Transatlantic Tuesdays: Achieving the Impossible

#TransatlanticTuesdays is a collaboration between Maxine (in the UK) who blogs at Down in front, please, and me (in the US) - sharing our journeys in the form of letters to one another.
Links to play catch up are at the end of this post.

_____________________

 

 

Dear Maxine,

 

Well, life has been busy for me, and I thank you once again for being patient. Now that I've gotten through one of my bigger hurdles as a blogger/writer, I can go back to the norm.

 

Of course, I had to reread your letter, and of course each one you write brings both a smile to my face and a new perspective to my eyes. I just love your style, lady. Your writing style, that is.

 

I love that you never feel like you've hit a wall, but that you are running along it and enjoying the view. This means life hasn't smacked you in the face--you're careful and make sure to watch the signs and hazards. Similar to your recent sharing of the marathon you are training for--I wish you the best of luck!

 

Now, you asked me this question:

I'm curious to know what was the one success any of your kids has had which has surprised you the most? Is there anything you didn't expect from any of them and then they've gone and done it and you thought 'whoa, wasn't expecting that!'

So, I made sure to blow those egg shells out of my path before I set out to tell you the most amazing story ever, and keep in mind, I have three children. They have all accomplished great things in their short lifetimes, but what I always go back to, time and again, is when my daughter learned to ride a bike, back in December of 2012.

 

I had just given birth to my third baby, born with a cleft palate. I was adjusting to pumping for him, using a syringe to feed him while he sucked on a pacifier, and basically doing the things that moms of newborns do--up at all hours of the night, feeling pretty frumpy, and living in survival mode.

 

The winter break came, and since my husband is a teacher, he also gets the 3 weeks off. Julianna had just turned 9, Blake, our other son, 6. We knew he was ready to learn to ride a bike, and talked about doing it during the break since we'd have more time to help him. Well, in reality, it would be all on my husband, since I was very busy with a newborn. So we planned to do this right after visiting with family on Christmas day.

 

And then Joel, my husband, posed the question to me: "Do you think we should teach Julianna, too?"

 

I'm embarrassed to admit that I thought Julianna wouldn't be able to learn. I told him this, and said it would probably be too hard, and not even worth trying. She lacked the coordination, balance, and muscle tone/motor skills to ride a bike. Her sensory issues, to me, would not even make it possible, and I even started looking into other options for her, like some type of tandem bike for older children. When you think about it, there are many steps to riding a bike--knowing how to push off to start riding the bike, keeping your balance on two wheels, pedaling to keep the bike going, using the handlebars to turn when needed, and stopping when needed. Too many steps usually meant too hard to learn for someone like her.

 

But my husband wouldn't accept that answer. "We have to try, at least!" he said.

 

So we removed the kids' training wheels, packed the bikes in our car, and headed to the church parking lot. I walked with my newborn in the stroller while Joel worked with the kids. By day 1, Blake had learned to ride. We expected this. He was loving his new freedom. But Julianna needed more time. Day 2, 3, 4 turned into a new week. She was making progress, but whenever she couldn't do it, and would fall down, she would get very upset, and want to give up.

 

Since Blake was riding independently now, Joel had Julianna all to herself. He had her go down little ramps to help her start to pedal. He held her seat. He ran with he as she rode. He did all the things a dad does when helping their child to learn. It wasn't until week 3, near the end of the winter break, that she did it. It all clicked! Her body was able to maneuver the bike and she was riding all on her own. I saw a change in her that was miraculous to me! She could do something for herself--something BIG. She felt accomplished. I'm sure I cried. To me, it was one of the best moments, and I owe it to my husband for not giving up.

 

Now one of our favorite things to do is go on bike rides with our family. It makes me feel like we are a normal, typical family (even though we are far from it). It gives Julianna a sense of independence that she can't have in other areas of her life (at least not yet.) And the whole experience has taught me that autism does not mean anything is off limits--EVERYTHING is worth trying! Potential is limitless, and if it doesn't work out, then that's okay, too! Trying is better than assuming something is impossible.

 

And so, Maxine, I turn it over to you now, and leave you with this question: 

 

Since you will be running a marathon this Saturday, how does this event compare to your experience as a mom?

 

Perhaps this will give you food for thought as you run 26.2 miles!

