You are my sisters - By Maureen K. Higgins

[Guest guest]

I thought this was so beautiful and I had to share it with everyone. I hope it touches your heart as it did mine.

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By Maureen K. Higgins

Many of you I have never even met face to face, but I've searched

you

out every day. I've looked for you on the Internet, on playgrounds

and in grocery stores.

I've become an expert at identifying you. You are well worn. You

are

stronger than you ever wanted to be. Your words ring experience,

experience you culled with your very heart and soul. You are

compassionate beyond the expectations of this world. You are

my "sisters."

Yes, you and I, my friend, are sisters in a sorority. A very elite

sorority. We are special. Just like any other sorority, we were

chosen to be members. Some of us were invited to join immediately,

some not for months or even years. Some of us even tried to refuse

membership, but to no avail.

We were initiated in neurologist's offices and NICU units, in

obstetrician's offices, in emergency rooms, and during ultrasounds.

We were initiated with somber telephone calls, consultations,

evaluations, blood tests, x-rays, MRI films, and heart surgeries.

All of us have one thing in common. One day things were fine. We

were

pregnant, or we had just given birth, or we were nursing our

newborn,

or we were playing with our toddler. Yes, one minute everything was

fine. Then, whether it happened in an instant, as it often does, or

over the course of a few weeks or months, our entire lives changed.

Something wasn't quite right. Then we found ourselves mothers of

children with special needs.

We are united, we sisters, regardless of the diversity of our

children's special needs. Some of our children undergo

chemotherapy.

Some need respirators and ventilators. Some are unable to talk,

some

are unable to walk. Some eat through feeding tubes. Some live in a

different world. We do not discriminate against those mothers whose

children's needs are not as "special" as our child's. We have

mutual

respect and empathy for all the women who walk in our shoes.

We are knowledgeable. We have educated ourselves with whatever

materials we could find. We know "the" specialists in the field. We

know "the" neurologists, "the" hospitals, "the" wonder drugs, "the"

treatments. We know "the" tests that need to be done, we know "the"

degenerative and progressive diseases and we hold our breath while

our children are tested for them. Without formal education, we

could

become board certified in neurology, endocrinology, and physiatry.

We have taken on our insurance companies and school boards to get

what our children need to survive, and to flourish. We have

prevailed

upon the State to include augmentative communication devices in

special education classes and mainstream schools for our children

with cerebral palsy. We have labored to prove to insurance

companies

the medical necessity of gait trainers and other adaptive equipment

for our children with spinal cord defects. We have sued

municipalities to have our children properly classified so they

could

receive education and evaluation commensurate with their diagnosis.

We have learned to deal with the rest of the world, even if that

means walking away from it. We have tolerated scorn in supermarkets

during "tantrums" and gritted our teeth while discipline was

advocated by the person behind us on line. We have tolerated inane

suggestions and home remedies from well-meaning strangers. We have

tolerated mothers of children without special needs complaining

about

chicken pox and ear infections. We have learned that many of our

closest friends can't understand what it's like to be in our

sorority, and don't even want to try.

We have our own personal copies of Perl Kingsley's "A Trip To

Holland" and Erma Bombeck's "The Special Mother." We keep them by

our

bedside and read and reread them during our toughest hours.

We have coped with holidays. We have found ways to get our

physically

handicapped children to the neighbors' front doors on Halloween,

and

we have found ways to help our deaf children form the words, "trick

or treat." We have accepted that our children with sensory

dysfunction will never wear velvet or lace on Christmas. We have

painted a canvas of lights and a blazing Yule log with our words

for

our blind children. We have pureed turkey on Thanksgiving. We

have bought white chocolate bunnies for Easter. And all the while,

we

have tried to create a festive atmosphere for the rest of our

family.

We've gotten up every morning since our journey began wondering how

we'd make it through another day, and gone to bed every evening not

sure how we did it.

We've mourned the fact that we never got to relax and sip red wine

in

Italy. We've mourned the fact that our trip to Holland has required

much more baggage than we ever imagined when we first visited the

travel agent. And we've mourned because we left for the airport

without most of the things we needed for the trip.

But we, sisters, we keep the faith always. We never stop believing.

Our love for our special children and our belief in all that they

will achieve in life knows no bounds. We dream of them scoring

touchdowns and extra points and home runs.

We visualize them running sprints and marathons. We dream of them

planting vegetable seeds, riding horses and chopping down trees. We

hear their angelic voices singing Christmas carols. We see their

palettes smeared with watercolors, and their fingers flying over

ivory keys in a concert hall. We are amazed at the grace of their

pirouettes. We never, never stop believing in all they will

accomplish as they pass through this world.

But in the meantime, my sisters, the most important thing we do, is

hold tight to their little hands as together, we special mothers

and

our special children, reach for the stars.

By Maureen K. Higgins