This morning my commute was crystal clear, not a trace of fog. But just off the road, a thick layer of fog blanketed the landscape. My daughter pointed out how beautiful it was, the delicate pinks and blues of a sunrise against the deep green of the fields. I noticed how thin the layer of fog was, and thought aloud that anyone living over there would surely believe that the fog was thick and soupy.
I reflected on this for the rest of my drive. From my point of view, it was obvious that the fog would soon dissipate and that the day would be beautiful. From the road, I could see how thin the layer of fog truly was. It barely covered the tops of the trees. But from the ground level, it would have been impossible to see that. From their point of view, the fog would have seemed endless and impenetrable.
Like a diagnosis of Down syndrome.
When Cade was diagnosed, I felt mired in confusion and sadness. It seemed, for a time, that I might never be happy again. The diagnosis colored everything around me. I thought about it constantly and couldn't escape the fears about my son's future.
A friend who had a 10-year-old with Down syndrome told me that she wished I could see into the future and meet myself a year from then. She wished the future me could tell the current me that everything was fine. She promised that I would someday laugh that I had ever been worried at all.
She was right. Just as the morning fog melted away with the rising sun, my sadness became lighter until it was gone altogether. My son is nearly 3 years old now and the days are sunny and clear.
If you're just experiencing a diagnosis, take heart...the fog will lift. I know that you can't see that now, but truly your life will be full of sunshine. I can already see it from where I stand.