Today, I left work a bit early to catch my son’s bus. I waited on the porch, observing other parents escorting their kids home from the school nearby.
“Hey, ALEXXXXXXXXX!!!” A girl shouted, waving excitedly as a horn blared in response.
I could hear encouraging shouts from parents: “Hurry up!” “Let’s go!” “We’re going to be late!”
When my son’s bus arrived across the street, I spotted his little head peeking through the window and hurried over. The driver greeted us and began helping my son out of the bus. She opened the lift and positioned him right in the center of the ramp.
“Watch your toes!” she cautioned, reminding me of a detail I often overlook.
As he was lowered gently, still drowsy from a nap, I glanced around. Traffic looked clear. Once, twice—okay, let’s cross! My son has been riding this special needs bus, designed to accommodate children who use wheelchairs, for about eight months. Back in the 90s, we would have referred to it differently: the short bus.
Seeing him step off the bus stirs a mix of emotions, especially when I see other parents and their children walking past. Part of me battles jealousy and resentment. If my son could walk, would I be rushing him? It must be nice to stroll home, I think bitterly.
Yet, overwhelmingly, I feel immense gratitude for this bus. It symbolizes his incredible journey; just eight months ago, this was a mountain we had to climb together. That mountain looms twice a day and occasionally, it arrives right on schedule.
For two years, I devoted every moment to my son. He experienced cardiac arrest at just 2 1/2 years old due to lung failure from a cold. His fragile health led several doctors to express serious concerns.
I was nine months pregnant with my daughter when one doctor delivered news no parent should ever hear: “Your son is dying.”
When I asked how long he had, I regretted it immediately. The doctor looked at my pregnant belly and wondered aloud if he’d even get to meet his little sister. The best-case scenario, she said, was that he might live to see five.
From that moment, I became determined to document every smile and every laugh, to remember every favorite toy and show. I wanted to capture it all, fearing I might not have enough time.
After my daughter was born, we celebrated my son’s third birthday, but outings became challenging. He couldn’t fend off respiratory illnesses like other kids, leading to frequent ER visits and hospital stays. We decided to limit his interactions with other children.
At that time, the idea of him attending school felt like a distant dream. And when it crossed my mind, I quickly dismissed it, weighed down by a list of obstacles: he relied on supplemental oxygen, had severe anxiety around new people, lacked preschool experience, and faced the looming shadow of a bleak prognosis.
But gradually, things began to shift. Following a month-long ICU stay in August 2014, we noticed a slight improvement in his breathing. One night, my husband accidentally turned the oxygen off while we were watching him. Instead of panicking, we waited, watching the monitor’s numbers. They didn’t drop; no alarms sounded. He seemed okay.
We cautiously experimented with turning the oxygen off for longer stretches. I finally mustered the courage to ask the doctor if she thought he might be improving. She replied that it was possible, but not likely.
After pushing for more tests, a sleep study confirmed our hopes: our son was indeed getting better.
Suddenly, I could envision the future I had tried to suppress—a future filled with artwork on the walls, report cards, parent-teacher meetings, birthday cupcakes, and Valentine’s Day parties. Instead of the doctor’s grim predictions, I was now hearing something hopeful: he might be able to go to school.
Months later, we received the green light to begin weaning him off oxygen. Our expectations had to be realistic, and the process was slow; first thirty minutes, then sixty, and so forth.
Once he graduated to nine hours free of oxygen each day, we started considering next steps. I enrolled him in a school with a special education program that integrated therapy services. This was crucial—it meant fewer outside appointments, and I could return to work while he met peers like him in a nurturing environment.
Now, as the bus arrives each day, I reflect on how quickly life can change. Our paths are anything but predictable, even when experts provide their insights. I never imagined I would be standing here, watching my son in his tiny wheelchair being carefully lowered to the ground, still groggy from a day of school.
When back-to-school ads start airing, and the chaos of packing lunches and enforcing bedtimes begins, I may feel overwhelmed like most moms. But I also can’t help but smile, despite the madness, knowing how close I came to not experiencing this chaos at all.
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Summary
In this heartfelt reflection, a mother shares her journey with her son who rides a special needs bus, highlighting the challenges and triumphs they faced together. From a near-tragic diagnosis to the joy of his school experience, she expresses gratitude for every moment and the unpredictable nature of life.