You can live each day, mourning for the child you were not given, that perfect child...But what will that give you?
Eden was three and a half years old and still not talking. A few words, here and there, and plenty of garbled nonsense. But no sentences, no sense.
There were other things, too, that made me worried. The way she didn’t make eye contact. The way she sat, staring into space, for endless hours. The sack of toys that she carried with her wherever we went; if I attempted to remove it, to put it away, she would cry and kick and bang her head against the wall. She shrugged off my touch, ran away from hugs and kisses. The bubble that surrounded her was swiftly congealing, hardening; Eden was becoming the sole inhabitant of the universe that she alone had created.
It’s a feeling that makes you breathless with agony, as you watch your child and know that all is not right. It’s a dark, dark place to be.
At times I would kneel down beside her, grab both hands in my own, and force her to look into my eyes. “Now smile, Eden,” I commanded. “Smile.” She would look down at the floor and, for all they say about lack of communication and social skills, I think she sensed my distress and she would begin to cry. And then I would feel bad, horrible, and I would take her in my arms, but she would wriggle away because she did not like to be touched. And then I, too, would begin to cry.
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