“Your love keeps lifting me, keep on lifting higher, higher and higher.”
Last week, I found myself singing a little Jackie Wilson to my son while we gently swayed on his newly installed wheelchair lift. It felt like the slowest trust fall imaginable.
This was a significant milestone for us. After months of collaborating with a specialized contracting company, amazing volunteer carpenters, architects, and physical therapists, not to mention clearing out a garage filled with boxes untouched since our last move four years ago, we finally made it happen. Late nights were spent battling moths and mosquitoes as we prepared a space for the new equipment that would grant our son more independence.
But I was anxious. Really anxious. This new addition represented a kind of defeat. I was letting go of my identity as the “supermom” who could do it all. The reality is, my son is growing – he’s getting long and heavy, almost like carrying a small horse up the stairs.
When he was a baby with a tracheotomy, I was the one who suctioned him in the middle of the night. As a toddler, I deciphered his silent needs with ease. Just last year, I could effortlessly carry him up and down the stairs. We even celebrated our victories with little laps in the hallway. But as I started to tire and the stairs felt more like a trek up Kilimanjaro, I knew our time together in that capacity was limited. Change was clearly on the horizon.
Still, accepting that change was far from easy. For as long as I could remember, it was just the two of us, entwined in our little world, sharing the weight of our lives. So, when the final nail was driven into place and we completed our test run, I stood with him in his wheelchair, staring down at the lift. Thoughts swirled in my head:
- But it’s my responsibility.
- My back is aching.
- I love holding him close.
- He deserves freedom.
- He’s still my baby.
And so, despite the internal battle, we hopped on for our first ride. I sang, I cried, and he pressed the button himself, giggling and signing for “more.” We went up and down until he grew tired.
What I discovered was that this experience exceeded my expectations. My worries vanished. It was another step toward his independence and a bit more life that belonged solely to him. That’s all any parent wants: for their child to embrace life on their own terms. Yet, it still stings a little, like a ghostly ache from his absence on my hip. He is still my boy, and I’m reluctant to let go, even when my arms tremble from the effort. But like any boy his age, he needs the freedom to explore, and now he can.
If you’re interested in exploring more about parenting and independence, you might find this article about artificial insemination kits informative. For more resources regarding fertility support groups, check out the experts at Intracervical Insemination. Additionally, the CDC provides excellent information on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, the transition to having a wheelchair lift was filled with mixed emotions. While it symbolizes a loss of the closeness I cherished, it ultimately opens up new doors for my son to find his independence.