I am not a patient person. Once I’ve made a decision, I’m ready to implement. Immediately. Any delay is seen as an affront to my carefully stacked-for-maximum-efficiency daily routine. While it sometimes takes me for—-(wait for it)—–ever to make a decision, once that’s done, it’s Go Time. No looking back.
And then came Noah. From the day he was born, he gleefully blew apart my carefully-stacked-for-maximum-efficiency daily routine. And he and the Universe laughed, and laughed, and laughed with love as I would scramble, wasting energy and emotion on attempting to rebuild the tattered scraps of routine so that I could have my corner of the world controlled in a tidy little clutter-free box. Never happened. And eventually, I would give up, let go, and ride the wave of his joy and laughter, love and light with him. And it would be OK.
Man, he was so patient with me. Looking back I wish I had been the same, that he and the Universe hadn’t had to work so hard to teach me patience, to breathe and let go of the carefully ordered routine, to let go of the idea that routine means control means all is well with the world. To be patient, to wait and see, to understand that having patience did not mean having to let go of control. He was nothing but patient. Nothing threw him from his center of joy and laughter, love and light. Not a fever of 105 (yep. They went that high), not a day filled with back to back seizures with no relief, not a hospitalization where his treasured cool ranch Doritos were taken away to be replaced by a G-tube and no more eating by mouth. He simply waited to get through whatever was in front of him, as if he knew that whatever came on the other side of what was happening would be better. And it always was.
I, on the other hand, would get stressed, upset, worried; I would clutch the spreadsheet of the day to me, entering data as if there would be some sort of pattern to explain what was going on–seizure times, types, lengths cross referenced with fevers and medication times was my favorite. I’d hawk that data as if it had the answers to everything, wondering if my being 5 minutes late with the medication led to the latest firestorm of seizures which led to the infection that landed us at Mott Hospital for this admission. His neurology team would indulge me, and we’d go over it again and again and again. While he sat, king on the throne of his bed, silently getting his adoring nurses to do his bidding with a soft touch of the hand, a fist bump and a sweet, sweet smile.
He’d give me a Look. The one that said, “Mom. Settle down. It happened. No one made it happen, and now we are here, hanging out, being taken care of, and they will fix it. So come get on this bed with me and watch Despicable Me 2. Give up your spreadsheet and put it in someone else’s hands”. He, of course, meant the Universe, and I, of course, interpreted it as the doctors. And we’d wait, him with patience, me not so much, while he got through it and made it to the other side. He always did, and it was better. I can look back now and see that–the times we spent in the hospital were times I could put down the spreadsheet and the carefully ordered routine and get some rest. He was in expert hands, they took such loving care of him, and of me, and they made it better.
Looking back, I can see the Universe entwined throughout our lives. If I look closely enough, and if you are Universally inclined, we can see that these times when I had to give up the spreadsheet and put it into someone else’s hands were lessons. Lessons to teach that it is OK to stop, breathe, and be patient. Not everything is to be controlled on a multi-column spreadsheet. That, when the daily routine gets overwhelming and overlapping and I feel like I can’t get everything done, I should stop, breathe, and take one task at a time. And most importantly, when I am working through something that isn’t going my way, or isn’t what I perceive it should be, to just wait. If I keep moving forward with his joy and laughter, love and light, I will get to the other side. And it will be better.
I know Noah is in the other side, whatever that may be, and it is better. And that he is still working with the Universe, for sure. I know this because whenever I get that sick feeling in my stomach and tight feeling in my throat–the one that I get when my routine isn’t working, my schedule is so full I know I can’t get through everything, or something isn’t fitting into the picture I have of it, I get Universally Throat Punched. And Punched again, and again until I realize that I need to stop, breathe, and put it in the Universe’s hands. And it will get better.
Thank you for this timely story. My Noah’s name is Kevin. He is nearly 40 but is more like 5. He is a wonderful guy in-spite of his many disabilities. He has lived in a group home that he loves for nearly 4 years after living at home for 36 years…. hardest thing i ever had to do in my life but the best thing for Kevin. Still involved with his health care, he is having 2 teeth pulled tomorrow with local anesthetic injections. He has been through more than 12 surgeries in his life ( major Orthopaedic surgeries)and I’m always concerned and nervous for him. Long story short… i need to let go and trust that this too will be taken care of in the best way possible for Kevin. I can’t do it for him. All the worry and phone calls and fretting will only be me trying to take control over a situation that is beyond me… Thanks for making me see that.