Rainbows and Unicorns

For five consecutive nights —hopefully six after tonight —my son has slept peacefully through the night. Ten to twelve hours.

Straight.

Through.

The.

Night.

The last time he did that my son was about two and a half years old.

The changes I have seen in my child in the past four days have been nothing short of miraculous to me —and that even accounts for nearly a full day spent in the emergency room over the weekend. (It turned out to be nothing they could identify and he’s completely fine now.) I’m trying so hard to wrap my brain around the words to convey the magnitude and scope of these changes; the words and changes are swirling so fast, I simply cannot make them make sense yet.

I can tell you this; there is not a single area of development that has not been positively impacted by the discontinuation of Nik’s seizure meds. Motor skills are blossoming, his appetite is returning and his resistance to certain food textures is diminishing. Communication is increasing as he tries to couple simple sounds and gestures in meaningful combinations. His four year old attitude when he doesn’t want to cooperate is crystal clear —yet he complies anyway. Problem solving skills are increasing at an alarming rate; I see new hazards in my home each day that I didn’t think he even noticed or could figure out how to reach.

Nik’s therapists and I have marveled at how hard he pushes himself; how he challenges himself to not only master a skill but to push through his fears or his sensory issues. The things he could not tolerate at all in the past two years he now attempts consistently; each time he pushes just a little farther in spite of his own resistance. What used to cause him excruciating cognitive dissonance now merely seems to challenge him to try harder.

My heart aches with the stretching it has done to accommodate my maternal pride, my hope, my ever increasing sense of ease; I can feel it oozing out all over people around me, too, as I comment on blogs or talk to friends and family. The love, the hope, the profound respect for my child and appreciation of his intellect and drive; it’s all so much larger than I have allowed myself to embrace these past couple of years.

I feel like we’ve landed in Oz and everything has become technicolor.

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