It takes so little for me to go back there, to that place of being so scared for Sam and feeling powerless to make it better.
We’ve been homeschooling for three years now. Or it’s been three years since the accident (because that first year is just a blur of doctor’s visits and white rice). I’ve built a curriculum that works for him, super heavy on reading and history and science, we’re finished with elementary math and moving on to intermediate.
But there are still this areas where I’m lost and in over my head. I decided to pursue getting him evaluated to see if there were any learning disabilities that he’s dealing with on top of the low vision. Is he dyslexic? Dysgraphic? Or is it that he stopped being able to see easily in the beginning of third grade, and then missed another year before we started working on actually writing things down?
But, oh-my-God, it’s hard. Even the thought of putting him thru testing makes me teary eyed and vulnerable. It’s all tied up together, evaluations and eye tests, holding him down for anesthesia as he begs me to take him home. Arguing with doctors and nurses, trying to find coffee on darkened halls just to stay awake, because it’s been 36 hours since I’ve slept and I need to be alert for my boy. All of it is right there, and it’s terrifying in ways that I’ll never, ever be able to forget.
I can push it down. Process it, feel it, and then move on. It doesn’t impact my life all that much anymore. Getting shots is hard, I still get a lump in my throat whenever he complains of a headache (which is blessedly rare). But this whole idea of getting him evaluated is terrifying to me, and I’m torn between forgetting that I ever thought it was a good idea and pushing on, advocating for more and more testing so that we know exactly what he needs to get the education he deserves.
Homeschooling is easy, after all. I love it, I love teaching him things, seeing how his mind works and marveling at the things he can do. But reassuring myself that I’m doing all the right things, that I’m not missing steps that we should be taking, knowing that there’s no guarantee, nobody making these decisions but me is both exhilarating and horrifying at the same time. I don’t want anyone forcing Sam, I truly believe that I know him better and how to best work within the limits of the disability and the anxiety, and the thought of trying to cram his little square mind into a round hole… it’s terrifying. Because the last time I tried, it led somewhere I’d rather never ever go again.