A different kind of perfection
Thoughts and reflections from 3 ½ years ago…
It’s a funny concept.
It can come in waves, it can swallow you whole and it can sneak right up on you.
For me it swallowed me.
As we left the hospital with our now
‘Deaf Child’ I was totally consumed by grief.
I was grieving for my perfect baby boy who was no longer perfect.
I was grieving for the life we would never have.
I was grieving for the perfect family we had just lost.
We drove home in silence with tears streaming.
We ate tea in silence, both too
consumed by our own grief to comfort each other.
Then we made the calls.
We listened in a daze as they cried
and tried to offer words of wisdom – but it was all just words.
No one could take me back to yesterday.
I was different now.
The next morning I was up at the crack of dawn. I hoovered, banged pans and clashed doors in the hope I could ‘un-deafen’ my baby boy. At last I placed my 17 day old baby into his bouncer, I placed a speaker next to his head and I blasted ‘Dire Straits’ – Romeo and Juliet into his tiny ears… and then the tears came again.
I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe.
I looked at this tiny baby who was totally oblivious and clearly deaf and I cried some more.
At some point during that crying I realised I couldn’t let the grief take me.
I had to fight it.
I had to be the strong one.
I looked back at my tiny baby boy and I cried because I still loved him. I knew in that instant that whatever happened I would never stop loving him. He was still the perfect baby boy that I had pushed into this world. He hadn’t changed. It was only our perception that had been altered.
I vowed that day never to see him differently again. He was perfect – just a different kind of perfect.
Of course the grief still came in waves and we had months of uncertainty as we embarked on our journey into the deaf world but I never lost sight of his perfection again. He was, is, and always will be perfect to me.
I am a lifestyle blogger from Northumberland, United Kingdom, and the mother of two profoundly deaf boys.