Owen's Ears & Momma's Gut

Two years ago yesterday, May 3, 2012, I brought my little boy into the hospital at the crazy early hour of 4:00 a.m. to prep him for surgery.  He was getting ear tubes. He had never had an ear infection or been on antibiotics. His story is one I often tell other parents. It is about listening to your heart and your gut.

Owen pre-op at NY Eye and Ear on May 3, 2012

Owen was 90 percent deaf. At 18 months old, he had never really heard my voice. He had never really heard a dog bark, a fire truck, music, a bird chirp. All the noises and voices sounded like he was actually hearing underwater -- fuzzy, muffled, low, no tones, no pitches. That was his world.

Surgery for ear tubes is a very common procedure for many young children. But Owen was my baby. My heart ached and at the same time, I was hopeful. He was about to have a new world opened to him and that couldn't be all bad. 

Owen didn’t have any words at all when he turned one-years old. He would point and grunt at things to communicate. When he had a question about something his tone would change in a higher frequency to note he had a question.

By the time he was 15 months, he still didn’t have any words and we were getting concerned.

“Boys speak late. Take the pacifier away. His brother speaks for him. Don’t give him a sippy cup. Take him to a speech expert.” These were all the things we heard from other parents and the pediatrician.

We brought him to a speech pathologist. She diagnosed him and said he was fine—he was just speech delayed. He was doing all the "right things" and developing as he should be for his age. So what was the issue? He never even attempted to try and make sounds, animal noises and mimic my words. Something was up? I just hadn't landed on it yet.

One night I took Owen out of the bathtub. I wrapped him in a towel and snuggled his little body close to me. I rested my head on his head and hummed a song. “You are my sunshine my only sunshine.” Rocking him back and forth and humming, I was lost in the moment.

I took my head away from his head and began to unwrap the wet towel. He quickly grabbed my head and touched it back to his head.

“Oh my gosh.. he can’t hear me, but he can feel the vibration of the humming noise! My boy can’t hear.”

The next few weeks was a series of doctors appointements and discoveries about Owen and his ears and his hearing loss. He had never had one ear infection, yet there was so much water in both his ears that he was nearly deaf.

After the surgery, I expected miracles days later. But, I was told to be patient, and to give him some time to hear, to process and enjoy the sounds -- and he would eventually start speaking. By the end of the summer (nearly four months later) Owen was blocking his ears when fire engines roared down the street; he was pointing at airplanes above in the sky; he was gasping at the ding of an elevator or the chirp of a bird; and, he was speaking lots and lots of words. 

Two years later, he has an amazing vocabulary and his hearing is close to superhero strength. He is funny, cracks jokes, loves music and dancing, plays the drums, the guitar, loves to sing (especially songs from Frozen and Spiderman) and is one smart little boy. Sometimes I even find myself playing the "silent game" with my three year old, "Let's see who can be quiet for five minutes; and if you can, Mommy will give you a dollar." 

His tubes are supposed to fall out any day now!

I knew there was something going on with my baby and I kept pushing until we could figure it out. Another lesson for me in this world about listening to your gut! 

Owen post-op, playing the drums

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Letting Go of the Grass

My husband Paul lost his grandma last week – she would have been 95-years old in April. We shared with our young boys that she had died and it was OK to be sad about the situation. We also shared with them that we planned to celebrate her long life and her legacy with family in a traditional funeral and wake service. 

We decided to bring the boys to the services – both because it would have been difficult to find childcare for them – but also because we really believed that the services represented a celebration of a wonderful life lived.

Liam is seven; he was very curious and wanted to see his Great Nana and say goodbye. He asked me to bring him up to the front of the room to see her, to kneel in front of her and to say a prayer. Three-year old Owen quickly followed behind his big brother, standing beside me and peaking into the side of the coffin. Both boys flanked me as we said our goodbyes.

“Why does she have flowers near her? What is that cross in there for? Why does she look like she is sleeping? Will we ever see her again?” Owen asked all kinds of questions. 

Liam was such a philosopher, helping answer Owen’s questions and explaining to his little brother that we will see her in heaven and in our dreams.

Little kids are still so close to “the source” that they can sometimes explain humanity, living, dying, the unknown and spirituality so much easier than us “older” people.

He then proceeded to tell us how Nana “let go of the grass,” and that she would be OK in her new journey. Mouth agape, I looked at him. 

"What does that mean,” I asked him, thinking it was a very deep and profound thing for my little boy to say.

He shared with us that he had read a book in the library at school by Patricia Polacco called “Thank you, Mr. Falker,” (which I will be buying, by the way). When the grandma in the story dies, she “lets go of the grass” and floats up to heaven.

