So we see the neurologist Thursday, and I'm torn between excitement and hyperventilation. Excitement because we got a REALLY positive report from his therapist last night and hyperventilation because, well...I'm me. There's really only so many ways around that.
On the night in question, I, in my OCD, over-preparedness mode, emailed Caleb's therapists to inquire if I may, perhaps, be able to obtain a suitably impressive chart or graph to present to the good doctor to prove that I am not hallucinating Caleb's excellent progress. Shortly after, I get a call from the director, who is genuinely excited about my email and promising to evaluate him the day before his visit because she REALLY wanted his doctor to see these results. She started talking conceptual thinking skills and milestones and I was hearing phrases like, "I don't think we've ever had a child make so much progress, so fast" and my eyes started blurring. No, not from terminology overload (this time), but from tears. My baby was FLYING through his protocols left and right. I have never been so overwhelmed with pride and pure, unadulterated gratefulness. I think of all the nights I lay in bed, feeling broken and BEGGING God to spare my child, to reconnect all the nerves and synapses that had somehow, somewhere gone awry. "I just want him to be OKAY," I agonized. Billionaire or bum, I just wanted him to live a normal life and be happy. For the first time last night, I could see that coming. For the first time since all this started, I felt it may be, just possibly, okay to take a breath. I don't for a second think that he is "cured", but I caught a glimpse of what he is capable of, and it is AMAZING.
My boy--my sweet, lovable, courageous boy--he will move mountains. And he will sketch an elegant bow when he is done.
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