A is for Apple … and Anguish

February 1998:

I was sitting at a stop sign, staring into space. My car was running but I was not moving. I believe I was attempting to exit a shopping mall, trying to turn left across traffic – at least that is what I think was happening. Honestly, at that moment, I wasn’t aware of what I was doing or where I was trying to go. I have absolutely no idea how long I sat there, zoned out, blanked out and staring straight ahead. Suddenly from behind me the loud honk of a car horn jerked me into the present moment. I blinked, looked around quickly and thought, “Who honked? Oh geeez, how long have I been sitting here?” It could have been minutes; it could have been hours. I was so disoriented that I was not sure what was going on. The car suddenly zoomed around me screeching his tires and barely missing my car. The driver turned his head toward me looking angry and full of disgust. He screamed obscenities out his window and angrily showed me the finger as he roared away leaving black tire marks on the road. With my heart pounding and my mind dazed and confused I said again, this time out loud, “How long have I been sitting here?” I was completely oblivious to everything around me. I tried to focus my mind and blinked my eyes to try and see clearly. Cautiously, I pulled through the intersection and wiped the tears that had now soaked the front of my face, neck and the collar of my shirt. Everything seemed to move in slow motion and I felt completely numb. My sadness and grief were quickly overtaking my entire body and spirit.

I drove to a nearby park and slowly parked the car. Taking a deep breath I pulled my son out of his car seat and placed his feet down on the ground. Trying to sound cheery I bravely said, “We are at the park buddy. Won’t we have fun?” No response. My body moved like dead weight as we headed toward the playground. My slow draggy movements completely contrasted with Brandon’s constant movement and fidgetiness. It was like trying to hold onto a puppy when he is ready to play. The day was warm, hot really, and I knew that in a few hours it would be too hot to be at the park. Blessedly, thankfully, the park was near empty. We took off for the swings because that was what we did – every time – at the park. The swings were our goal, our focus, his obsession. Brandon liked to swing on the baby swing for infinite periods of time. I put Brandon in the swing and began our routine – me pushing him and singing the one song he seemed to respond to. I couldn’t remember how many hundreds of times we had followed the same routine in the last few months. I was terrified to alter the routine – terrified of the tantrums I knew would follow if I dared to change our routine. Here we go, I thought and I began to sing to the rhythm of the swing: “A, you’re adorable, B, you’re so beautiful, C, you’re a cutie full of charm …” Brandon immediately seemed to calm down and stared off into space never once looking into my eyes.

I watched as more mothers began to arrive. They all looked fresh and clean and happy as their two or three children happily followed along and chatted with them. Each time another mother arrived, the lump in my throat grew larger and stronger … “D, you’re delightful, E, you’re exciting …” As long as I kept singing, I could somewhat keep my focus on Brandon and control my emotions. 

I was fascinated by the interactions going on between the moms and their children, some asking questions, others sharing joys. It all seemed so foreign to me … “F, you’re a feather in my arms …” My heart was breaking and I had no idea what to do about it. I wanted to scream, “Don’t you know how lucky you are? Don’t you see what a gift you have in being able to talk to your child and actually hear their voice in return?” But they all seemed absorbed in their own worlds, some chatting away on their cell phones, some scrolling through social media, completely oblivious to the creative, wonderful, enchanting things their children were saying and doing. Some were playing with their children chatting away about everything. Others were incessant talkers, as though they had an audience, actually believing that everyone at the park wanted, and needed, to hear all they had to say.

It was a confusing and strange scene taking place before me. My mind felt like mud and I couldn’t figure out what true reality was in that moment. I loved my son more than I could ever express but I could not stop the tears that fell behind my sunglasses. I vaguely wondered if my tears were obvious, if anyone noticed or cared, but then I just kept pushing that swing. I tried to hide my tears, tried to just keep singing quietly, but the tears just would not stop and my heart kept breaking and the world around me seemed to grow larger and louder as my heart (and world) continue to shatter. 

“G, you look good to me …”

The truth of the matter was, just days before, we had found out that our beautiful only son, had autism. I had absolutely no idea – standing in the middle of that park – how to make sense of any of it. Little did I know in that moment, that 23 years later I would remember with perfect clarity everything that I saw, felt and experience that first day I ventured out with the knowledge of a diagnosis. How in the world can it be 23 years? At the park I experienced profound confusion and sadness that I can barely express in words. But also on that day, I began a journey that has changed my life, brought me to my knees and taught me things about myself – and more importantly about God – that I didn’t even know I needed to learn.

And oh what a journey it has been…