My patient, a middle-aged woman with cerebral palsy, sat beside the exam table in a wheelchair. She had a steady presence about her—a quiet strength that filled the room.
“I used to stand,” she said. “But it’s harder now. My legs don’t work the way they used to.”
She wasn’t seeking pity. She was simply stating a fact. Her face showed both fatigue and resilience.
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His chart read like a list of losses: no speech, no eye contact, hand flapping, no interest in others. By age five, milestones expected years earlier had not been achieved.
His dad told me a different story: “He’s shy. He’ll catch up. Some kids just take longer.” He smiled as he spoke, but his eyes gave him away. His denial wasn’t ignorance—it was love that refused to let go of hope and that braced against fear.
Meanwhile, the baby brother babbled and waved. He cried when I checked his ears, burying himself against his father’s chest. Across the room, the preschooler pressed his hands tightly over his ears, trying to muffle the outburst. The contrast was stark. While the father soothed the baby, I reached for the older child. He drew back from my touch, his gaze locked on the floor.
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