Intensity

The past months have culminated in something I'm turning over and over, looking for clues, looking for a key to unlock mysterious solutions and comforts.

Dwelling. Over-analyzing. Over-emphasizing. Over-reacting. No.

Seeing. Learning. Understanding. Helping. Yes. I hope.

Four months and one week ago we left the hospital. That seems like a long time. A sufficient amount of time. Still, some things are not the same. Aden is not the same.

Our adventurous, exuberant boy has learned that life can spin out of control in a heartbeat, bringing pain and loss. He has learned that his parents cannot fix some things, cannot comfort all hurts, cannot save him from life's hardships. Eight seems too young an age for such truths. They aren't sitting well.

Our bright, happy boy has been tentative. He has been angry. He has no patience for unexpected changes. He wants to be with us all the time. He wants our attention all the time. He is afraid of the dark now, or being in parts of the house by himself. He gets headaches. He looks for circumstances he can control.

Our communicative, descriptive boy has been unable to say what is happening in his mind and heart. I ask. And he struggles to make sense of these bouts. Sometimes he speaks of feeling unsettled... Sometimes he talks about being scared, but often the source is vague and elusive. I grasp at the air for suggestions and solutions.

Sometimes these volatile moments hit at odd times, seemingly unrelated to anything in the present, much like I remember moments from his toddler-hood. Intense, confusing and out of the blue.... They bring all of us to the brink of our patience, energy and empathy with each other. At other times, I feel smothered by the clingy-ness that I don't have a clue what to do with.

I tried again today to talk to Aden about all of this. When I observed again that he seems to want to be near us all the time, he started to cry and said that in the hospital it seemed like we didn't want to be near him. And... with all the blood draws and pricks, he said we didn't "do anything about that." He's right. We let nurses prick him. And we stood back for his care. I remember seeing him alone in his big hospital bed with all the cords and machines and then his chest tube. I remember not wanting to be in the way of the nurses, or accidentally disconnect a line, or cause pain by bumping any of the tubes. Finally, I remember how tired we all were of each other after hundreds of hours one-on-one in the tiny room....

I find myself reaching, reaching so far inside myself for the skills needed to respond in the best way. At eight, and even as an adult, so often explanations don't ebb one's hurt. I know that. Being heard, being affirmed, connecting and focusing on the best plan for "next time," if there is one, seems the best way. And I hope I can keep giving that, over and over and over again. I know sometimes it is what I have needed to receive.

In the mean time, I'm forever in awe of the ways in which we hurt each other as human beings. We don't mean to, so often. We are sensitive. We misunderstand. We miscommunicate. We have limits. We make mistakes. Maybe sometimes we are even negligent. Or maybe not; maybe some situations are entirely beyond our control, leaving gigantic, complicated messes worthy of months or years of sorting out.

I sit quietly now, full of hope, but trying to draw to me all the strength and wisdom I can muster for the tasks ahead. A month ago, or four months ago, I chalked these changes up to a bad day. A bad week. Being off-schedule. Being tired. Or just wrapping up the end of the long healing process. In fact, in true psychologically complex form, perhaps it was the beginning of a different kind of healing, a lengthier one than I imagined.