It was 3:00 in the afternoon, and my phone rang. Distracted by surrounding racks of colorful clothing, I silenced my phone and placed it back in my purse. I continued shopping alongside my mother, my aunt, and my ninety-something-year-old Grandma who were visiting for Easter. As I scanned the aisles—searching for my mom who has a history of disappearing while shopping—I found a moment to check my voicemail. A sound of ringing preceded a message I will never forget.
As the cool autumn breeze brushes past my shoulders, I sit reflecting on Colton's annual VCFS (Velocardiofascial syndrome/DiGeorge Syndrome) appointment. I remember the cold, gray walls and the plush, indigo chairs in the psychologist's office. "This is not my regular office," the psychologist said. Toys were scattered throughout the room, stored in clear, rectangular Tupperware bins. Clearly a lot of "evals" took place here, with instruments of distraction to keep the kids busy.