Nothing makes sense. Waking up, doing laundry, making dinner, picking up around the house, going to bed all feel wrong. It’s like part of my mind was gathered up and discarded as if it was nothing and meant nothing.
From the moment Madison was diagnosed, my mind was always on, always considering, questioning, guilting, pushing, and waiting. All the times I had to allow others to hurt her for her own good and put on a brave face for her even though I was heartbroken.
All the experiences I had with her, everything we learned together, knew about each other, the trust we built. It all feels like it was ripped out of my hands and put away in an archive that isn’t necessary to open or use again. All of that time we spent getting comfortable with the hard parts of her existence is gone. All of the joy, laughs, and little idiosyncrasies that only we knew as a family are gone. They’re just memories.
Some might tell me that my experience will help others with their developmentally disabled children, but that’s just not true. As a member of that special community, I was fortunate to know the lives of others and their unique challenges, but I would never assume to advise them. I didn’t truly know their struggles just like they never truly knew mine. I wish, so much, that more people could have known her because I can’t understand my world without Madison in it. That special relationship Madison and I had is gone and nothing makes sense.