Today was the first time I have taken a cab to a doctor’s appointment in a great big city.
Today was the first time I got to really know the heart of a genetics researcher and as my son noted as being quite significant, the first person we have met to go to the national spelling bee.
Today was the first time I saw a neurologist kneel done to speak to Amos after coming to fetch us herself from the waiting room.
Today was the first time I heard the word autism and trusted the messenger.
Today was the first time I met a geneticist who said to me, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how important is it that you find a diagnosis for Amos?”
Today was the first time I felt like maybe, just maybe, I had found our tribe.
Today was the first time that I sat in appointments and wept, though I didn’t feel ashamed, just a combination of terrible heartache and relief.
Today was the first time I listened to a physician talk about how she thinks Amos’ brain is wired differently than the rest of us.
Today was the first time I could understand how survival makes some people choose to pretend everything is fine.
Today was the first time I felt someone knew what they were telling me and that it was likely quite accurate.
Today was the first time I realized that a diagnosis can’t touch the love I have for Amos.
Today was the first time I have regretted promising to share my heart and write my truths.
Today was the first time kind brilliance shared that this boy’s puzzle is far more mysterious than I had imagined.
Today I leave you with words that don’t do justice for the sobs that bite my throat, nor the thankfulness that oozes from my eyes as I watch the loveliest boy sleep beside me, but I can not offer more.
Today I will rest and process, weep and feel heavy, love and hold tightly, and guard my hurt heart for a bit of grieving.
Tomorrow, I shall start again.