Help you, help me.

I can remember it like yesterday. Chris handed our newborn, Jack to me and had the responsibility of sharing the news I wasn’t expecting: “They think he has Down syndrome.”

I cried out, this is not what I had planned. This is not what I wanted. I questioned and feared how it would affect our marriage, our 2-year-old, and the future I had envisioned. How much would be needed to help him live a full and meaningful life? How would the world accept him?

Development delays, low muscle tone, aspiration, and early intervention were new words being used and I wasn’t prepared for these conversations. This was not a part of my plan. 

The shock of the news of our baby having Down syndrome was so intense. I woke up each day for four months wondering if I was dreaming, waiting for someone to tell me they got it wrong. 

I searched all the books, the online groups and resources, the medical journals, found the best providers, and asked the community to tell me life was going to be good. Although most was very helpful (yet at times overwhelming) what has shown to be true in the 10 years of life with Jack: it’s Jack who has helped us most. 

“Help you?”

I often ask Jack (probably too much), “Do you want me to help you?”  If it’s about getting dressed, brushing his teeth, wiping his face, or zipping his coat. 

After a decade of answering our question, Jack has developed his own way of asking for help. Instead of asking “can you help me?” Jack asks, “help you?”. Jack has taught me something profound by unintentionally turning the question on its head. Jack may not know it, but his question is actually an answer I’ve been looking for for a long time. Help you. He has helped me by showing me it’s okay to ask for help. 

Help you, help me. 

Although I know Jack will learn how to correctly ask for help, it’s in these moments of life with Jack that it becomes so clear to me. 

As a goal-driven individual, I wasn’t prepared for the slower pace or the extra repetition because my desire is to be efficient, inventive, a problem-solver, and make things happen. 

I needed help being more patient and accepting. I needed to learn to focus on the process instead of the outcome, and that there is a worthwhile connection when we’re able to be vulnerable enough to ask for help.   

“Are you aware of Trisomy 21?”

If someone would have told me after receiving his diagnosis, “your child will help you,” I may have missed it with all the things flooding my mind with what I need to provide for him. But now I get it.