Patterns of Learning
(Or GOATed Trick-or-Treat)
Around Halloween every year, I reshare a memory of Briggs at two years old, dressed as a Red Sox player and singing the national anthem.
Ken and I had brought him to South Portland, Maine, that year to trick-or-treat with my cousin’s kids who were close to his age. Our first stop was their grandmother’s house. While we were getting ready to head back out, I heard Briggs quietly singing the Star Spangled Banner to himself.
Like any good Xennial mom, I asked him to start again and began filming on my phone.
Aunt Kathy, his dad, and I all stood there in complete shock.
I remember my aunt beaming, assuming that Ken and I had taught him those words out of a deep love for country.
We had not.
The only explanation we could come up with was that Ken had sports on often enough that Briggs learned it by simply watching and listening.
What I remember most was the overwhelming wave of relief that hit me. I cried. The video shows that I had a very loud, enthusiastic response at the end.
It had nothing to do with the song and everything to do with his early birth, the time spent in early intervention, and the quiet, constant worry that something from that traumatic start might take him down at any moment.
But then he showed me something I did not ask for, practice, model, or guide. He learned on his own. He absorbed the world even when I did not know he was paying attention.
On that cold Maine night, my body flooded with warm relief. He could learn. He could grow without being pushed. I knew this was not a guarantee of anything easy, but it was a sign. It told me that no matter how complicated things became, something inside him was working. It could be good.
That remains my favorite Halloween.
This memory returned clearly this morning while walking Zara in Ken’s neighborhood. He is away on a golf trip, so I am staying at his house with Zara and Briggs. The air was freezing, the wind sharp, and I had recently been paying closer attention to patterns.
During the week of my monthly immunotherapy infusion, even if the actual appointment goes smoothly, my body and mind begin to decline. Each day I grow more fatigued and sad. Day three is usually the hardest. Days four, five, and six remain low and can feel frightening for me and for the people who love me.
By day eight or nine, I start to see light again. I feel more awake and capable. By the middle of week two, I feel almost like I did before any of this happened. By week three, I can look back through a scientific lens instead of a hateful or personal one and see those heavy days as side effects instead of character flaws.
By week four, I am genuinely grateful again, just in time for my next dose.
If I get a cold or my period, everything stays darker and heavier for longer.
So what can I do? I can get every recommended vaccine. I can wash my hands constantly. I can keep my IUD in place and pay close attention to changes in mood and appetite. I can also remind myself that when I land in that sad and quiet place, it is only one part of me that is being magnified by serious medicine and serious circumstances that are actively working to keep me alive.
With the people I love unconditionally.
As I walked back into the house this morning, stepping over patches of ice, I felt the same warm internal relief I felt all those years ago.
I can live. I am living.
I mean, come on! Legit BEST Halloween costume ever. Also, for those who don’t remember the 2013 World Series Championship Year, every Red Sox had facial hair, so obviously, Briggs needed a GOATiee. :)