Recently, I found the huge folders full of my medical reports. Inside were pages full of evaluations from doctors, therapists, and psychologists. Flipping through the piles and piles of notes was like getting to sort through my own little time capsule. In the hours I spent reviewing my life with cerebral palsy during the late 90s and early 2000s, I couldn’t help but think “Wow. Everything I went through, Mom and Dad went through too.” `
Thinking about the medical world I was thrown into brings back so many emotions. Mom and Dad, thank you, first and foremost for allowing most everything we did to feel “normal.” I never realized how often one of you was taking me to doctor’s appointments. In these settings, I was surrounded by adults who tended to speak around me rather than to me. At times, I felt like a little spy keeping my ears open and watching everyone like a hawk, trying to figure out if anything was going to hurt that day. With three surgeries under my belt by age 5, no one could fool me by saying that little cup full of medicine “tastes like cherry!” or that by giving me a teddy bear, I would somehow be distracted from the needles that were about to be put in my legs!
But if there were two people I could always look to for reassurance, it was you. Thank you for never hiding anything from me. You understood how I always needed to know what to expect, and your honesty provided a sort of comfort. Thank you for the reassurance, even when it meant answering my same questions over and over again. In those moments when pain couldn’t be prevented, you stayed next to me, squeezed my hands tightly, and gave me permission to let my agony out. I can only imagine what it must have been like to watch me cry. Dad, thank you for being my rock in those moments. I’ll never forget you scooping me up, hugging me tight and making it all better with a milkshake.
As an adult, I understand the decisions you had to make on my behalf were not taken lightly. All that “stuff” we had to do at home: physical therapy, night splints, the eye patch, and that awful electrical stimulation machine! On plenty of occasions, I remember getting frustrated and trying to negotiate because I didn’t want to be stretched… again, or put on my eye patch… again, or wear the “tickle machine” (news flash: those electrical pulses were far from tickles)… again.
Thank you, Mom. You were so incredibly patient on the days when I thought all my whining and arguing would break you down, and yet it never did. Thank you for all those times you both said, “We know it stinks kiddo, but you gotta do it anyway.” I couldn’t see things with a long-term perspective, but I am so grateful that the two of you were always looking ahead so I could reach my full potential. All those times you said, “Annie, one day you’ll understand why you have to do all these things you don’t want to do,” I hated hearing it. But I’m here to say “Yes, I understand now.”
Thank you for being my best advocates, teachers and friends in the doctor’s office and beyond. There were so many things that went unnoticed to the rest of the world: the meetings, phone calls, and car trips all over the place. You spent many hours insisting for me to start, stay, and thrive on a mainstream educational track in school. You reminded me the importance of finishing what I started, even on the days when I cried wanting to quit ballet. And most importantly, you always reassured me that as long as I was doing my best, nothing else mattered. Everything you taught me, whether directly related to my CP or not, has inspired me to give 110 percent in everything I pursue and to live life with an open mind and an open heart.
Most importantly, I am grateful that God gave two amazing parents. I’m blessed because all I’ve gone through has only strengthened our family bond. I know that all you’ve done for me, even when it was tough, has been done with love.
Thank you for everything.
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Thinkstock photo by Liderina.