 

Sincerely,

 

Kera

______________


Transatlantic Tuesdays  |  Archive
02 Feb 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/transatlantic-tuesday-letters-from.html

02 Feb 2016  |  http://thespecialreds.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/transatlantic-tuesdays-letters-from.html

09 Feb 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/no-but-i-have-son.html

16 Feb 2016  |  http://thespecialreds.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/transatlantic-tuesdays-4-take-high-road.html

23 Feb 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/pride-of-my-pride-transatlantictuesdays.html

01 Mar 2016  |  http://thespecialreds.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/transatlantic-tuesdays-hardest-moment.html

08 Mar 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/life-at-speed-of-rukai.html
22 Mar 2016  |  http://www.thespecialreds.com/2016/03/transatlantic-tuesdays-walking-on.html

29 Mar 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/running-wall-transatlantictuesdays.html

Transatlantic Tuesdays: Walking on Eggshells

Dear Maxine,

Well, life has really taken me places recently, so much that I completely forgot that it was my turn to respond to you, so I apologize that I'm finally writing a week late. You were kind and didn't even bug me about it. You really do take things at a slow pace, and I love it. No pressure.

Which reminds me of what you said in your last letter:

"Since Rukai has come into our world, the big has got smaller and the small has got bigger and everything meets in the middle in a place called 'What Rukai Needs.'"

I love your motherhood philosophy--all mothers would do well to take life as it comes with their children. Comparing only brings discontent. Your mantra, "At the speed of Rukai," is inspired. Go, you.

And now to your question (from two weeks ago--sorry, again):

Hints of spring are scooting around these shores and I know there's been a shortage of the white stuff on the ground over there as the weather settles. With the warmer weather on the horizon I'd ask what your biggest concerns or worries are when you get out and about, outside the confines of the safe space of 'Home'. I'm always worried I'll bump into some horrible person who says something for which I'm unprepared and I won't stand up for my son as well as I should. I don't want to be caught off guard. What are those worries for you? How do you prepare to face them?

Well, there's always a shortage of white stuff in good old Southern California, but the trees are blooming and scenting the air around them and it's my favorite time of year. Yes, we will be getting out and about more--in fact, we are leaving soon to visit family out of state for the Easter holiday and spring break. Luckily, this visit will be with family, and they never judge me or my kids, but we will for sure be visiting some sites and taking little trips in that state to places that are not too familiar.

I'm not going to lie--I get stressed, EASILY, when going places with my entire family. A 12-year-old daughter on the spectrum, a 9-year-old son who is quickly becoming a master negotiator, and a 3-year-old son who needs more attention than them all. My husband will be on break with us, so it will be nice to have extra help, and I'll have some family to help, but don't mothers almost always take the brunt of it all? They feel the difficulty, the distress, the disarray, more than anyone else, and this means that I don't always enjoy myself while I'm out with my family. I'm trying to let go more and not try to control every situation...but that's another post for another day.

I guess what worries me the most is the unpredictable moments that will inevitably happen with my daughter. Take going to a bookstore, for example. My daughter loves books. Even when I tell her, repeatedly, that we are not buying anything--we are just looking--she will no doubt find SOMETHING in that store that she absolutely has to have. Now, for most kids, the parent can say, "Now dear, remember, I told you that we aren't buying anything today." But not me. Telling her that would mean certain death. It would mean a total meltdown, because once she has her heart set on something, there's no going back. Nothing will appease her, or calm her. And I have dragged her out of stores many times while she kicked and screamed. Sure, that seems okay if, say, my 3-year-old does it (no one would bat an eye, more likely smile knowingly if they've ever parented at toddler), but when it's a tall 12-year-old? No knowing smiles--only quiet whispers with the person nearby, glaring eyes directed our way, heads shaking in disapproval and shock.

I feel like I'm walking on egg shells whenever I go out in public. Trying so hard to avoid any tantrums or meltdowns. It's exhausting, physically and mentally. And I've been doing it for a long time now. I felt like I was completely spent about a year ago--like I had hit a wall, literally, and had nothing left to give. And then I started writing more, and sharing my writing, and things began to turn around. Writing has been my therapy.

So here's to my upcoming family trip--may I learn to worry less and enjoy more (haha!) Life is meant to be enjoyed, right? As long as I can enjoy it through the lens of my children, it is possible.

