I crouched right next to her in the bright, colorful hallway. A physiatrist and a physical therapist followed closely. Making notes on their charts. Nodding at each other. Carefully assessing what I was doing with my daughter. Betty, the physical therapist crouched down with us and put her hands on Esther-Faith’s waist. She quietly and calmly told Esther-Faith that she had her. That she wasn’t going to let go. We were blocking the whole hallway. There were lines of families building behind my Esther-Faith and behind me. I put my fingers on her hand and asked her to put her arm into the blue crutch while I answered questions from Betty and Dr. Batley. Others were watching, too. I tried to keep confidence in my voice, but the emotion and the stress were creeping in. Esther-Faith looked at me and firmly said, “No. I don’t want to use my crutches.” “Please, Esther-Faith,” I reasoned. “Dr. Batley and Betty need to see how you stand in your crutches.” Dr. Batley made a note. They said some things to each other. I explained that she did better when moving to her crutches from her wheelchair rather than her walker. I explained that she did better when she didn’t have an audience of strangers. My comments were empty air. Glossed over. Esther-Faith repositioned her feet and took one crutch from me. She expertly slid her arm in and grabbed the hand-hold. She put weight on it and held her arm out for the other crutch. Betty held onto her waist. Esther-Faith stood still in her crutches.
I was overwhelmed. Ecstatic. She was doing it. She was standing in her crutches. Despite moving to them from the walker. Despite the audience of strangers. She looked at my eyes for confirmation, and in that moment that belonged only to my daughter and me, I gave her an exceptional amount of praise. I forgot about the other patients. I forgot about the physical therapist. I forgot about Dr. Batley. Esther-Faith was standing in her crutches. And just as quickly as she donned them, she picked up her arm, shook the crutch off like a spider had landed on her arm, and she grabbed her walker.
Dr. Batley and Betty nearly started talking at the same time-while I was trying to convince a three-year-old to go back to our assigned hospital room-about what they were seeing. While carrying the crutches, and walking slightly bent over with my hand on my daughter, I forced myself to make eye contact alternately with both of them. “I just don’t think she is ready.” “She doesn’t have good muscles.” “Her balance is all off.” “She can’t control her center of gravity from here (indicating the middle of her own back) down.” “She might never be able to move to crutches from the walker.” “She might never walk independently.”
Can’t. Doesn’t. Won’t. Never.
There was that word again. Never. I’ve heard that a lot since Esther-Faith was born. I heard it a lot before she was born. And yet, it is still one of the most difficult things to hear. I just have a hard time with someone else limiting the dreams I dream for my children. For the dreams they dream for themselves. Never is so final. Never is so real. Never is so… never.
And for the first time, I saw it, too. I saw that she couldn’t keep her balance. I saw the way she tapped the crutches on the floor. I saw the hesitation in her reactions. I saw the fear in her eyes. Everything is changing. Fast. When we got back to the hospital room, Dr. Batley and Betty kept talking about this and that and “never” while the developmental pediatrician was reading Tim the riot act for how we are administering Esther-Faith’s enemas. I looked past them all to where Esther-Faith had walked up to her brother Isaac; he helped her into a chair, and she leaned her head onto his shoulder. I watched as he patted her leg and whispered something into her ear. I watched as she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged with all her might. I wanted to just yell, “Stop it!” to the doctors. I wanted things to slow down. Just a little bit. I wanted to slow down the overwhelming feelings that were setting in. With as much strength and confidence as I could muster, I looked at Dr. Enrile and calmly explained that we were administering the enemas per the instructions for the enemas that SHE PRESCRIBED. I turned to Dr. Batley and explained that we would need a prescription for a taller walker if she wasn’t going to prescribe crutches. And I placed my hand on Betty’s arm and genuinely thanked her for her assessment of “not yet” instead of never.
The room grew quiet. The social worker slipped in. Tim watched as I walked over to Esther-Faith and Isaac and sat down in the third chair. I put my arm across the backs of the chairs and gently brushed my fingertips on the back of Isaac’s neck as I leaned over, closed my eyes, and inhaled the scent from the top of Esther-Faith’s head. In that moment I knew that we would not be sending Esther-Faith to preschool as planned. I knew that what our family needed most was each other. We are going to face a lot of “nevers” in our lives. In fact, they’re stacking up. Forming a wall between us and our dreams. But in that moment, with two of my children in the room, and my husband watching, I decided that we get to decide which “never” we would allow applied to our lives.
Grad school. College. Promotions. Careers. Dreams. Fractions. Attachment. Walking.
We’ll decide.
And sometimes, never will mean “never.”
But sometimes, never will just mean “not yet.”
