I’m reading a report from a development optometrist Ezra saw last week. It’s a second opinion.
I didn’t read the first report. I tried to…
but it was too hard.
Both reports highlight some of the things Ezra is struggling with in school.
It spells out several areas he needs help in, like the need to work with a reading specialist.
It tells me what the assessment people at our local public school are echoing even though they haven’t finished their assessments yet.
It says that Ezra needs substantial help in reading and writing.
This report is easy to read
straight forward in its recognition of his issues and the recommendation and how they can help him.
And I’m sitting here,
in this damn coffee shop,
snot and tears running down my face,
Again, the floor beneath me is farther away than it was just moments ago.
And I'm lonely
and scared and
feel just horrible,
It’s not that I miss Art that is making me cry.
It’s that my son is struggling
And it is on me to help him,
me to arrange the appointments,
to enlist his siblings in helping,
to submit the documentation to the insurance company to get the measly $50 that will help cover the $150 per session cost.
And I so need someone else here.
Someone else who is invested in Ezra, in me,
to help sort through all of this,
to remind me that we will be ok and that
even though this is overwhelming now, it will not always be so.
It’s in moments like this that I see that 1 year and 7 months is
not as far away as I wish it was.
It’s in moments like this the big fat fucking hole that I have so nicely covered over with white gauze pours its blackness out and onto the kitchen floor.
My baby boy has some kind of learning difference that requires
me to stand up, to fight for him, to take on, get, schedule, oversee his educational well being
I don’t know if I have
I’m crying because this ring that I wear to remind me of everything what Art and I had
reminds me today of what I am missing.
I’m crying because death is just so fundamentally sad and no matter
how much I eat or not,
drink or not
laugh or not
move on or not
Ezra’s father is never coming back
And I stand here,
In the middle of that big fat fucking loss
in this darkness and again, I feel lost.
(Photo is Ezra during a visit with Art in the hospital)