I loved it. Owen loved it. Paul loved it. It was comforting. Here is to all those who have let go of the grass – hope you are where the lights are shining.

Trisha's grandma used to say that the stars were holes in the sky. They were the light of heaven coming from the other side. And she used to say that someday she would be on the other side, where the light comes from.

One evening they lay on the grass together and counted the lights from heaven. "You know," her grandma said, "all of us will go there someday. Hang on to the grass, or you'll lift right off the ground, and there you'll be!"

They laughed, and both hung on to the grass.

But it was not long after that night that her grandma must have let go of the grass, because she went to where the lights were, on the other side. And not long after that, Trisha's grandpa let go of the grass, too.

The Cat and the Mouse

When I was about seven years old, I was shopping with my mom at a local Hallmark store. She was picking out birthday cards, and I was checking out the stuffed animals. I certainly had no shortage of stuffed animals at home, but loved just looking at the ones in the store.

When my mom was done shopping, she came over to the aisle to retrieve me and found me holding a little grey mouse. It was one of the smaller animals in the bunch and definitely not the cutest. But, I shared with her how I must have that mouse. I just had to take it home and I wasn’t leaving the store without him. (I think I might have even paid for it with my own money!)

The stuffed mouse was about three inches long with matted grey fur. It had a little pink ball made out of yarn for a nose, and it was so badly glued onto the mouse’s face that it was just barely hanging on. The mouth was a small piece of black yarn and he had two plastic googly eyes.

I told my mom that I had to bring him home, because if I didn’t he would never be bought by any child. The mouse would be stuck in the store forever and no one would ever love him. I needed to save this little stuffed mouse, give him a home, and be the child who would love him. 

My mom let me buy the mouse—albeit she thought I was a little crazy because it was certainly an odd choice. Everyone who saw the fuzzy grey little mouse shared with me that they thought it was one of the ugliest stuffed animals they had ever seen.  But, I loved him, snuggled with him at night and took him lots of places with me.

Fast forward to present day. We fostered our first cat about four weeks ago—a brownish-orange, two year old kitty named Macchiato. He had broken his hind leg by falling out of a 10 story high-rise building and had to have surgery to amputate the leg. We were amazed that he had survived. A lucky little guy with a birthday (we found out) of 11.11.11. So here we are, fostering a three-legged cat. We picked him out of a bunch of potential foster kitties with the goal to make sure he got lots of love, exercise and a bit of a vacation from the shelter.

If I walked into the ASPCA shelter and was looking to adopt a kitty, and the volunteers showed us a three-legged cat, my own prejudices and judgements would have immediately turned him away. I would not have wanted a cat with only three legs; a cat who looks different or might have medical issues. I would have questioned whether this cat could live a “normal” cat life. I would not have given Macchiato a second look or even considered adoption. I would have most certainly picked one of the cute baby kitties.

Macchiato hops around on his three legs like a bunny—and that is endearing and unique to him and him alone! We are all in awe of how well he has adjusted to his new body and he does everything a regular kitty does. He is able to jump, play and snuggle. He purrs loudly when he is pet and when he sleeps. He is clearly loved by all of us, and he knows it. Macchiato is by far one of the sweetest animals I have ever interacted with. I have never met a cat that allows a toddler to hold and pet him. He follows me around the house as if he were a puppy dog, not a cat; he licks Owen's hair at night while Owen is sleeping; and, he sleeps on Liam’s bed every night. From the minute that cat entered this house he was indeed home.

I thought fostering a cat would teach my boys a few lessons about caring for animals that are broken, sick or need love. I shared with them that love would be the answer to healing and when the kitty had healed what ever ailed them, we would then send them back to the shelter so they could find a forever home.

Macchiato is certainly not the ugly, sad-looking mouse that I picked out from in the Hallmark store 35 years ago. But, he isn’t a brand new fuzzy kitten either, and I was afraid that if we sent him back to the shelter, he will be overlooked. Like the mouse needed a forever home, so did Macchiato.

Thank you Macchiato for teaching me that lesson – again; a lesson in compassion,  and humility that has brought me back to my seven-year-old self. I was brought back to that little girl who wanted the mouse because I saw what maybe no one else did. Welcome to your forever home little Macchiato.  Too bad I still didn’t have that mouse—you would make a great pair.

PS: Our adoption was final on Jan 30, and we "officially" took Macchiato home. The ASPCA created a collar for the cat and Liam gave him the middle name "Darwin." He said it was perfect for Macchiato as he represented  "survival of the fittest." He also said that when bad things happen (like Macchiato losing his leg) that sometimes good things come out of those bad things. 

"We got to foster Macchiato and then adopt him -- all because of his accident. If he never had that accident, we would have never met him, and he would have never become a part of our family," Liam said. 

How right you are!