When he tells you he can’t wait until he doesn’t need his hearing aids any more… How do you tell him that he will always, always need them?
That his hearing will never improve.
His ears will never be fixed.
That he just won’t ever hear the way the rest of us do.
How do you look him in the eye, knowing that what you tell him will wound him…
…That he’s different.
…That he’s special.
I cringe at those words.
How do you make.him.understand just how extraordinary you think he is?
And when you look into his big, sad eyes, and he says
“I will have to wear hearing aids…even when I’m a dad?”
“Even when you’re a dad.”
He thinks he will heal.
You know he will not.
He thinks he is broken.
You know he is not.
You wipe big, round tears from his face. You hold him in your arms. You tell him you love him, so much.
You tell him the beautiful things about him.
And then you go to bed.
Knowing that the real hard part about this is just beginning.
Hoping he will see, someday, what you see.