I never let Sara out of my sight? Why would I let Sara out of my sight?  She’s gorgeous!  I could stare at her all day.  That’s my response when I’m feeling quippy.  I don’t often feel quippy when I hear “You do know you never let that child out of your sight, right?”  I categorize it under a heading I call the “You’re Doing It Wrong” comments, which are handed by the boatload to parents of Special Needs kids.  No one has ever followed their question with, “I assume there must be a reason.”  It doesn’t work that way. Moving on.

While I found My Thirteenth Winter by Samantha Abeel very hard to read (I threw it a couple of times), it alerted me to the unfolding nature of Dyscalculia.  I’m grateful she had the courage to write it, even if I swore up and down it had nothing to do with Sara. How I wish that were true. We’ve spent a great deal of time and energy making sure Sara could learn to add and subtract, and while I thought she could tell time, in true Dyscalculia fashion, she was fooling us.  Working on it.  Moving on.

But last week, a huge light came on regarding Dyscalculia, so obvious, I am dumbfounded as to how I missed it.  What can I say?  I was distracted by larger mountains.  Samantha Abeel details in her memoir her inability to understand geographical directions, along with tales from other adult sufferers of Dyscalculia.  Some require a map to get to and from work every day.  Changing schools caused actual panic attacks in others.  Sara has always gripped me in public, and I assumed it was rooted in her Dyspraxia.  She has a hard time locating her body in space.  As well, large or loud areas kick her sensory problems into high gear, and she presses into me, trying to calm herself.  Running errands with her is like being inside a pinball machine and I’m constantly getting bumped.

It never occurred to me that Sara was bumping into me because she didn’t know which way I was going.  We are not thrill seekers, constantly taking trips to new places.  We are deeply rooted in our routine.  We’ve lived in the same house since her birth.  She’s been at the same school for 5 years. Our errands are to stores Sara has been countless times.  So I don’t know why or how I noticed, but last week at our grocery, while Sara was trying to climb up my body for no apparent reason, I asked her to lead me to the tomatoes.  She turned to me, and tears were falling down her cheeks.  She didn’t know where they were, despite being in a produce section we could call our 2nd home.  Kelly blankly looked at her and pointed to the tomatoes, and the 3 of us just stood silently for a moment, taking in our new reality.

Kelly lead Sara through the rest of the grocery trip, and I realized Kelly has always “lead the way” when I’ve asked the girls to show me where things are. Sara had more than 1 meltdown moment in the store that day, and I got down on my knees to tell her, “I know now.  I know you don’t know which way to go.  You don’t have to hide it anymore.  It’s OK.  It’s just like all the other things you know, but you’re brain won’t let out.  We’ll teach you how, and this will become just like addition.  You’ll eventually learn how to do it.”

The next day we went to the Mall, parking in the same spot, walking in the same doors we have since Sara was born.  I asked her to lead me through Sears and towards the Mall.  She turned in the opposite direction and looked back at me, “That’s not the way, is it?” I suddenly remembered Halloween night when we left the subdivision across the street, and despite Sara staring right into our neighborhood, and despite knowing we were heading home, she turned in the opposite direction.  The words, “Sara…this way…”, started ringing through my head.  Oh.My.God.  How many times have I said, Sara…this way…??? Her NAME is Sara This Way.

While I don’t have a blueprint for this part of the journey (um…when have I ever?!), I’m going to start by asking for help.  She sees the world through pictures, so the Mall trip included a constant pointing out of landmarks. We had a great time at the Mall that day, because acknowledgement is empowering. Letting her know she is not alone with nothing to hide is empowering. The pain isn’t in the knowing…it’s in the avoiding. And despite the perpetual sense of being judged, I’ve never budged in my resolve to keep my eyes on her; a piece of me has always sensed she is somehow lost in space and time, despite being so verbally and emotionally present.  Something felt off. The onion just let go of another layer, my friends.  Wisdom Comes Suddenly.