Sometime in the last half of the 20th century the folks at NASA sent a golden record, a playable disc with music and sounds, into space. I think on one side, the record had normal grooves like a vinyl record and the other side had scientific diagrams, including a very abstract map of where earth is in our solar system, directions on how to play the record, and a basic head-to-toe simple illustration of a naked man and a woman representing who made and sent the record.
beep.
Obviously the goal was that some intelligent life would/will come across it, learn how to play the “sounds of earth” from its grooves and decode our meanings behind the graphics, to uncover our thoughtful attempt reaching across the millions of miles to connect. Then maybe they would ping us back with their own record made of non-earth materials, with line drawings of their bodies, and a map of their home turf.
boop.
Hurling a tiny spec into the vast darkness, hoping someone will see it.
beep.
A flash of gold.
boop.
Was that a glint, or did my eyes blink weirdly for a millisecond?
beep.
These are my signals. This is our golden record.
Deletion 8q12.3q13.2 - right now it is the only one of its kind.
I send an email out into the infinite internet, trying to connect our family with another little someone who has a similar chromosomal deletion. I am trying to find a child, in the billions of bright as stars smiles, like ours. I suspect my message winds up in a junk box, or maybe worse, in the email account you use when you order things online like a present for your dad from LLBean. It remains unread, wedged between the “What’s New at Ticketmaster this Month” and the reminder from J.Crew that they’ve got another sale.
boop.
Tucked somewhere in there is my plea.
beep.
My plea for information so that I could feel more at peace, so I could talk with another mother going through the same thoughts, seeing the same view, feeling the same feels. I am looking for answers, or best guesses on all the things I want to know, all the parts of our daughter's book that are unwritten. Little questions or big questions, things that I think most parents don’t wonder. Will she walk? Will she read or write? Will she draw? Make up songs? Will she need special equipment? Will she catch up? I don’t know. Do you, mother-I-cannot-find? I wait. Silence. I check. Nothing. There’s no sound out here, no echo even, so my voice doesn’t carry beyond its own shout.
boop.
...Will she be happy?...
beep.
I’ve seen others’ pleas. I’ve read posts written by parents of the newly diagnosed in forums from 2003, 2008, 2012. No replies, the rarity of the disorder just leaves the quiet vacuum of space. I wonder, where are you now? How is your child? I don’t know you, but I am thinking so much of you and your desperate message so long ago. I just found it, I’m so sorry I couldn’t get there sooner. I didn’t know I would need to.
How long do we keep in orbit, before we get a signal back?
boop…….. (i’m here)
I joked the other day with my husband that the internet is bigger than space and that I was sending these satellites emails out into the darkness, not knowing if they’ll ever be answered, not knowing if someone else is doing the very same, our paths crossing against the binary built night sky. These 1s and 0s colliding with chromosomal Ps and Qs. Are search engines better than traveling telescopes? Some mother from the future is desperately entering terms into google and we will pop up. Who will find our golden record? Can they hear me now?
beep. beep. beep. beep. beep.
I replied to you.
boop.
Do you check that same email address from 2003?
beep. (we’re here!)
boop. (come find us).
beep. (please)
