Genetics called me back after lunch with the results we have been waiting on for about a month. Normal. A sigh of relief, but when I hit "end" on my phone the tears come. I grip the kitchen counter with both hands, and I can't stop crying. But I do. There are goldfish crumbs and pickle juice to wipe up, mouths to clean and Play-doh to get out.
I used to be an educator. My husband is a counselor switching over to nursing. We know about labels. We know the pros and the cons, the promises and the pitfalls. But the label of "unknown" or "undiagnosed" is just as hard. There is no "undiagnosed child awareness day" or ribbon for me to stick on the back of my car. And I know that these things don't really do much. Yet I also know that without a label, in a few months, as we hit three years old, we may be left without options for services.
Underneath the sadness and frustration of today's news, or really lack thereof, hope still rests. Like a seed buried in the dirt, I find myself thinking he may grow out of this. We have no picture of future limitations because we have no label. And though I fear hoping, I continue to do so because I have greater fear of the absence of hope.
Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him!
How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er;
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus!
Oh, for grace to trust Him more!
In the other room, my preschooler is calling out, "Look at my train!" As I step over endless wooden tracks, I will place my sleeping child in his crib and try to convince the awake one of the value of rest. I will sing the song that has been my anthem - through miscarriage, through NICU stays, through heartbreak, through all of the unknowns, not as a coping mechanism but because I believe it to be true.