That breaking moment. With the ugly crying. In front of your children.
I was sitting at the computer trying to complete some work tasks in order to get to Family Movie Time. The kids were sitting on the couch in anticipation. I was anticipating the down time with them. Actually just sitting, being, snuggling in even a bit.
But then…
Ryan was going over his summer calendar of dates and camps and activities with sister Kate. Suddenly he was confused. He didn’t understand WHY August 1st was on a Friday and not on a Monday. And the anxiety sprang up out of him.
Oh, no here we go.
I just needed to be able to think intelligent thoughts for 5 minutes and finish my work and close down the iMac for the night.
But no.
Ryan was now in my face asking 10 questions rapid fire with the whiny-anxious-squealing voice I have grown to really dislike. It triggers me. Unless I choose with all that is within me to breathe and just ignore the tone, it sets me off too.
Yet here he was, in my face and I could say nothing to calm and soothe him. His voice was rising and my voice was rising.
And then it hit me.
Oh no.
That deep, primal soul-spot. The sobs came out, and I bowed my head low. Tears and snot. Shaking shoulders. That “ugly cry.” Uncontrollable.
I tried to be quiet because the kids were near. But, oh well, I guess they saw me Fully Human.
What struck me DEEP this time was the rotten truth that Ryan’s brain doesn’t work right. Of course I have known that his whole life. Yet in this very broken moment of mine, compassion collided with frustration. It was not just tears of “I cannot handle this child, who is a ball of anxiety, and all the tension it brings to us.”
I was so sorrowful that the inner workings of his malfunctioning brain was causing him so much distress. He could not understand basic calendar principles. He couldn’t get it even when the kids and I explained. (Really….with raised voices and atmosphere awry, really, why couldn’t he get it?…)
So I just sobbed.
For him. For his poor brain he was born with.
For the relentless anxiety it caused him. (Always causes him.)
For the frustration and STRESS it gave all of us. Again.
I went to my bathroom for privacy, to pray, to breathe. Deep breaths at the computer with little people hovering just did not cut it.
Locking myself in and THEM OUT, only fueled Ryan’s tantrum. I did not stay. It was enough time to quickly collect myself and come out.
I took Ry by the hand and said, “Let’s go to your room. I can help you.”
We sat on his bed together. All was at peace.
I gently held his homemade summer calendar and explained the days of the week, the numbered days of the month, how they land, the start and end of each month, and why there are blank boxes after a month ends.
I did this slowly.
With all the patience I had, and all the love in my heart for my child with a messed-up chromosome 15, I explained. Concept by concept. And perhaps he understood a smidge. But he relaxed and let it all go.
He was remorseful, too.
Ry: Mom, I’m so sorry I got upset. I’m sorry I made you cry.
Me: I’m sorry your brain is different, and that sometimes you have a hard time understanding things. And I know it makes you upset and anxious. Thank you for a calm voice and a quiet body, now Ry. Are you ready to go watch a family movie?
Ry: Yes please.
“There is a dark side to compassion,” a wise best friend of mine once said to me. Profoundly true. We all want to be compassionate about people and their stories. We want to be compassionate about certain causes and needs and injustice. Yet when we get involved it’s messy and it’s heart-breaking. And it can feel dark with the carrying of another’s pain and anguish. And even though it hurts, I’d rather have that then callousness and blissful ignorance.
I wish I had more moments like that where I really FELT IT. Felt how horrible it must be to be tortured by not understanding something that most 11 year olds would have mastered.
In our story with Ryan, I am not proud to admit that my go-to emotion with him is more frustration and impatience, than total compassion. But I am learning. Oh, how I am learning.
Stunningly written, Jess!! The frustration and pain you describe is palpable. If it’s any consolation, I have lived that anguish and know how much it hurts. You are not alone! God bless you and your beautiful family. Love you!!
I appreciate your realness and your honesty. I find my default reaction to be frustration, too, and I’m learning, too, which is what we must do. I read and reread “dark side of compassion” and I know I’ll think about it for the days and weeks to come. It resonates with me (and not only am I a mom to two girls ages 7 & 10 but I work at a non-profit working with “at-risk” kids). So I appreciate your honesty and I appreciate how your writing will make me think a lot about something I’ve never thought about before. Thank you.
Powerful. Honest. Moving. The words that you carefully wove transported me into your moment. Beautifully written Jess. Your ability to communicate is AMAZING! Love to you and your beautiful family.
Jess, what a beautiful piece. I feel your words. I love that you were able to walk the reader through how you dealt with Ryan – starting with closing the bathroom door and then finally a nice calm talk through (everyone loves a good ending, too!). This might be one of your best posts yet. Keep it coming, sister!
such valuable lessons for all of us. thank you for sharing your thoughts.
by the way, i love being able to get glimpses of your life through your blog.
your words always show the beauty the wisdom the fear the frustration all that go with ry. But they aslo show the love the understanding and the warmth that he needs and you are an amazing mom to all of your kids and i am proud to call you my friend.
Oh my sweet friend. This is beautiful, honest and true. I again thank you for putting to pen and paper the truths we all live.