My Unhuggable Son

My sister Ellis, ten years my junior, is an introvert.  When she was little Ellis was encouraged in her desire to read as many books as Kepler’s could supply, even when Ellis felt like reading—seated with the rest of us—right through family dinner.

I, conversely, am so extroverted that only now, at forty-two, do I really like being alone.  When I was as young as four or five, I was encouraged to zip through the neighbor’s gate and play with the three kids next door as wholeheartedly as I was given permission to cross our shady road to visit the grandparent-like older couple with whom I made crèpes and listened to opera and cultivated orchids in a massive green house.

Ellis and I each, when it came time to have a first child, gave birth to a boy.

Oliver, now 3 years old, likes hugging as much as he likes brussels sprouts.

My Will and her Oliver—ten years apart, just like their mothers—dislike physical contact as much as Ellis and I love it.

When Will was little, Ellis and I used to joke about needing to come up with some sort of desensitization process so that one day he might enjoy the massage she and I can’t get enough of.

When I once sat next to her two-year-old Oliver on a bench at my parents’ he calmly scooted a few inches away as my sister said,  “Whoa!  Hold up there!  You got a lit-tle too close!”

There are, of course, many moments when I wish I could squeeze these boys, holding them as close as I do their siblings and their cousins and Ellis and my mom and dad and other family and friends.

Never, though, have I wanted to hug a person more—and have that person like it—than the three times Will got sad enough about his diabetes to cry.

Each of these moments is clear in my mind:

The end of the first week after diagnosis when Will realized his disease was never going away.

A random day’s fifth injection—the thousandth for the year?—that was especially and surprisingly painful.

The end of last summer when heading back to school meant a new beginning, but all Will wanted was a beginning that meant no more T1D.

On each of those occasions, my kid cried, and I can now say from personal experience there are few things more painful than standing beside a twelve-year-old boy who is crying and knowing that there is nothing you can do—not even pull him close—to convince that kid that you will solve his problem.

Just this morning, though, my eleven-year-old daughter and I were over at my parents’ house with little Oliver and his dad Ben.  When it came time for Gigi and me to leave, we did the sort of waving that feels so unsatisfactory to me but delights Oliver, who may not like to be hugged or massaged but who is—and let me make this clear—a supremely loving three year old.  Because Gigi had spent the night with Oliver at his house the night before, a special treat for both of them, Ben said, “Olive, don’t you want to give Gigi a finger hug?”

“A finger hug?” my daughter asked.

Ben held his finger out in front of him and encouraged Gigi to do the same.  Three-year-old Oliver came barreling over.  He wrapped his hand around her index finger and he squeezed.

I just got home.

I just told Will about the finger hug.

Will loves his little cousin.

I like to think he and Olive understand each other.

When I finished telling him, Will smiled.  He said, “Finger hug,” and he nodded, as if to confirm a certain wisdom.

My hope is that the next time Will cries in anger or pain or frustration—and I have no doubt, as long as we are fighting this disease, that there will be a next time—that I might reach out and squeeze my boy’s index finger.

In the hopes that a finger hug–or the idea of laughing at one–might make him feel the littlest bit better.

Readers!  What are your favorite non-hugging ways to make someone feel better?