Therapy

               I was originally going to make this post about what a crazy week we are having.   Feisty Pants is back in school.  Therapy has started up again.  We have a snowstorm of paperwork to fill out.  And a bunch of doctor's appointments (they tend to come in waves).  And the grents came up for a surprise visit this weekend.  Grents is how FP pronounces "grandparents".  So we are crazy and tired and underslept and overscheduled.   Or as we call it, life.   But eff that noise, I want to talk about therapy.

             When Feisty Pants was born she went without oxygen for about 10 minutes.  That is an eternity.  Most don't survive.  Of those who do, we were told that most babies with that bad of a traumatic brain injury are "neurologically devastated".  In fact, I was told, "you need to know you are likely taking her home to die". (She's eleven and a half years old as of yesterday. All you pessimists can go suck it.)  But the one silver lining was this advice: "Get her into therapy NOW, it's her only shot."

               So, that is what we did.  We brought her home at six weeks old.  By eight weeks, we had her in therapy.  I have learned over the years to be a complete glutton for therapy.  Physical therapy, occupational therapy, visual therapy, speech therapy, massage therapy, music therapy,  and when we can, aquatherapy.  I would do hippotherapy if I could arrange for it. I've even learned to stomp my feet and throw a fit to have therapy when she is in the hospital. 
                So, what is the upshot of all this?  Well, when we first brought her home, all we knew was that we THOUGHT she could hear.  (not swallow, or see, or feel, or understand)  Within a few months, we knew she could hear, we knew she see some but not all colors (not movement), she definitely had feeling (I mean as in sense of touch, not emotions.)
                  Now, eleven years later, we know she's smart. Whipcrack smart.  Her hearing is better than most people's.  Her muscles rebel and don't obey but not due to lack of will.   And her vision has been an amazing journey. First, she learned to see blue and green.  Then she began to exhibit signs of seeing sloooow movement.  Then we found she could see outline and shape.  And then sat at that point for several years.  And I would have been okay with it.  But about 6 to 9 months ago, she began to refuse her glasses.  This has gotten worse over time to the point where she will not wear them at all.  In fact she insisted they made things worse.  So, back off to the low vision specialist we went.  That was this morning.  We got up early.  (Or stayed up late, in Goo's case.) Climbed into a cab that smelled  like a cow with a bad nicotine habit.  And rode way too far for anyone's comfort.  To meet with her doctor who listened carefully to everything we had to say, and began what is a routine exam for kids like mine.  (Can you see these stripes?  How about these ones?)  Five minutes in she looked at us and said, "I am not kidding. I have goosebumps.  This is astounding."  Feisty Pants has really bad vision.  But it has improved at a rate no one thought would ever happen.  And we really have no idea how much better it can get. 
                    And, THAT, boys and girls, is what this has all been about.  All the therapies, all the work, all the crazy schedules, and all the fighting with my stubborn feisty one who hates to cooperate with any boring adult.  Because, instead of not knowing and fearing what the future will bring for her, we sometimes get to sit around and not know, but HOPE, what she damn well might be able to accomplish for herself.  And that hope is a better high than heroin.  A bigger rush than adrenaline.   It's like college graduation and falling in love and eating dark chocolate and winning the lottery and fireworks all rolled into one.  Therapy is the key to ever achieving that zen like bliss.  
                   We even got to have a riding off into the sunset moment.  (Ok- it was a noonday sun, but who cares?) As we climbed back into the smelly cow of a cab, Feisty Pants looked me dead in the eye and said "told you".  Damn right Feisty Pants, you sure did.