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December 22 - December 28, 2024
I can’t talk. I can’t walk. I can’t feed myself or take myself to the bathroom. Big bummer.
It’s like I’ve always had a painted musical sound track playing background to my life. I can almost hear colors and smell images when music is played.
“It takes time to accept the limitations of a beloved child. She has cerebral palsy, Mrs. Brooks.” “I know the name of her condition, Doctor,” my mother said with ice in her voice. “But a person is so much more than the name of a diagnosis on a chart!”
“Music is powerful, my young friends,” she said. “It can connect us to memories. It can influence our mood and our responses to problems we might face.”
Never in my life have I had a teacher tell me to be quiet because I was talking to somebody in class! It was the best feeling in the world! I felt like the rest of the kids.
“Hi, Dad. Hi, Mom. I am so happy.” Mom gets all teary-eyed, and her nose gets red. She is looking at me all soft and gooey. When I think about it, I realize I have never, ever said any words directly to my parents. So I push a couple of buttons, and the machine speaks the words I’ve never been able to say. “I love you.” Mom completely loses it. She bubbles up with tears and grabs Dad. I think he might be sniffing back a couple of tears himself. But he has recorded it all.
My parents have always blanketed me with conversation. They chattered and babbled. They verbalized and vocalized. My father sang to me. My mother whispered her strength into my ear.
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