Dance, Daffy. DANCE!

I was asking my brilliant wife about her day.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"Just fine," she said wearily.

"What did you do?" I ask, as if she was just standing around doing nothing.

"I took Miriam to physical therapy," she replies. "That's the one up North, about sixty miles. Then we were off to two appointments at Children's Hospital. Then we had another fitting at the wheelchair company, because the wheel fell off and killed a cat."

I listen intently, yet I'm busy worrying if I look too fat in my slacks.

To illustrate how SHE probably feels, click this video and scroll to the 1:25 minute mark. 

Considering this, I did some thinking.

As a parent of a child with special needs, I harbor a deep, deep secret. It's one I suspect is held by many people who have gone through some kind of personal tragedy, though I'll not presume this to be a fact. Though I think it might be.

To understand this secret, I offer you a tantalizing clue:

Can you guess?

Sometimes I feel as if we have it worse than other people.

Ridiculous! you say.

But my daughter will never walk, I reply. We had a healthy daughter in utero who, through a series of tragic events, suffered birth trauma that led to her disability.

That sounds pretty tough, you might reply.

Trust me. This fits.

This led to unsettling truths, I continue. Truths about a darker side to the medical and insurance industries.

Really? you ask.

Deep inside you wonder if my interest in shadowy intrigue came because I just saw the latest Captain America movie.

Probably. 

This led to a legal battle, I continue, where a court of law validated our concerns. 

Fascinating.

It took over a decade, I add, thinking that might shock you.

Interesting.

During this time, my father died.

Ouch, you say, grimacing.

And my father-in-law.

Oh no.

And I lost my job.

Yikes.

Though we finally settled our case.

Wonderful, you say. Footprints in the sand, yada, yada, yada.

Now you're just mocking me.

No, seriously, you say. It all sounds so very…well, difficult.

Of course! I say, feeling emotional. Can't you see how much I've suffered?

You nod knowingly.

It sure looks that way, you say, looking at the exit. But I have to go. My daughter has leukemia, and she's been living at the hospital for the last two years.

And I stand there. I shake my head with genuine concern. Deep inside, however, I think: 

At least she can walk!

Sigh.

I should be ashamed of myself, and I am. There are many, many, many people who suffer far worse than us. There are many, many, many, many people who have it much better. It depends on your criteria.

To provide perspective, I invite you to visit this awesome website. (Click on the title below to view it; it uses Flash, so some mobile devices may not be able to display it.)

SCALE of the UNIVERSE

Do you see the analogy here?

We cannot really compare anything, really, because the very smallest is as amazing and terrible as the very largest. A star can complain because it's about to go supernova, on the very day an elephant lies dying next to a bug that was just squished.

What private sufferings exist in all of us? So myself and my daughter and my wife hustle and bustle and cry and worry and lose hair and go grey and lose sleep and pray and pray and pray and it's so easy to forget that yes, we suffer but yes, we are also blessed. We all are.

My daughter is loved.

So am I.

So keep dancing, my love. So the applause is quiet and the crickets are loud, and your husband can be a selfish, self-centered brat. Yet the blessings are all around us.

Can we see them?

Here are five of them.

Here are at least three.

I see four here.

Yep. Here are a few more.

And here.

This one is awesome.

Here is the best one.

Do you see them?

Yep, It's Like That. Kinda.

Someone asked once, in regards to raising a severely disabled child: 

How do you do this? What is it like?

This is what I might say.

Some days feel like this.















Other days feel like this.

On more difficult days, 
it can feel like this.

As the Dad, I feel I have to be like this:

Yet I realize it's more like this:

For someone like this.

Because this is that someone.

And this.

And this.

Because she treats people like this.

Loves her brother like this.

Treats the world like this.

Even when she deals with this.

And Mom and Dad try to be like this.

But we feel exactly like this.

And this.

So we rely on this.

And the promises we received when we were married in this.

I'm going to get spiritual here, and specifically religious - so if that offends you, please repent and give God a big 'ol apology.

I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (aka Mormon). You can find my "I'm a Mormon" profile HERE.

When people ask, How can you do this? Here are a few reasons why I feel we can.

There is a God.

There is a purpose to this life.

We are both body and spirit, and that spirit existed before - and will continue to exist - after these "college years" of life here at the University of Earth.

Death is not the end.

My marriage and family bonds will continue after this life.

This mortal experience is but a single preposition in a very large narrative. In that way, my daughter Miriam's challenges are temporary. They are also capable of refining our characters.

Despite the tragedy that caused her condition, I believe Miriam had a decision in her status here on Earth. That may sound utterly ridiculous, but I have reasons (too sacred and personal to share) that have affirmed this belief. 

How convenient, one might say. Proof that religion is the opiate of the masses.

Believe what you want. I know what I've seen, what I've felt. I know by the extraordinary spirit behind my daughter's eyes. I have seen lives changed because of her. I have seen her purifying influence in my life.

How do you do it? people ask.

We don't, I reply. God does it. My daughter's courage and optimism does it.

There you go.

Miriam, 2006. What a Cootie-Patootie.