes thought that if this turned out to be the case I would resent him. I thought I would resent the universe for bringing us together. I thought I would be angry. And I thought I would doubt our relationship and our future.
None of these things happened.
I felt guilt. Horrible, drowning, suffocating guilt. I felt sorry. So very, very sorry. Sorry for saying hello on the stairs. Sorry for sending flirtatious emails (we met at work). Sorry for letting him fall in love with me. Sorry for having the gene that, when it met him, meant he had disabled children. Sorry for not being one of the millions of other girls he could have met. Sorry for having the gene. Sorry for ruining his life, for making it that much harder, for causing him all this pain.
Guilt, a mother's ruin.
But not sorry I met him. Not angry I met him. Not sorry I fell in love with him. Not angry that he made my children disabled. I felt bad for him but not bad for myself.
It made me love him that much more. There is no-one I would rather travel this journey with.
Showing posts with label daddy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daddy. Show all posts
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
Monday, 10 October 2011
Comfort
Last night was one of those really tough nights of parenting. One of the ones that makes you wonder how you are going to cope with two. Why you ever thought you could cope with one. One of the ones that feels like it will never end but will be forgotten in an instant when something wonderful happens that we will remember forever like a milestone or a kiss.
There was vomit, lots of vomit. And tears, lots and lots of tears. And no sleep.
As I was lying in bed, listening to Shaun comfort our son through his 4th bout of vomiting, I thought how tender he is. How tender their relationship is. How lucky I am that I can stay in bed and listen to them rather than having to be the one up and doing it all alone. But as he whispered to him 'it's ok Puffin, it's ok, just get it all out, you'll be ok, Daddy's here, it's going to be ok, you are going to be ok, I love you, just get it out and you will feel better, I love you' I found myself thinking 'he can't hear you'.
And I think that this the is part of Will's hearing impairment that hurts the most. That in the depths of illness, as infrequent as they are, we don't put his hearing aids in. But we still talk to him, whisper to him. We use words that have been used to comfort us through pain by our own parents, by each other. And he misses all of it.
I take some comfort of my own in that I am a great believer in the power of touch. I am a tactile person and Shaun and I are a very tactile couple. William is cuddled and kissed and held and rocked and nurtured whether or not he is ill. And last night, when Shaun was whispering to him that it was all going to be ok, I hope that even though he couldn't hear him, he could understand that Daddy was there because Daddy was just that, there. Holding him, stroking his brow, mopping the sick from his mouth, kissing his head.
And I hope that every evening before I go to bed when I look in on my sleeping baby and tell him I love him, what he doesn't hear in my words he understands the next morning when we start our day with a long, perfect hug.
Because actions, as they say, speak louder than words.
There was vomit, lots of vomit. And tears, lots and lots of tears. And no sleep.
As I was lying in bed, listening to Shaun comfort our son through his 4th bout of vomiting, I thought how tender he is. How tender their relationship is. How lucky I am that I can stay in bed and listen to them rather than having to be the one up and doing it all alone. But as he whispered to him 'it's ok Puffin, it's ok, just get it all out, you'll be ok, Daddy's here, it's going to be ok, you are going to be ok, I love you, just get it out and you will feel better, I love you' I found myself thinking 'he can't hear you'.
And I think that this the is part of Will's hearing impairment that hurts the most. That in the depths of illness, as infrequent as they are, we don't put his hearing aids in. But we still talk to him, whisper to him. We use words that have been used to comfort us through pain by our own parents, by each other. And he misses all of it.
I take some comfort of my own in that I am a great believer in the power of touch. I am a tactile person and Shaun and I are a very tactile couple. William is cuddled and kissed and held and rocked and nurtured whether or not he is ill. And last night, when Shaun was whispering to him that it was all going to be ok, I hope that even though he couldn't hear him, he could understand that Daddy was there because Daddy was just that, there. Holding him, stroking his brow, mopping the sick from his mouth, kissing his head.
And I hope that every evening before I go to bed when I look in on my sleeping baby and tell him I love him, what he doesn't hear in my words he understands the next morning when we start our day with a long, perfect hug.
Because actions, as they say, speak louder than words.
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