So it’s official. My daughter has dyslexia. I should not have feared an ambiguous diagnosis. She is a classic case in every area in which she was tested. This includes a very high score on her overall intelligence level. Translation: she is extremely bright. She’s eight years old. She can’t read.
The irony that my daughter has a mother who passionately loves the subtle, rich texture of books, reading, and writing breaks my heart. The permanence of this diagnosis weighs on me. The words “Create a file with everything we are giving you. You will need this documentation for her in middle school, high school, college, and she may need it as an adult” echo in my mind.
Some of the saddest words I’ve ever heard I heard today when the diagnostician said “Your daughter does not and will probably not ever experience books like you do. Her brain is not wired in a way that will allow her to become lost in the written word. Reading will most likely always be an academic exercise.” At this, I laid my head on the table and wept.
Tomorrow I will be busy developing an action plan for daughter. Flash cards will be made. Books will be bought. A summer program will be chosen. Web sites and research will be accessed.
Today. I grieve.