Early one morning during my recent vacation in Colorado, I awoke from a dream. It was a long dream filled with many images and with people that I love. Each segment of the dream was like its own separate entity, its own little scene, yet all connected in some magical dreamlike way I have yet to discern.
One scene particularly stood out, not for its imagery or for its emotional impact or for its message. It stood out because of its honesty.
It was a short little scene. In it, Nathaniel had been struggling with caring for Eric in his stroller as we all walked along a sidewalk, trying to get him to sit down. Eric got loose and strode off, and Nathaniel was overcome with annoyance and frustration. Eric moves quickly and sometimes surreptitiously in life and did so in my dream: soon he was way off in a parking lot that was fraught with danger. Two teenage girls caught him and I could see from a distance that he was okay and being cared for.
The thing is, when I awoke I considered the dream scenario, considered how I would feel if Eric did indeed escape, say, in a parking lot but one with no dream-teenagers to rescue him, and if something happened to him. Something momentous. Something tragic and final.
And I thought … it would be a relief.
I know this isn’t a popular notion. I know there will be those who are uncomfortable with my words. But I need to say them.
It was recently pointed out to me that some of what I have written before about Eric seems to ring somewhat hollow, that it lacks truth. I have said before how I love Eric. I think that part’s true. I do love him: how he smells, how he feels, his smile, his humor.
But if I could change anything about him, I would take away the fact that he has Down syndrome.
And that feeling is strong enough to feel relief at the thought of some dream-mishap befalling him, something that would erase these few years of his life and give him a chance to start over.
It helps, I suppose, that I believe in reincarnation the way that I do. It does take some of the burden away from wishing tragedy upon myself and my family this way.
But how do I reconcile this? How do I love someone, someone who shares my flesh and who was a part of my body for a time, and also wish his life to be over, changed, renewed, and wish a transformation both for him and for myself? What does this say about me?
For this, I haven’t any answers.
[tags]down syndrome, family, disability, life[/tags]
August 18th, 2007 at 12:35 pm
“What does this (post) say about me” you ask?
I think it says only that you are a normal human being, albeit perhaps one w/ more of a penchant for rigourous honesty about self to self than a great many others have yet to evolve into.
Life and love (for what’s the difference?) offers scant few clean, high contrast lines delineating between the polar opposites Lao Tzu coined as yin/yang. From what I’ve seen of the perspective we’re granted (or more likely ‘choose’) as we tread the path the choices look at best fractal, if not simply murky.
I think it is the simplification devices we call ‘mind’ which desire clear distinctions where none truly exist. We want to filter out all patterns except those we hope to confirm existing bias’ – including those we’ve been programmed or imprinted to hold as our own.
So, again, I think in this post you’re simply acknowledging parts of self most are unwilling or as yet unable to admit to for fear of being judged – and that’s a good thing. I attribute that to advanced soul age more than anything else.
/s
August 20th, 2007 at 2:20 pm
wow kar…..sumner said it so much more intellectually than i could but i agree
i think every parent feels this way about some things and it is part of the whole…..AND it is so not “socially acceptable” to say it.
i wish i hadn’t had 4 kids….i am one over my limit but i didn’t know that til i had 4, kind of confusing but still true. it isn’t any one of them in particular i would give back….and i am learning to surrender to the lessons involved as authentically as i can….
lots of that i am learning from you
August 20th, 2007 at 4:03 pm
What does it say about you?
You are normal, and like most normal people, you think too much.
The modern mindset learned from an early age is that, “You are what you think, You are what you feel, You are what you do”. In truth you `are` none of these things, they are fleeting and temporary, and do not define you, although the ego will try to tell you so.
The mind is such a busy thing that thinking the thoughts are not enough, now you need to think about the thoughts you though, and then think about the feelings that arouse from those thoughts, and so forth in and endless cycle.
Accept the thoughs and emotions for what they are without the significance that the ego desires. Having all the answers is not all it’s cracked up to be, sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Yikes, I seem to be channeling Eckhart Tolle, and he is not even dead yet!
Steve
August 20th, 2007 at 4:50 pm
Sumner – thanks for the reminder that all is not carved in black and white.
Deb – this seemed so huge when I wrote it, but it feels now as if there is always room for honesty, true honesty.
Steve – wow, channeling Eckhart Tolle? I may have to consult with you… Think too much? I don’t know, I thought (oh, that word again!) that this was about feeling. Hmm, I may have to think (!!) about that…
August 24th, 2007 at 3:29 pm
I’ve read a couple of your posts on Strollerderby, and I’m always struck by your honesty. I do not have a child with Down’s syndrome, but I often wonder if I would have the strength to parent a child with any disability. (For goodness sake, I fell to pieces when another child’s parent recently told me her son couldn’t play with my 2yo angel because he hits. I spent a week wallowing in sadness and anxiety over raising a — gasp! — hitter. Get a grip, right?)
What you’re describing feeling after your dream, too, is the same type of feeling anyone who has loved someone with a disability, or to take it even further, a terminal illness, feels. My mom died years ago after a 5-year battle royale with cancer, and when she finally died, all I felt was relief. I was 21, and I was so horrified at myself for not feeling the intense pain and sadness that those around me seemed to be feeling. I didn’t cry, at least not for weeks, because I was really just relieved that my mom’s pain and my family’s torture had ended. Don’t beat yourself up over feeling this way after a dream. I don’t know you, but I assume your day-to-day emotions are intense — which is why you felt that relief. You don’t wish your son harm; you just wish the intensity would abate a bit.
I think you would be surprised how many other parents in the world have very similar feelings and fears and guilt, but your honesty sets you apart. And you know what? Eric is a very fortunate little boy to have such a caring, compassionate, introspective person raising him. And loving him intensely.