More Than Words: 2019

I suppose my retirement is similar to any retirement, really, although I am puppared to admit that my work was much like play. I loved tagging along with my bud, Carter. Oh the places we've gone!

Oh the places we've gone.
We've been here, we've been there.
We've seen Pittsburgh and Disney.
Good times we did share.

Yes we had fun, but sometimes things got serious.
Doctors and dentists, they drove C delirious.
He helped in return. Oh yes, yes he did.
Because vets weren't my thing, behind Carter I hid.

I'm sorry to say so,
But sadly, it's true.
I've reached my tenth year
And retirement too.

Congratulations!

And happy birthday.

Yes! It's your retirement

Rest easy, we say.

You have stiffening joints

Your coat's been turned in

You can lay your head down

On your paws, rest begins.

You're still our good boy, a true family member.

You'll now be our pet, January through December.

Thanks Big B for your years of service and dedication to Carter and our family. Happy (belated) 10th birthday and Happy Retirement!!!

You didn't show up.

For years I thought you would. Some might say you did, eventually, just not as expected.

I like to think I’m pretty good at figuring you out, but a voice that doesn't form words is impossible to decipher. I never get to know the real you.

I wish you'd stop hiding. I catch glimpses of you in Carter’s facial expressions, tucked away behind his impish grin or in the crinkled skin bordering his ice blue eyes. I've heard you in his giggle and in his thunderous belly laugh. His pantomimes, his flailing about, and his movement to music are your physical camouflage. Wails and screams of protest reveal your unflattering side.

You make life mysterious. And puzzling. And downright frustrating. I accept that, begrudgingly, and carry on. But sometimes I just want things to be normal. I want to experience what it would be like to hear you form words instead of grunts and squawks. I want to hear you speak a sentence instead of watching my boy gesture and point. I want to hear the real you, instead of a digitized version dubbed 'Kenny' or 'Alex'.

When Carter was outside playing with Jack one winter years ago, you didn't help him. Jack came inside. Several minutes passed before I went to check on Carter. He’d gotten himself stuck, legs first, in a hardened, icy snow tunnel. I could see how he'd struggled. His glasses were thrown across the driveway. His face was streaked with tears.

You didn't protest and ask Jack to stay outside. You didn’t scream out or call for me when Carter got stuck. You failed him.

During a family ski trip to Vermont, Carter wasn’t feeling well. He was exhausted from a long car ride and a sleepless night in an unfamiliar bed. By the time he got to his ski lesson he was hot from having to wait inside the chalet in his snow gear. He tossed his cookies right there on the spot shortly after we dropped him off.

You could have prevented the whole incident if only you'd told the instructor that Carter was overheating. Again, you failed him.

How many times have I had to pick Carter up from school because of you? On the other end of the line, the school secretary always giving me the same basic narrative, 'Carter isn't feeling well. Please come pick him up.’

Not once have you explained that there was too much noise, or too many people, or just too much stimulation. You don't provide information to the people around Carter so they can make sense of what's bothering him. He has no choice but to hold his stomach to convince them he is sick - his way of escaping the situation.

When Carter is hurt or sick, your negligence is deplorable. Carter is in distress. I am distressed. You don't tell me where he is hurting or what's making him feel badly. I have no idea what's wrong and I feel helpless.

Do you know how hard it is for me to send Carter to respite activities, to camp - anywhere with people who don't know him well? Knowing that you won't be there to help him is overwhelming.

You don't show up.

You'll never show up.

I’ve done everything in my power to replace you with sign language and gestures, an electronic version of you, but it’s not the same. It never will be. Without you, Carter will go through life being minimally understood. His communication will be slow and inefficient. And because of that he won’t express a fraction of what's running through his head. He’ll be left behind. Misunderstood. Complacent. Vulnerable.

If only there was some way that I could bring you here. I’ve tried. Oh, how I’ve tried - with speech therapy, prompt therapy, oral motor therapy, behaviour therapy. It didn’t work.