And now for your question of the week:

I talked about how I hit a wall last year. Have you hit your wall? Have you ever felt spent as a mother? What helps, (or helped) you overcome this?

Sincerely,

Your friend, Kera, across the wide Atlantic

Links to all Transatlantic Tuesdays Posts:
02 Feb 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/transatlantic-tuesday-letters-from.html
02 Feb 2016  |  http://thespecialreds.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/transatlantic-tuesdays-letters-from.html

09 Feb 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/no-but-i-have-son.html

16 Feb 2016  |  http://thespecialreds.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/transatlantic-tuesdays-4-take-high-road.html

23 Feb 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/pride-of-my-pride-transatlantictuesdays.html

01 Mar 2016  |  http://thespecialreds.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/transatlantic-tuesdays-hardest-moment.html

8 Mar 2016 | http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/life-at-speed-of-rukai.html

Transatlantic Tuesdays: The Hardest Moment for Me Thus Far, and How a Friend Helped Me

 

#TransatlanticTuesdays is a collaboration between me (in the US) and Maxine who blogs at Down in Front, Please (in the UK) - sharing our journeys in the form of letters to one another.

Links to play catch up are at the end of this post.


Dear Maxine,

I am glad to hear you are feeling better. I absolutely loved reading the story of Rukai's path to walking freedom. I can very much relate to your experience--my oldest, Julianna, also had hypotonia and was a late walker (or what some might call late). At least she wasn't on the typical bell curve. She was scared to walk, and we did go the therapy route. Lots of physical therapy. It paid off, and she began walking around 20 months old. Didn't mean her gross motor skills were in check, but walking was the first step. Certainly watching her meet milestones has made me realize how much I take for granted in this life. I have it so good, and should never complain, really.

So on to your fabulous question: Tell me about a time when you really believe you were only able to get through a difficult time because your support network circled the wagons and lifted you? Do those who supported you then really know just how much they helped you?

Oh my. I'm sitting here trying to pinpoint just ONE difficult time. I'm trying to gather up in my mind the many, many people who have supported me over the last decade and get me through my motherhood journey thus far. But there is one experience that stands above the rest, and it's something I've never written about before, so here goes.

Hands down, the most difficult thing I've gone through with my three children (and that has been A LOT) is when my youngest had his palate repair surgery. He was 9 months old at the time. Previous to this, the surgery had been postponed TWICE by the surgeon due to conflicts, so by the time the actual day arrived, we were more than ready, and twice as anxious. Even though we had met with Nathan's surgeon a good number of times previous to this, and thought we knew what we were getting ourselves into, we really had NO idea what to expect.

The checking in part, and handing him off to the surgeon part were not as bad as I expected. I thought I would cry as he was wheeled away into those double doors, but I didn't. We went down to the waiting area with our "number" to watch on the big screen and sat there, surrounded by other parents also waiting for surgeries. Talk about a tense feeling in the room. Not much talking, other than those within their own families. We were all there for very tough reasons, and silence was just easier.

When the surgeons came down and announced that the surgery went well, we felt relieved. We were expecting it to go well because we felt confident in our surgeon. A few minutes later we were able to go up and see our little baby boy in the recovery area.

Now here's where it gets hard for me. Even typing this, I am crying. Just thinking about this moment still haunts me to my very heart and soul. I walked over to my baby and saw his very swollen face and jaw, saw how he could not even close his mouth, saw how groggy he looked, how much pain he was in--it brought me to my knees. I couldn't even bear to hold him the first few hours. The surgeons don't tell you how bad it will be after, maybe because ignorance means more courage at the get-go? I'm not really sure. All we knew about the recovery was that most babies go home after one night in the hospital and are able to drink from the bottle just fine afterward. No big deal--we can handle that!

Well, this didn't happen with Nathan. Joel, my husband, was able to stay the first night, but the next day he had to go back to work. I stayed there with Nathan the next day, struggling to get him to eat, and he still wouldn't. The pain was awful for him. When it looked like we would be staying another night, I felt like there was no hope in sight. How will we get through this? When will my little guy eat again? How will I be able to take care of him when we get home? I've never been so worried or scared as mom, ever.

