Jacob, to the outside world, is coping magnificently. The only ones who are privy to his struggles are the ones who live with him. I've really only seen him cry the day of the accident, and perhaps those secondary tears that come from seeing your mom sob her heart out. No matter how I assure him crying is healthy, and non gender-specific, he holds tightly to his composure.
So how do I know he is suffering deeply when tears are off the table? It's in his eyes, so much older than twelve years should be. It's in his almost spooky quiet manner. He has always been an introvert, but since the accident his utterances have gotten less and less. Does he think there's no sense in stating your opinion because most things are out of our control anyways? Does he fear getting close to others because he could wake up one morning, carry about his routine, and then be told a piece of his heart is gone forever? It's in his eating and sleeping patterns, which two years later are still disturbed. He goes through periods where he's not hungry for anything, and no amount of schmoozing can get him to eat. And the last couple of weeks, he has suffered from insomnia. If haven't experienced a child going through insomnia, I'm here to tell you, it's enough to break your heart all over again.
A child on the brink of puberty should be sleeping his buns off. Instead he spent a sleepless night recently tossing and turning. At first his logical brain was still engaged, as he offered this: "Hey Mom, I know! In the morning when I'm still sleeping, can you take a picture of me? If I can see what my comfy position is, I'll be able to just replicate it when I can't get comfortable at night."
Yes, he really said "replicate".
I marvelled at his brilliance. Who is this kid? While I was still in the throes of parental pride, he added, "Maybe take pics for a couple days- everyone has more than one comfy position. We could line them up on the wall, and I could just try one after another until I found one that worked."
What is this boy going to do in the world? Good things, that much I know. Cory would be so tickled by this scenario.
As the night wore on, the hours stacking on each other like some nail-biting version of sleep Jenga, his cognitive processes turned emotional. He was like every other person out there suffering from sleep deprivation: miserable.
As I rubbed his back, and tried to take him for a walk through his mind, looking at all the relaxing images it had to offer, I was reminded of how it had felt to see Cory suffer, sleepless and afraid, and be unable to do a thing about it. Secondary misery.
As 4 a.m. neared, I was down to the one thing I'd always been able to do for Cory in terms of comfort: feed the child. With work a mere three hours away, I tiptoed into the darkened kitchen with him. I made him a waffle with hazelnut spread, kept him company while he ate it, and then pushed a yogurt on him. As the waffle toasted, he patted me on the shoulder blade- reminiscent of his father's most favored comforting gesture- and marveled, "Mom, I can't believe you're doing this for me!"
A wave of love rushed over me, sleeplessness forgotten, and my true purpose to remain here, without my daughter, realized.
I have always been a caregiver. And there are loved ones here who still need my care.
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