Tomorrow is Ian’s last day of elementary school. He has been a part of his school community since he was 3 years old. Our school has lovingly guided Ian (and me) onward and upward for nearly 8 years. And tomorrow, with no pomp and circumstance, with no culminating event, it is just over.
Not only do we not get to say goodbye to the only school we’ve ever known, Ian’s best friend and most favorite person in the whole world is headed to a different middle school. They have been together for 6 years, every single day. They have a bond that feels heaven sent. I know it is an answer to my prayer. A very best friend. We have known this day was coming, these boys going to a different middle school. But I think somehow I believed it wouldn’t really happen, that it couldn’t happen. Maybe because it seemed so far away that it just didn’t seem possible. But tomorrow, that day is here.
Change and loss. Change always comes with a loss, for the new only comes when the old is shed. But this time, the change seems to feel more profound because of the loss of goodbye.
When it became increasingly clear that this was how our year would end, I wondered if maybe this would be easier. No rituals of goodbye reminding me of what I was losing. I thought that not being able to say goodbye would be better. And maybe it is. To just have something end. To not have to be reminded in a big way of what a big loss this is – friends, security, home. But now I am not so sure about that. I am not sure about any of this.
Because here I sit, alone on my deck with all these feelings and nowhere to put them except on this page. I can’t look into the faces of the people who have changed by son’s life and thank them for that. I can’t look into their eyes and thank them for making my dreams for our son come true. To remind them that their hard work is the reason he is thriving. That I will forever be grateful that they made me feel safe and secure sending my son to school, knowing he was loved and challenged and valued. I can’t say any of this to the people who helped build the foundation of my son’s life. It is just over.
Now it is time for me to start over. And that is hard and scary. New relationships. New beginnings. When I didn’t even have an ending. When we didn’t even get to say goodbye.
I just want my son to be happy. I want my son to have friends. I want my son to belong. I want my son to be surrounded by people who want to be around him. I want my son to be around people who see his light. Because we had that – all of that. And that is so very hard to let go of. I don’t want him to be seen as a little boy with Down syndrome. I want them to see Ian.
So here I still sit, with all these feelings. And I honestly don’t know how to feel. I just know that I feel a lot. This past week, as we have virtually said goodbye, I know Ian is feeling it too – all these feelings with no names. I know he feels this great loss. And when it became too much and I could feel its weight, I just asked Ian if he wanted a hug. So that’s what we did. A long, silent hug. A gentle exhale of emotion that lingered as we felt all of it together. And then we moved on. Until the next moment we needed a hug. Then exhale, move on, repeat. Together.
Tomorrow, we start over.