Later that evening, after Joel came to visit and went home to take care of the other kids, one of my dear friends called to ask how I was doing. I lied and said things were going okay. We talked for a bit, and hung up. About an hour later, she surprised me at the hospital to say hello and even brought me some food and treats. She sat with me as I cried and told her how challenging this surgery had been for me, especially for Nathan. She listened to me. She was there when I really needed someone, and she still has been.

Support as a parent of exceptional needs children is vital. It is the lifeline. We simply can't do this alone, no matter how much we think we can. If we try to do it alone, we will probably drown. The old saying, "It takes a village to raise a child," doesn't apply when you have special needs kids, because it takes a TOWN, a CITY sometimes to keep you going. This is one of the biggest things I've learned in my first decade of motherhood.

So Maxine, as I wipe my tears away, I now get to ask you a question: What have you learned from being Rukai's mom that you didn't know before? How have you changed?


Staying strong in the US,

Kera


 
02 Feb 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/transatlantic-tuesday-letters-from.html
02 Feb 2016  |  http://thespecialreds.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/transatlantic-tuesdays-letters-from.html
09 Feb 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/no-but-i-have-son.html
16 Feb 2016  |  http://thespecialreds.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/transatlantic-tuesdays-4-take-high-road.html
23 Feb 2016  |  http://downinfrontplease.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/pride-of-my-pride-transatlantictuesdays.html

Transatlantic Tuesdays #4: Take the High Road

Transatlantic Tuesdays is a weekly letter writing series between me (in the US), and Maxine (in the UK), blogging from Down in Front, Please - sharing our journeys in the form of letters to one another. Previous letters are listed at the end of the post.


Dear Maxine,

I loved your response to my last letter, and how you said this: "We simply don't live 'negative' with Rukai. Don't feel it, don't allow it, don't tolerate it. We fight it off like teenage acne."

Brilliant, simply brilliant. Except, it made me think that, if you are fighting it off like teenage acne, this negativity must come back often, since, we all know teenage acne isn't a solitary case. You must keep that acne cream handy in the form of positive, uplifting thoughts about your child and his upbringing, and wield it like a personal sword in defense of your son. I'm so glad to hear it.

And my jaw literally dropped when I read your story about the nurse comparing her son to yours. The nerve of her even saying that your son could be anything less! Time for her to go back to nursing school, or choose a new career. It reminds me of an episode of "Call the Midwife" that I watched a few years ago about a mother who gave birth to a child with spina bifida. In the early hours and days after his birth, she cannot bring herself to love him because he is different, and it's her wonderful, caring nurse who coaxes her into coddling that precious infant by saying, "Life is never without hope." I wrote about it here, because it touched me so. If only your nurse could have been so understanding.

And a big happy 4th birthday to Rukai! I'm sure many of his "challenges" will continue to be met as the years go by. So glad you enjoyed your birthday trip with him.

Now on to answer your question:

How do you deal with the unexpected when things go 'wrong' in your world? Either with kids' issues, family issues in general, looking after yourself, etc. When something threatens to derail, how do you get back on track?

Have you been spying on me? Do you know that this is like the number one thing I struggle with, and have struggled with, ever since become a mom and wife? I think it's quite natural to wish that things would always go smoothly in life--to wish that there were no worries, no pressing issues. I can plan and prepare all I want, but I can never plan for the unexpected. Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans, right? I feel like I've heard that somewhere...

I think my answer could be very similar to yours...to not view the things that happen in life as "wrong," but just part of life. The word "wrong" has such a negative connotation--does anything ever really go wrong? Or does it just go in a different direction, one that you hadn't thought of before? If you view things that derail you as wrong, you must be on the wrong path...the bitter path.

I walked down that lonely, bitter road for a while. I let all the difficult things thrown at me as a mother take me off the yellow brick road and into a path of self-destruction, where I was in a constant state of anger and upset. I felt like life did not turn out the way I planned it, at all. I walked down this path for a few years, after my two oldest were born, and I'm sure I wasn't a very pleasant person to be around. During this time, my husband and I had some health challenges of our own, and adding that to the giant pile of "stuff" we were already dealing with, it felt like we'd never see the light of day. As I said to my friend recently, when she was describing her current issues within her own family and what lie ahead for them, "Do you ever wake up sometimes and think, 'is this really my life?'"

