There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with. (Harry Crews, novelist and playwright)
Dictionary.com defines a whirling dervish as “a member of a Turkish order of dervishes, or Sufis, whose ritual consists in part of a highly stylized whirling dance.” However, mothers and grandmothers see another wild dance in their two and three-year-old kids on their way to world domination. Very few little folk walk from one place to another. They move with a swift, designed purpose—preferably toward something forbidden.
Yes, I know I’m not allowed in the bathroom alone. However . . . Ella doesn’t talk, but her eyes communicate well, so does the slam of the door. I open it as she signs washing her hands, which really means playing in the water. I tell her she may NOT close the door, and we will play in the water after she listens. Besides, even if I roll up her sleeves, they are going to get wet, soaked if possible. She must expect the warmth of her personality to dry them.
Ella grins. I notice that she really does need her hands washed. I guess the quick wipe after lunch wasn’t sufficient, but I win when it comes to prolonged play at the faucet. She doesn’t fuss as we leave the sink, without extended splashing. Our house may be small, but we have plenty of adventurous nooks for a young child to explore. I smile recalling the long road our little one has traveled.
She was born premature with Down syndrome at three pounds and three ounces. I recall her Giraffe bed. Giraffe is a brand name for a high-tech bed that keeps a critical-care newborn warm. It also makes procedures possible without moving a fragile, tiny body. Ella’s first nutrition was intravenous, by hyperalimentation until a defect known as duodenal atresia, could be corrected.
I was fortunate to be one of her primary caretakers while she was in the hospital. During that time I wrote and recorded a song for her. However, her premature system was unable to absorb simultaneous sounds. The song can still be accessed from the site I used before I began this blog: http://terrypetersen.webs.com/music.htm (Scroll down to find the lyrics to Ella’s song. It was not possible to access the sound track temporarily. It works now. Don’t know why!)
Ella runs to the refrigerator and pulls off a magnetic letter C. “Kuh, kuh,” she says. Then she grabs an M. “Mmmmm.”
“Very good. And you are mmm good, too.”
Her shirt reveals her belly as she raises her arms for me to pick her up. I see the scar from the feeding tube from her first year. She doesn’t remember her infancy. She wants something mmm good from the refrigerator.
Years ago, if people would have told me I would be happy to be the grandmother of a child with Down syndrome, I would have asked them what color the sky was in their fantasy land. Now, I know the gifts our little girl brings make wealth look trifling. When I wrote that she was “made of spunk and angel wings,” I had no idea how prophetic my own words would become.
(Ella in her Harley jacket. Note speed-blur)
terrypetersen 