Silent Signs of Love

I've finally found a title to the blog that makes sense to me. Talia is a happy but immobile child. She is at her happiest in my arms, and no one else's. I know how to hold her so that her head doesn't flop forward or recline too far backwards. I know how to wrap my arms tightly around her but also leave her arms free to rise, if she should have the inclination to do so. I know how to place my finger near her clenched fist so her brain remembers that her hand can open and explore. When we sit on the floor together, I am her back rest, propping her up so that she can interact with her siblings as they play their games. My body is her everything. I worry that when she is gone I will carry the feeling of her weight with me like a phantom limb. I show my love to Talia through my body, giving it over to her needs. She shows her love to me with her eyes, staring intently, and contently, into mine.Talia is nearly silent throughout the day. Sometimes that silence is deafening and I try to drown it out with podcasts, books on tape and music. Other times, the silence is a form of love. When I hand Talia to a sitter, or even a grandparent and she immediately starts whining or crying, I know that her silence in my lap is a sign of her utter contentment. With Talia one has to look deeper and appreciate the small signs she gives. A small vocalization, a single sound, can move me to tears. A lift of her arm can inspire me to congratulate her on the immense effort it took. Drinking a few ounces of milk from a sippy cup can cause me utter joy (because I'm not her utter!) The only time her contentment isn't subtle is when she breaks into laughter. The warm joy that spreads throughout our house is so infectious that we all pause appreciate it. Talia's laughter is a clear indication that she is still here, still a person and still in need of interaction. Laughter breaking through the silence is a sound I fear I will miss the most as her disease progresses