Three years ago something happened to my son for 40 minutes. It was scarier than the time we Heimlich’d him for Thanksgiving (I never thanked Julie for calling that – and I should have – so Thank You Julie).

For three years we have made a decision for our son, and he has participated in it. It has been more than half his life. We have been consistent, insistent, and effective. We consulted with professionals, they could not give us a clear answer and so we took the most conservative route possible. We have, I will always believe, done the right thing.

Modern medicine insists that there is something wrong and that it has a diagnosis. Modern American medicine insists that to not know the name, to not identify it, is absolutely NOT to deny it’s existence. The assurance of the existence, even without proof, or a name, or a plan, is safer than the risk of identifying it as a fluke. Or an oddity.

There is a face my son makes at me, when he sees a strawberry or a banana. It is hope and despair at the same time. The knowing, and the giving over to the idea that some day it will be different. Maybe.

Or that he will just understand why.

Today he and I went to the doctor. We talked some, we tested some, and I stopped looking for the explanation I want and will never be granted. I looked instead for the next right thing.

Tomorrow. With a calm face and a racing heart I will begin to reintroduce the foods that he has not had in years. In season, crisp and sweet. As he wants to try them.

I can be both excited and afraid at the same time.

I hope to be both.