Before There Was Language
There Was Only Love
Carter met all of his developmental milestones up to about ten months old. Up until then, I was expecting severe ADHD — you know… because cocaine. That was the story I had in my head, the only one I knew how to tell at the time.
ADHD felt manageable. Predictable. Almost ordinary.
That was before I knew what I know now. Before I knew about brain function and executive functioning. Before I understood language disabilities, sensory challenges, seizures, autism, and all the other complexities I would slowly learn to name.
Back then, I thought I understood the road ahead.
I didn’t.
It was the first summer I had with Carter after bringing him home. He was growing and thriving — crawling, babbling, experimenting with solid foods. We were on the edge of first steps. I was home for the summer and agreed to take an emergency foster placement. One week turned into two with three little girls under the age of three.
Four children under four.
And then, suddenly, the house was quiet again.
It was the calm between — between chaos and the school year, between holding everything together and finally catching my breath.
One afternoon, Carter was napping, and I went in to check on him. As he began to wake, his body started to shake.
Not a soft newborn startle.
Not a sleepy twitch.
Something different.
Something that made my chest tighten before my mind could catch up.
I panicked and called 911.
I remember asking over and over, Is this a seizure? What’s happening? We went to the hospital because I was a nervous first-time mom and because I didn’t yet know how to trust my own instincts. The doctors assured me it was likely a febrile seizure — common, usually one-time, probably nothing.
I wanted to believe them.
I needed to believe them.
A month later, I had just started a new job at a shiny new high school. New job. New daycare for Carter. The young woman caring for him — with a baby of her own — called me in a panic.
Another emergency.
Another seizure.
Another 911 call.
When I arrived at the hospital, it was clear they didn’t know how to stop it. Carter and I were flight-lifted to Children’s Hospital, where we stayed for four days. The seizure medications were heavy, and because of the high doses he received, he lost motor skills he had already mastered.
He couldn’t sit up.
He couldn’t hold himself steady.
He could barely hold his eyes open.
It was devastating in a quiet, hollow way.
And then, slowly, he came back.
Slowly, he could sit again. Slowly, his smile returned. Slowly, I began to recognize my baby in his eyes and in the way he reached for me.
Somewhere in that waiting and watching, a small, fragile question took root:
Did permanent damage happen?
Carter began early intervention at eleven months old.
First came physical therapy. His balance was off, and he needed support with his feet. (For those of you who know him now, this part is almost funny — gross motor skills are one of his greatest strengths.) Then came speech therapy. Then occupational therapy.
Before he turned three, I was already planning for special education services. He was evaluated and started in a specialized preschool before his third birthday.
I didn’t know what “it” was.
I just knew it was going to be a long road.
I understood enough to know that this little guy’s brain was complex, and I sensed we were stepping into something bigger than I could yet name. I thought I knew.
In reality, I had absolutely no idea.
And yet — it didn’t matter.
We had knowingly adopted two boys from foster care. We had knowingly adopted children who had been exposed to hard drugs in utero. I built a story in my head about what that meant. I blamed their birth mother. I blamed prenatal exposure. I blamed circumstances. I tried to arrange everything into something explainable — something tidy.
I hoped Carter would outgrow his challenges. I truly believed that with enough love and enough early intervention, anything could be overcome.
He would catch up.
He would be fine.
We would be fine.
Before I knew about the layers of services.
Before I knew about the diagnoses.
Before I knew about medication lists and crisis moments and tears and tiny, breathtaking celebrations.
I loved this tiny human fiercely and completely.
And the truth is:
None of the labels changed a damn thing.
None of the diagnoses changed a damn thing.
None of the prescriptions changed a damn thing.
This was my son.
That was it.
Before there was language for what is.
Before there was language for what would come.
There was only love.
Love that held us.
Love that stayed.
Love that kept choosing.
Love that would carry us.