Collectibles

My son Daniel likes to collect all sorts of “treasures” he finds in the street, in parking lots, etc. Over time, he has collected anything from candy wrappers to fruit labels on the refrigerator door to sticks to rocks to ordinary stuffed animals. Don’t you try to suggest it is time to give things away, or get rid of them! They are too close to his heart to let them go. Behind each there is a story --- the walk in the park, the nice-looking apple, the time I dropped him off at preschool and we found a tiny figurine, the trip to the zoo, or the trip to Duluth.

I, for my part, used to collect the cards sold from time to time at the candy store next to my elementary school. I can’t even remember what those cards were about. Where they pictures of puppies? Disney characters? Who knows! But I had to get them all. So I kept buying them and trading those cards for which I had duplicates, until I filled the little book which came with them.

I don’t keep a collection of things anymore, but like everyone else, I have a collection of memories. Memories from my childhood, from meeting Paul and getting married, from having Daniel after years of miscarriages and infertility, from gazing into his newborn eyes wide open in the middle of the night, the request for one more drink of “che che” (breast milk) once he could talk… and then Caleb’s birth, Caleb’s diagnosis, the start of our journey as a family with a “special child.”

Memories, lots of memories collected along the rocky, yet breathtaking road of Caleb’s life. I have picked up words, sights, feelings… people. I don’t want to forget any of them, so I keep them safe and secure in my treasure box --- my heart.

My box is overflowing. Amazingly, there is always room for more. As I peek through my collection, a few “items” stand out.

I think of Matt, one of Caleb’s home care nurses, and I am transported back in time to the day he came to check on Caleb and found me crying. I had been trying to comfort Caleb for what seemed like hours, and I had been dealing with a very defiant Daniel, who was kicking and screaming in the other room. I felt like a failure. I wiped away my tears before opening the door and tried to greet Matt with a smile. He came in, picked up Caleb and held him gently. In a matter of minutes, Caleb started to calm down and fell asleep. Matt and I started talking. I cannot remember the whole conversation, but at some point I said, “We haven’t really gone through anything that bad.” “Yes, you have,” replied Matt. “You have to allow yourself to grieve, Perla.” Matt’s presence was soothing not just for Caleb, but for all of us.

I think of Jane, our loving volunteer from the hospital. I see her, arms stretched out to receive Caleb’s scrawny body after Matt weighed him on the scale. I see her and think back then and now, “My son is so blessed.” Here was a “stranger” loving my son and blessing our family in a way words cannot describe.

I think of the women who donated breast milk for Caleb after I stopped pumping. They helped me fulfill my dream of breastfeeding Caleb at least for a year.

I think of the therapists and teachers who have cared for my son and my family. The home visits to check on us, to guide us. The tears cried in front of them. As we have moved from one phase to the next in Caleb’s interventions, I have grieved the fact that I will stop seeing some of them, but it never fails—another caring person comes into our lives.

I think of Jace, Caleb’s little friend from preschool, who seeks my son throughout the day, brings him toys, shares his books with him, holds his hand.

I hear the pastor read to us the story of Lazarus after Caleb’s birth. The words that reach me are, “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus.” In my heart, I add Caleb to the list. The pastor’s point gets lost in the room, but all I care about, and all I need to know, is that “Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus… and Caleb.” No need for asking why, or for anyone to try to explain, why my son was born with trisomy 13. Jesus loves Caleb, and He grieves for him, too.

I hear more words…

“When Caleb says his first word, we will throw a party,” says then 10-year-old Carolina.

“Come on, muchacho, let’s go play in the snow,” says hermano Antonio as he takes Caleb’s hand.

“Gentle, gentle,” says Marisela, as she helps her 1 ½ year-old contain his enthusiasm when giving Caleb a big hug, something he does every Sunday.

I add the words of these people from my church to the pages of my life. I read them again and I breathe in: my cup is full. These words speak of love and care for us.

My collection is priceless. I cannot let go of anything in it. If I did, my story would be completely different. I would get stuck on what went wrong. I would become bitter. People’s kindness, and most of all, my son’s own contribution to the story -–his smile, his sounds, his contentment when he hears me coming, won’t allow me to dwell on the negative parts.

My heart is full, yet there is room for more. As I write, I look forward to the people I will meet farther down the road. Those who, like the others before them, will help me interpret things in a new light. I wait with expectation for the words to be added to the book. The sights I’ll see will make wonderful, heart-warming illustrations.