R-E-A-D-I-N-G

This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com

I’m amazed at how well our 8-year-old daughter Kate can read — and how much she delights in reading. It’s not unusual for her to squeeze in just…one…more…page…before she falls asleep at night. I love how decoding is so easy for her and she’s able to read just for meaning and pleasure. I remember what this was like when I was younger, when reading was “easy” and the story magically unfolded in my head.

I also remember when the words started to disintegrate right before my eyes.

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Below is an excerpt from Chapter 4. This scene takes place after I had an appointment with a new specialist.

I’m relieved that my mom gives me the option of going home instead of going back to school. Yet as soon as I’m dropped off and my mom leaves to run an errand, I realize that I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t have much time by myself these days and, when I do, I end up sleeping. A lot.  

It’s too early for a nap though, so I go to my room and dig up my old copy of Little Women, my favorite book from fourth grade. I bring it over to the chair that my dad assembled for me two years ago by threading pipes through the cushions. It’s surprisingly comfortable.

When my dad put this chair together for me, he told me a story about when he asked my mom out for the first time when they were in college. He laughed as he shared how my mom had said yes to the date, as long as they went to the library first. While dating, he quickly learned that, if the relationship was going to work, he needed to take his studies seriously.

Today when I sit down, surrounded by silence, the ringing in my ears becomes that much more noticeable. This ringing pops up at all hours of the day and seems worse when the room is completely quiet. I wonder if everyone’s ears ring like this before I remind myself to turn my attention back to my book.  

I run my finger along the binding and its creases remind me of an easier time. I sigh before turning to the first page and placing my finger under the first word. My eye is distracted by my jagged fingernail. Chewing my nails down has become a bad habit of mine, to the point where the tips of my fingers have become sensitive to the touch. Focus, Megan, I remind myself. Focus.

I look above my finger to see the letters C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s. I can see the letters just fine. Perfectly fine, in fact. But my Swatch makes a tick, tick, tick, tick sound while I wait for the word to click in my head. I wait a full four seconds. What? What’s going on? Why don’t I just read the word when I see it? This doesn’t make any sense.

I stab at the word with my finger, feeling the nerves at my fingertip, feeling the dull pain from where I’ve chewed the nail off, as I tell my brain that it says, Christmas. It says Christmas! How do you not get that it says, Christmas! Panic fills my chest each time I have to remind myself what the word is.  

I slide my finger along the grainy page and rest it under the next set of letters: w-o-n-’-t. Once again I stare at the letters while listening to the ticking of my watch before the word clicks in my brain.  

I can’t believe how long this is taking. My armpits start to get all sweaty. My forehead too. I get a whiff of what smells like white vinegar. Gross. That’s so gross. I stink, and yet I haven’t even moved an inch. Get a hold of yourself, Megan.

I’m disgusted and angry so I press my fingertip down that much harder under the other words — b-e  C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s  w-i-t-h-o-u-t  a-n-y  p-r-e-s-e-n-t-s — in the sentence. I just want to feel physical pain. I just want it to take over all the garbage that’s in my head. Please, I just want a break from feeling so scared. I try to keep the tears from falling, but they come anyway. I’m so irritated that I’m not able to be stronger, that I can’t keep the tears back. After all, it’s stupid to cry. Such a waste of time. I’ve got some serious work in front of me.

I give myself permission to close the book though. Just for a minute or two. I tell myself that I can take a moment to do the thing that just popped into my head, even if it seems like a waste of time. What do I have to lose? Nothing. Although, I’ve got to admit, I have no idea how to do it. Sure, every night I say my “Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep” prayers. But to pray something other than this, like my mom does? What should I ask for? A miracle? No. No, I’ll keep it simpler than that.  

I press my hands together and bow my head. God, I say in my head, I don’t want to ask for too much. But, please, please, don’t take away my ability to read. You can take other things. But, please, please not my ability to read.

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One of the things that I’ve been thinking about the last couple of weeks is this: Sure, I’ve been through this incredibly difficult time, but how is sharing this going to help other people? My journey has been unusual and unique – could others relate?

The longer I’ve sat with this insecurity, the more I’ve thought about how we’re all impacted by trauma at some point in our lives. So, my question is this: How do you deal with this trauma? How do you cope?

I look back at what I went through – what my whole family went through – and realize that it’s my little army that helped me cope and find reasons to be hopeful, even on the worst of days. And it’s because of my little army, fighting for me every step of the way, that I’m here today.

Who were the members of my army? My mom, my dad, and my brother. We were a teeny, tiny contingent. But we were enough. And we were mighty.

When you encounter unexpected change or loss in your life, I hope you also have a little army that you can fall back on.