Dear Cara,
I can still remember our first hours together, mainly because for that time after your birth, it was just you and me in a quiet, darkened room a short walk from the unflinching lights of the operating theater. You had been put briefly on your mother’s chest, then with typical Finnish hospital efficiency, washed, measured (ten points!) , excised from your umbilical cord, swaddled and placed in a mobile cot.
They say that babies are born with blue eyes but yours were already so dark, it was hard to distinguish the iris from the pupil. The Cesarean had been routine but the cut was low and problematic. You had cried but now with me you were silently observing the world you had been delivered into.
By now you were probably familiar with the tones of my voice so I guess it calmed you when I spoke. I do recall giving you my assurance out loud that I would do all in my power to take care of you, to raise you up and to love you.
Nineteen years have passed since those hours and I hope that I am still true to my words. Yes I have failed you at times, lost my temper, succumbed to a sense of hopelessness and self pity, raged at the unfairness of it all…
But you are here, you are yourself, you are healthy, small but perfectly formed with the exception of those stick-up second toes and a stubby left middle finger you sometimes flip at people when we are out driving — reacting to my angry outbursts at other drivers.
I suppose my biggest regret for you is the struggle to express yourself and your ideas in words. Everyone else is so verbal in this family, it seems unfair you were deprived of that singular gift.
And yet you are remarkably expressive in so many ways. Your sense of humor is distinctively mischievous and the love you give and your joy when you are happy is genuine and beyond measure. If there was any way for me to understand the inner workings of your mind, my own would probably be shot into outer space.
Maybe technology will one day close that gap? Who knows?
Meanwhile, my greatest wish for you is to live a good life and a long one, guided by us, the wisdom of your two sisters in the years beyond us, the protection of a caring stable community and the love of a few good friends who can see deep down to your soul.
Sure it was shock to be told you would never be ‘normal’ all those years ago but if I take a look around, things that are considered normal are just getting weirder and weirder. Maybe we will all meet you half way at some point.
To me, you are one of the ‘funny people’ and I don’t mean that in a derogatory manner. To me, funny people see the world differently, laugh at things easily and don’t take themselves too seriously. We’ve all got so much to learn and yet I know, I’d much rather be funny than normal on any day of the week.
Here’s to funny people — the greatest teachers of all.
