Thursday, March 13, 2008
Two years ago today my life without Williams syndrome took one last dying gasp and faded into my personal history. Time of death: 2:15 p.m. I was absolutely devastated, and the tears began to fall. I continued to cry for nearly an entire year. This past year was much easier than the first, and I am thankful for that.
It's funny. I can't really remember exactly how life felt before that rainy afternoon in a stuffy examination room at the children's hospital.
WS makes its presence known to me daily, whether I want it to or not. Because of it, we struggle in so many different ways, but I notice I smile through a lot of it now, even when things are extremely unpleasant or difficult. Either I can handle it, or I'm going completely crazy. Either one is okay with me. For example, I noticed yesterday the way I loudly announced each and every time I blew my nose or flipped on a noisy appliance, whether Erik was visible in the room or not. This habit apparently developed unnoticed over the last few months. I previously avoided making much noise around Erik at all, but now that he is adjusting to how noisy life can be, I simply give him a courtesy warning, as if I am yelling "fore" before chopping at a golf ball with a long iron. This practice may seem bizarre to others, especially if Erik isn't even home, but I seem to have forgotten to care anymore. I do believe that's what we call progress.
If you visit our home, you may hear me yell --
"I'm going to blow my nose now!"
"I'm brushing my teeth now!"
"I'm turning on the garbage disposal now!"
"I'm chopping walnuts with the food processor now!"
If Erik is near, he will react by turning my direction, dropping what he has in his hands, and immediately covering ears with his palms.
I just don't think about how I felt before D-Day much anymore.
There's no point.
Because life should and does go on, even if we clamp our hands tightly over our ears.