Lily Blooming

These Oriental Lily bulbs were planted lovingly by me this spring. I watched intently as the first spires broke through the earth, counting down the number of bulbs as they made their entrances. “Welcome to the party!” I said when I saw them emerge from the earth, as I do with every new plant. This lily was meagre, to begin with. It grew slower than all the rest and was smaller overall. While the others stood proudly pointing their buds to the sky, eager to burst open, this lily was barely out of the dirt.

One day, I noticed that the wee buds capping the stunted plant were too heavy for its tiny stalk to bear. It had slumped over onto the ground face first and was likely going to die. My first thought was, well that one won’t make it. I could have left it, citing survival of the fittest and all that. I started to walk away, committing this underdeveloped lily to return to the earth. Something stopped me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a snake-like piece of driftwood that I had placed in another part of the garden. Ever so gently, I cupped the wilted stalk in my hand and shimmied the driftwood beneath it. It was the perfect height and propped up the lily so that it, too, was facing the sun. I still expected it to die, but I had tried.

Within a couple of days, and to my amazement, this lily bloomed with the most beautiful flower. One, then another, and another. I was moved by the effect of my simple generosity. To prop up this flower took nothing from me but my intention and little effort. For the lily, it meant everything. That support, both figuratively and literally, gave the plant what it needed to achieve its purpose. It created equity between itself, with its diminished abilities, and the other plants. And it excelled at that purpose. The blooms on this special lily were exceptionally more vivid and brighter than the others, what a show-off.

From the moment she arrived, I sensed that my first-born daughter, Lily, needed more than most. Physically, she was healthy. Cognitively, she was healthy. At 17 months, she would ask “Mum, may I please have a…” when she wanted something and “Thank you!” for any little thing done for her. She was over two years old when I had to tell her “No!” for the first time in a stern voice. She cried for hours and still remembers it vividly to this day. She was an angel. I came to the belief that ‘The Terrible Twos’ were an urban myth created by inattentive mothers.

Lily needed more emotional support than most. She needed constant reassurance. If she didn’t get enough sleep or food, or her daily activities were rushed or thrust upon her without warning, she was a mess. I was innately aware of her need for calm, so I became a willing slave to routine. Outings were planned in time slots to be followed by her nap. If God forbid, she woke up from an unscheduled nap anywhere other than her own bed, she was inconsolable. If she fell asleep in the car and was startled awake as we pulled into the driveway, she would scream for hours afterward. She didn’t like being held. She was much more content in her little vibrating chair where she could see me flit about the house amid my domestic duties. Loud or unexpected noises would send her into a meltdown. Don’t even get me started on those fucking hand dryers in public washrooms. I still jump out of my skin when I hear the loud whir rev up. PTSD sends me back to the days when I would scoop her up like a kidnapper, hands washed or not, and whisk her out of the washroom amidst her pain-filled screams and concerned glances from the other women. Just because someone turned on the hand dryer.

As she got older, she was very inquisitive. I had to explain everything to her, or she would get upset. Educating my children through their own curiosity is the cornerstone of my parenting style or I’m certain the unending questions would have given me an aneurysm long ago. Maybe it did, and what I think are nerves of steel are actually the lobotomy-like after-effects. She needed to know where we were going, who would be there, what we would be doing, and how long it would take. She’s never liked surprises.

She also never played much with the other kids. The highlight of her young social life was when children were still only into parallel play. Once they got older and began to huddle in groups and play games together, she would go off and play quietly on her own. She seemed more content this way. I never pushed her, because I knew it would only backfire with my stubborn little queen in training. Her father had a much harder time understanding Lily. He values adventure, spontaneity, and social pursuits. He strongly encouraged her towards these things, while I understood she would find her own way there, in her own time.

As Lily began middle school, her struggles became overwhelming. As an eccentric, she had been mildly bullied for years, but as she completed sixth grade it became unbearable. Her inner and outer worlds were chaos. During the summer before seventh grade, she was bullied by a ‘friend’ on social media who told her to go kill herself. Even though she changed schools and continued to receive therapy and support, by Thanksgiving she attempted suicide. Over the next six months, she attempted multiple times and spent weeks in and out of the children’s psychiatric ward. The trauma of leaving my baby there in that cold room wearing a hospital gown that was so big it swallowed her tiny frame is something branded in my psyche for eternity. She was struggling with more than I knew how to handle on my own. When she was home, in between her stays at the hospital, I was on 24/7 suicide watch. For months. There has never been anything scarier for me as a mother than to have to protect my beautiful daughter from herself. I went on leave from my job to be with her, even though we were struggling financially as it was. I clung to a faith that if I put her first and did the right thing even if others thought it wasn’t ‘practical’, that it would work out. I am thankful and humbled that it did.

When I observed the lily bloom in my garden with such voracity after my simple act of support, I was overcome by the parallel between the flower and my beautiful daughter. With simple yet individualized support, my Lily has bloomed. Finally diagnosed with ADHD, which had previously made it impossible for her to focus on schoolwork, she is now an honour student. Accepting that she is on the spectrum, and gaining knowledge about neurodivergence, has only helped her feel like she isn’t a freak, and she isn't alone. She has a solid friend group. She speaks up for herself. She is insightful as to what her triggers are. She challenges herself and surprises me constantly with her newfound bravery. She wants to become a surgeon. This year she walked right up to her new teacher on the first day of school and introduced herself. The ways in which she has grown past the darkest days of her young life, and used it to propel her forward, is infinitely inspiring.

It was my brilliant Lily who explained to me the difference between equality and equity. She explained it like this; There is a foot race and one of the participants is disabled. He only has one leg. Equality is when the racers are provided with the same parameters for competing in the race. Each participant is given their racer number and starts from the same line. Equity is when the disabled man is given a prosthetic leg before the race. Now he has the same basic ability to race, and perhaps, win.

There are many who struggle to enter the race at all. We have hidden, often invisible, challenges that create inequity between us and others. Neurodivergents that didn’t even know for much of their lives or still don’t that they’re wired differently and have different challenges. We may need different support at different times. Knowing what we need or having someone there to help us level the playing field, may not be what we’ve experienced. But then there’s the children. I speak for myself when I say I wish my parents had seen my potential beyond my limitations. Give the children quiet if they need quiet. Let them run if they need to run. Get them therapy so they have someone else to talk to if they seem withdrawn or angry. Sometimes, all someone needs is to be lifted beyond their personal obstacles so that they have the chance to show what they can really do.

~Leah Marguerite