Life is going to happen, full speed, and you have to be willing to jump on and take the ride. Trudging down the path of bitterness means you aren't living your life to its fullest--you're just hiding in the shadows of what could be a bright and glorious experience. Even with those same challenges, you can hop off that road of bitterness and onto the road of betterness.

When my third child was born with challenges after praying every day for a normal, healthy baby, I had to do some soul searching in my hospital room. Obviously, my children are giving me a choice: will I take the high road—the better road? Or the low road—the bitter road, of life? Is it still possible to feel content, at peace, when things turn out differently, or don't go the way you were hoping or expecting?

Yes, I told myself, holding my newborn son, who now faced a bumpy road of doctor visits and surgeries ahead of him. Yes, I have to take the better path—my kids are depending on me. I want them to see a happy, positive person so they can meet the challenges they will face with the same attitude. I would never want them to feel how I felt on that lonely bitter path. I have to do it, for my kids—they deserve the brightest future imaginable.

So, have things gone "wrong" in my life? No, but I have chosen the wrong path. I'm so glad I've made it back to the safe road that leads to hope and fulfillment--that leads to eternal joy and happiness.

Maxine, I know you are very sick right now, and have been for some time. Please find that spark of hope and meaning in it all. And if you are feeling up to it, I would love for you to answer this question in your response next Tuesday:

Speaking of challenges, what has been the greatest challenge Rukai has faced thus far, and has he overcome it?

Sincerely,

Kera


************
 New to #TransatlanticTuesdays? Catch up on what you've missed here:

Letter #1: --Maxine
Letter #2: --Kera

Letter #3--Maxine

Transatlantic Tuesdays: Letters from Across the Pond

Right before Christmas last year, a war began brewing in a closed group for writers of a very popular disability website. And as is typical, when there is a bad thing going, good will always come out of it. Well, much good came out of this war-like conversation: a wonderful bond and connection between parents who felt strongly about being advocates for their disabled and sick children, who advocate mainly through their powerful words. Some of the parents and I began private messaging during this time, and decided to form a closed group where we could all support one another without any fear of criticism. This group is flourishing and helping and supporting, and encouraging those parents to continue writing despite what other opinions are floating out there. And those same parents and I decided to start a blog where we could publish all parents' stories. We named it SNAP: Special Needs
Advocates and Parents. Now you know the history behind SNAP, and I strongly believe that without that little battle before Christmas, none of this would have happened.

And in the early days of our new group, I met some amazing new parents who had all been writing for that popular website. We got to know each other, and I must say, I feel like we are all family now. One parent in particular would share her blog posts and published articles and I always felt touched by them--her writing spoke to me. Maxine, from England, is a mother of a child with Down's syndrome named Rukai, and she blogs at Down In Front, Please. She also has red hair, which is something I of course admire. But more than that, I admired her boldness, her concise yet descriptive language, the literary tone she weaved through every piece, every sentence. Her words move me--to action, to pondering, to betterment.

I continued to be drawn to Maxine's words, and asked if she would like to collaborate with me somehow. After about a week of brainstorming, we decided to write letters to each other, letters that would dig below the surface of the issues we face every day. Letters that show how similar we are as parents, despite how different our children's diagnoses are. And so, "Transatlantic Tuesdays: Letters from Across the Pond" was born.

This was her letter and introduction to the project. Before you continue reading, click that link. Her words are powerful and thought-provoking, to be sure. They respond to an article of mine published here.

Have you read both links? Good. You are ready to read my reply to her fabulous question posed at the end of the letter:

"Now if you're up for it, how about telling me what exactly is buried in that ice?"

Dear Maxine,

I'm so elated that you read my recent article. You say it seemed like the tip of the iceberg, and to be completely honest, it really was. With only 500 words to pen it was nearly impossible to delve into the depths of the despair that was in that singular moment of my motherhood. So yes, I chopped and chiseled my words down to what I thought were the most meaningful to share, because that's what I do! But what were in those "teardrops of hopelessness" that drifted into the wind?

Well, I'll tell you one thing. Growing up in a family with very typical children, I never imagined for one second that I'd have a child with a disability. It was something that other people dealt with, but not what I would deal with. Does anyone ever consider it might happen to them? Imagine what it would be like, or how they would feel? I never did, and motherhood came at a young age for me. I fully expected to have a normal, healthy child, because that's what I knew growing up.

