I am your son who cannot talk. You often pity me, I see it in your eyes. You wonder how much I am aware of--I see that as well. I am aware of much--Whether you are happy or sad or fearful, patient or impatient, full of love and desire, or if you are just doing your duty by me. I marvel at your frustration, knowing mine to be far greater, for I cannot express myself or my needs as you do.
You cannot conceive my isolation, so complete it is at times. I do not gift you with clever conversation, cute remarks to be laughed over and repeated. I do not give you answers to your simple everyday questions, responses over my well-being, sharing my needs, or comments about the world around me. I do not give you rewards as defined by the world's standards--great strides in development that you can marvel over; I do not give you understanding as you know it.
What I give you is much more valuable--I give you instead opportunities. Opportunities to discover the depth of your character, not mine; the depth of your love, your commitment, your patience, your abilities; the opportunity to explore your spirit more deeply than you imagined possible. I drive you further than you would ever go on your own, working harder, seeking answers to your many questions with no answers. I am your son who cannot talk.
I am your son who is developmentally challenged. I don't learn easily, if you judge me by the world's measuring stick; What I do know is infinite joy in simple things. I am not burdened as you are with the strifes and conflicts of a more complicated life. My gift to you is to grant you the freedom to enjoy things as a child, to teach you how much your arms around me mean, to give you love. I give you the gift of simplicity. I am your son who is developmentally challenged.
I am your disabled son. I am your teacher. If you allow me, I will teach you what is really important in life. I will give you and teach you unconditional love. I gift you with my innocent trust, my dependency upon you. I teach you about how precious this life is and about not taking things for granted. I teach you about forgetting your own needs and desires and dreams. I teach you giving. Most of all, I teach you hope and faith. I am your disabled son, Andrew.
Thank you for sharing your story. I also have a daughter with an unique chromosome rearrangement (del 8p23, dup 7p21). It is so helpful to hear other families who know the highs and lows of this experience. It helps remind me that we're never alone.
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