Waiting For a Miracle

Over the years of raising Asaf, I clung tightly to the belief that one day he would open his mouth and call me “Mum.” It was a hope I held onto fiercely, despite the many doctors, teachers and therapists who gently, and sometimes not so gently, tried to convince me otherwise. They told me I needed to accept that it just wasn’t going to happen. I refused to let go of that dream.

Asaf has always had a spirit full of curiosity and adventure. When he was younger, he loved climbing on absolutely everything: playgrounds, furniture, and anything else he could scale, constantly testing his balance. His favorite challenge was climbing on the slanted roof of the slide in the playground behind our house. One moment he’d be beside me and the next he’d vanish. My heart would leap into my throat as I’d spot him balancing himself on the top of the roof grinning down at the world, blissfully unaware of the panic rippling through everyone around him. Watching him I couldn’t help but marvel at his determination. and the pure joy he found in these small victories, even if it terrified me to my core.

At home Asaf’s adventures were no less daring. One of his favorite spots was the meter high wall that separated our living room from my bedroom. He loved to climb up and sit there as if it were his personal perch, where he perfectly balanced he would survey the world below.

One day, as I busied myself nearby, I heard a movement followed by an almighty thud. Then there was silence.

The stillness that followed felt like it lasted a lifetime. My breath caught in my throat as a terrible question flashed through my mind: Is he dead?

The silence was suddenly shattered by an ear-piercing, high-pitched scream, a sound of pure terror and pain.

I rushed to him, my heart pounding, and pulled him into my arms. My first thought wasn’t, Is he okay? Has he broken something? Instead, to my own disbelief, a fleeting, irrational hope crossed my mind: Maybe this fall will shake something loose in his brain. Maybe this will be the moment he speaks.

It sounds absurd, I know, but when you live in the unrelenting hope of a single miracle, your mind takes you to strange places. That hope, stubborn and unyielding, had been my constant companion. It whispered to me in quiet moments; it held me steady through countless therapy sessions, and in this moment, it found its way into the aftermath of a fall.

As I cradled Asaf in my arms, comforting him as his tears soaked my shoulder, the thought faded, replaced by the familiar ache of longing. I didn’t know then, nor could I have imagined, that one day my hope would manifest in a way I never expected; that he would find his voice, not through speech, but through a keyboard. That shattered every belief I had about who he was and what he could do.

The first time Asaf typed the word “Mum” in his typing class, I felt as though the air had been knocked out of me. For so many years, I had held onto this word as a symbol of hope, a tangible marker of connection I believed I might never have. And there it was, clear and unmistakable, appearing slowly on the screen. M U M

I stared at the word, my mind racing to comprehend what I was seeing. For years, I had dreamed of hearing that word, spoken aloud. I had imagined it so vividly that I could almost hear it echoing in my ears.

Tears welled up as I glanced at him, his face calm and focused. He wasn’t looking at me but rather at the keyboard, as though it were his lifeline, his bridge to the world. In that moment it truly was.

I didn’t need him to say the word out loud. The fact that he had written it, consciously, deliberately, was more powerful than any sound could ever be. It wasn’t just a word; it was an acknowledgment of everything we had been through together, every tear, every triumph, every moment of quiet connection. It was as if he were saying, I see you, Mum. I know you’ve been waiting for this.

It was a moment that brought with it a cascade of emotions: happiness, relief and a bittersweet pang of regret for all the years I had spent waiting, wondering and doubting.

I knelt beside him, my voice trembling as I whispered, “Asaf, you have no idea how much this means to me.”

He didn’t respond right away, but there was a softness in his eyes, a glimmer of understanding that spoke volumes.

Looking back now, I understand that Asaf always had his voice; it was simply waiting for the right outlet to emerge. While I once dreamed of hearing him call me “Mum” aloud, the word he typed, crafted with such deliberate effort, carried a depth I hadn’t imagined. His words, though silent, resonate louder than I ever thought possible. They are his miracle and they are mine.

Sometimes, the dreams we cling to are realized in ways we never expected. Asaf’s journey has taught me that the miracles we hope for often arrive on their own terms, in their own time. It’s not about letting go of hope, it’s about expanding our vision to embrace the unexpected.Miracles, I’ve learned, aren’t always what we anticipate; they’re often so much more.