However, there were certain instances that I think prepared me for this life. I remember going to a facility for handicapped and disabled children and young adults when I was about 14 years old. Each of us was assigned a person from the facility to care for while we were there. I will never forget the face of the young man I pushed around that day in his wheelchair. His dark brown hair, his permanent smile, his body movements when he was excited. The employees tried to teach us how to interact with these severely handicapped individuals. I did my best at such a young age. I talked to him and knew he was listening. I patted his shoulder and tried looking into his eyes.

At the end of the visit, we all gathered in a large room and an employee led us in singing songs together. Watching these disabled people respond to the music was overpowering. They swayed, they smiled, they laughed. Even now, when I think of that moment, I get goosebumps. I remember he grabbed my hand as we all stood in a circle. I felt my soul connect with his. Human touch is a powerful thing. I'm so glad I got to experience this as a young person. No doubt our youth leaders were divinely inspired.

Flash forward to the year 2004. I'm a new mom to a cute redhead. I've just been told by a neighbor that she might have autism. I'd done everything I could to push that thought out of my mind. She was too young to be diagnosed, anyway. I told myself that she would grow out of these behaviors. I'd researched autism and concluded that she didn't have enough of the symptoms. But my fears were always close to the surface. Fear is a potent emotion...

Because she wasn't walking by her 18-month checkup, her pediatrician was concerned. He gave me the contact information for an early intervention group in town. I had no idea what this meant, but thought I'd follow my doctor's advice. We were moving out of state soon anyway, so it wouldn't be a long commitment.

I arrived at the parent/child group for early intervention. All the parents were doing crafts with their kids at little tables. I looked around the room at the children and saw visible handicaps. Visible syndromes. Noticeable behaviors and delays. I didn't even stop to notice the smiles on the parent's faces. Their loving and genuine concern for their children. All I could see was that these children were different. Her pediatrician had placed MY CHILD in this same category. Why did he do this? Why did he think my child was different like these children?

I wanted to leave that room soon after I arrived. In fact, I don't really remember how long I stayed. I probably made up some excuse and snuck out of there, clutching my precious child to my chest.

Why did I feel this way? How could I feel such a strong connection to a handicapped boy as a teenage girl, but feel the complete opposite about my own child? I obviously understood the impact that a precious soul could have on my own--why couldn't I feel that with my own child?

Here's why--here's what's buried under that ice, that is usually chiseled away conveniently as to not offend or demean. My daughter is MINE, and I wanted her to be perfect, not broken somehow. Perfect, not damaged or needing repair. Perfect so I wouldn't have to worry. Perfect so I could keep all the same hopes every parent has for their children. Perfect so I wouldn't have to be broken, too. Oh, how wrong I was, and how strongly fear had a grip on my perception at the time...

But life is not about perfection. It's about being broken, over and over again, and finding the strength to sweep up those pieces and put them together. And when those pieces are glued together, we might look at ourselves and see those cracks, those visible scars, and think, why can't it just be easier? Ease does not lead to growth, only hard things do.

Back in 2004, I didn't know what the future held. I didn't know that my daughter eventually would be diagnosed with autism. I didn't know I would have a son with a frightening blood disorder, or another son with a birth defect. I didn't know how broken I would feel as a mother. But what I do know, now, is that I've always been able to gather up the pieces and make myself whole again. There are probably many cracks beneath the surface, but on the outside, to the world, I try to appear strong. It's all I can do without completely falling apart, which I do often, in quiet moments to myself.

And I know now that being broken doesn't mean anything at all. We are all broken and damaged. We all need repairs. We will always have worries, and our dreams will not always come true. But that doesn't mean we can't make something beautiful of our lives despite the brokenness. It's okay to be broken, because it means we are being shaped and formed into who were were meant to become, much like an ice sculpture has to be broken and chipped away to create something beautiful.

So, Maxine, that's what's buried under the ice, what you might find below the tip of the giant iceberg of my life to my very special children. And now I have a question for you:

How have you turned the negatives thrown at you regarding your son's diagnosis into positives?

Your friend across the pond,

Kera