A parade of sparklers from last summer, about a thousand years ago.
I think it is me who is regressing this January. We did a lot, learned a lot, and worried a lot in 2012. I am wiser but much less brave than I was a year ago, having gone from sending our boy away to camp for a whole summer to being reluctant to send him to school for even a day. Sickness and Sandy Hook (not to mention a totally dysfunctional Federal government) make me think we are more vulnerable than ever and while we have a plan (as of yesterday) to get him healthier I haven’t the slightest clue how to rebuild our confidence. We were always wary of the outside world; now the outside world is wary of us. When we ventured out over the holiday season I noticed that I stopped using the word “autistic” to explain odd behaviors – in fact I avoided saying anything at all to anyone about him, and made more of an effort to avoid eye contact. I am ashamed that I want to be invisible, angry that people are spreading ignorance and fear about autism and appalled that I have allowed it to affect my behavior. Still, we go out a lot and, like many parents these days, we do our best to show and tell our children how much we love them. And, quite literally, we hang onto them a little tighter than we used to.
Happy New Year.
The lesson learned every day? That we don’t take the blame for what goes wrong and we can’t take credit for what goes right. We tried to accept a long time ago that most of what happens in life is out of our hands – and yet…years of data collection and analysis have forced us to look at evidence and then try to predict outcomes. We are compelled to try and control whatever is within our grasp, no matter how slippery.
So now we have this explosion of language and introspection and creativity and we cannot resist the urge to ask, “Did we do something to make this happen?” Maybe. Somewhere out of the many new situations that life gave our boy, a window opened, a breeze blew through and the seeds of success landed and took root. We created some of the circumstances (camp) and others decidedly not (the loss of JM) but at this moment we see a sense of strengthening purpose and engagement and the hope it brings leaves us blinking in the sunlight.
We know it might not last in its current state – I don’t think we will ever be free from regression. And we all regress sometimes, learning from those same mistakes again and again (Why did I eat that? Why did I say that? Why did I drink so much of that?). But when fundamental skills – like speaking in paragraphs instead of phrases – ebb and flow we find we will do anything to keep that window open and the breezes flowing knowing full well we could wake up one morning to find it closed. The prospect of losing something so hard won triggers every possible human response: hope, fear, optimism, cynicism, love, faith, superstition, luck, magic, and faith – all tempered by what can only be called PTSD. The shock and awe of those early years can return in an instant when he looks at me and his eyes are blank and he is seeing only what is inside his head.
But thinking about it now won’t make it happen – and it won’t fix it when it does – so I will be thankful for the gifts we have today and have faith that they will still be there when we wake up tomorrow.