Mason

His mother came back from the testing and told me he can’t see much and can’t hear at all, and… you know I’ve tried and failed to explain what that moment was like. 
It was nothing I had anticipated. I expected to be hit with a pang of sadness and to be left twisting in pain of the optimism and hope being abruptly ripped away. And I thought I’d muster my resilience and loyalty to keep going and “do the best despite his challenges.” The moment was none of those. I felt n much of anything and just said “Pfffffft.”
I. SAID. “PFFFFFFT.” 
And I strung together words to say something like “He knows how to connect with us. OK, alright, so it’s not the sound or sight. It’s on us to find his channel.” 
“He’s not challenged. He’s challenging us.” 
When he wasn’t bossing me around (he *did* know how to connect, if I wasn’t clear earlier), he taught me the importance of being present and the joy of sharing a moment in life. 
I credit all of this to him and his parents. You know I am usually all about validating and accepting our “negative” emotions without judgment. His mother though, when she told me the news, showed absolutely no sadness, no pity on herself or her baby, no grief of what his life could have been. She was only looking forward to enjoying their life together. They changed me in one moment, and they did that completely unknowingly. 
I think of Mason all the time. 

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