A different kind of graduation
Filed under: A Little More
My middle son Avery has been seeing a physical therapist since he was 6-months-old. Her name is Wendy, and like the Wendy of Peter Pan fame, our Wendy is kind, and wise, and supportive, and has shoulder-length brown hair. She's like Avery's second mother, or at the very least, a favorite aunt.
My other two sons pushed themselves through the developmental stages with very little coaxing from me. My main job was to prevent them from hurting themselves, and then cheer at all they'd accomplished. With Avery, it was different. He taught himself to sit, then stopped, perfectly content with this skill level. I wanted him to do more, but I didn't know where to begin. How do you teach a child to want?
Wendy knew what to do, and she showed me. She'd touch the muscles in Avery's legs, cuing them to act, helping him learn to crawl. Later, when crawling was the norm, it was pulling-to-stand. And more recently, it's been movement--putting one foot in front of the other--walking.
In the spring and summer, we usually do physical therapy at the park, on the blue and red playground equipment. The park is next to the lake, and sometimes we'd walk over to the water's edge and Avery would practice standing and throwing rocks into the water, delighted by the splash. Other times, we'd work in the playground sand, which made Avery's muscles strong. Once, we got caught in a terrific spring thunderstorm, and we rushed to the picnic pavilion to wait out the rain. So many memories, tiny steps, and with each one, Wendy was there.
When I wondered if Avery would ever crawl, Wendy patted my hand gently and gave me the answer I needed--yes. When I felt hopeless, and asked, Will he ever stand? She'd pat my hand gently, yes. Will he ever walk? Again, sure and certain, yes. In her, I placed my faith. In return, she gave me hope.
At the park, Avery walks up the steps, across the flexible bridge, down the slide. He walks over to the steps again, up, hand-over-hand down the ramp, to the other, bigger slide. Happy. Proud. Today feels like being with a friend at a play date, rather than therapy. There's very little work for either Wendy or me to do. Instead, I notice the sunshine, watch the seagulls. Smell the water on the air. The lilacs are blooming, the grass has recently been cut. Before long, it's already time to go.
"I don't know how to tell you this," Wendy begins. "So I'll just say it--Avery doesn't need me now. We can still get together socially, but he doesn't need PT. He needs time to practice what he already knows, which he can do on his own."
I stare at her, stunned. As a new mom to Avery, all I wanted was to be finished with therapies--to reach the point where all the early intervention was over. Now that I've gotten my wish, I regret it. I can't imagine a Thursday morning without her.
I consider pointing out all the things we still have left to do--hopping, skipping, running. I think about pleading our case: Look at me! I'm a klutz! I can't teach Avery by myself! And then I remember Avery's monitor. As a newborn, Avery had Apnea of Prematurity, which meant that he sometimes stopped breathing, and then his heartbeat would stop, too. Avery came home from the NICU attached to a little black box that kept track of his breathing and his heartbeat. It looked like a classic black Coach purse, except that once in a while it would get tangled and send off a single, shrill, piercing alarm.
Over time, I got used to it--I even came to rely on it. In fact, I remember being of the opinion that the monitor was so useful that I wished Avery's twin brother Bennett could have one, too. When our doc told us we didn't need it anymore, I panicked. How would we ever manage without a monitor? I even tried to convince him to let us keep it just a bit longer.
I feel that way again now. How will I ever know what to do?
But, I trust Wendy. If she says it's right, I know it's time. And I trust the work we've done these many months. Avery is strong, and ready. And most of all, I trust Avery. I may not know what lies ahead, but I know that together, we'll find our way.
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