Michelle,
I've found over the years that "success" has a million tiny definitions for
our kids. While our boys have just started with Dr. G, I did want to share a
piece of writing with you that I tought might make you smile--yes, I write
about autism :c). I hope this helps...I know how it is on those days you
feel you can't see the light--any small success helps.
~~
A Litany of Worries
My six-year old daughter's eyes glittered with fury as she shook her fist at
the boy who shoved her little brother into the sand. "Don't touch him, he's
special," she said through gritted teeth. One look Gina, hands planted
firmly on her hips, was enough to send David's would be attacker scurrying
away.
Gina's fair hair whipped about her face as she reached down to hug her little
brother. "Don't worry. You'll get your voice back."
David is autistic. By the looks of it, my five-year old son may never speak
other than to say "Mama." Gina has named herself her brother's protector,
and she exhibits a feral devotion to David.
Gina looked up from the sandbox and told me that the Sea Witch from Disney's
Little Mermaid stole her brother's voice away, and that it was her job to
find it.
I count myself lucky that Gina has appointed herself as David's advocate.
But I worry about the size of the load she has chosen to carry. She spends
much of her time looking for somewhere to place the blame for her brother's
condition. The Sea Witch seems the perfect scapegoat. After all, she stole
Ariel's voice. "She must have taken David's, too, Mommy."
Every night when David goes to sleep, Gina begs me to take her outside and
let her talk to the stars. It's our special time together and we stand side
by side, arms wrapped around each other while she searches for the perfect
wishing star.
Finally, she chooses. Gina steps away from me, turns her wide eyes up to
Heaven and whispers her wish, which is always the same. "Please, God, let
David get his voice
back." I hold Gina close and hard, hiding my tears. She is so full of
selfless hope at an age where she should be wishing for teddy bears and tea
parties.
I tuck Gina into bed and begin my nightly ritual of worry. Worries are my
litany, and of them I have many. Worries about David. About Gina. About
how difficult the road ahead might be for them. About dashing my daughter's
hopes for her brother's eventual recovery. About limiting my son with this
elusive label he wears: autism. I wonder, sometimes, if my little boy can
even comprehend how much we love him. I roll the rosary beads between my
fingers, praying. "Let my son have a happy life." I am afraid to pray for
anything more.
Gina tip-toes into my room and slides under the covers with me. I can tell
by the way her mouth forms a straight line across her face that something is
troubling her. Gina spoons herself up next to me and scoots in as close as
she can. "What's wrong, honey?"
"Will the Sea Witch take my voice, too?" Her voice is tiny, and tight, as if
she is about to cry. I bury my face in her hair, and try to tell her, again,
that no one stole David's voice. That David learns differently from us, and
how our words must sound to him like what it does to Gina when our
housekeeper speaks to her in Spanish.
Gina nods her head and is silent. I rub the smooth skin of her back, and
soon her breath is slow and regular, as if she is sleeping. Suddenly, she
turns to me and says: "I bet the Sea Witch put David's voice in a clam
shell. Can we go to the ocean tomorrow?"
"No," I laugh. "It's still too cold out."
"But maybe we can go to the pet store? David would like that." The far away
look in Gina's eyes tells me that she's contemplating something of monumental
importance. Still, I tell her yes. She needs more yes's in her life. Gina
smiles, turns over on her tummy, and is asleep in seconds, leaving me to
wonder what my child is dreaming up now.
I've tried so many things to spark David's interest in others. My son shows
no desire for a relationship with anyone other than me. He is content to
spend his days at the kitchen table, rolling his matchbox cars back and
forth, over and again. I don't recall ever seeing him play with anyone else.
The only thing David likes better than rolling cars is riding in them. Gina
knows this and she also knows that showing David his shoes is his signal that
we are going out today. I see, as Gina dangles David's shoes between him and
his cars, that she hasn't forgotten my promise to take her to the pet store.
Gina whispers something in David's ear as I pry his feet into his shoes.
We spend an hour in the pet store, Gina's face pressed to the cages, as she
laughs at the puppies. David stares, oblivious to the bouncing balls of
fluff, at the flickering of the florescent lights. His stroller reaches the
end of the row of puppies. David sits up and giggles as a tiny black puppy
bangs paws the cage.
"Mommy, that's the one, that's David's friend," Gina squeals.
My daughter's plan is suddenly clear to me. She has brought us here to find
a friend for David. The last thing I need is a puppy added to the whirlwind
of our lives. Still, David shows interest. He stands in his stroller and
laughs.
I turn away, wistful. How can I possibly make room for a dog in our life?
Who's to say that David would ever take notice of a pet for longer than these
few minutes?
"It's a lot to think about, Gina. A dog needs lots of care."
"Please, Mommy?"
The earnest sincerity in my daughter's face nearly overwhelms me. Still,
there is more to owning a dog than her mind can comprehend at this age.
"I'll think about it," I promise, half hoping that Gina might forget this one
particular scheme to help her brother.
The dog goes unmentioned all day. I am relieved, but I can't relinquish the
image of my son laughing at the antics of that little dog.
The last rays of the sun are slanting through the blinds as my daughter comes
running down the hall. "Mommy, Mommy. Look!"
She drags me by the hand down the hallway to her room. David is sprawled out
on Gina's bed, surrounded by a sea of stuffed dogs-toys that he has never
touched or shown the remotest interest in before. His small hands try to
make the toy dogs walk. David's experience this afternoon obviously made an
impact on him.
The next morning, we own the black ball of fluff and Gina cheers all the way
to the car.
David watches the puppy's antics from the safety of his kitchen chair for
hours. As he watches the puppy romp with Gina, a whole array of expressions
crosses his round-cheeked face. Surprise. Interest. Laughter. Smiles.
But still, David makes no move to touch the dog. As if intuiting David's
reluctance, the puppy makes no obvious gestures towards my son other than to
kiss his ankles as they dangle from the kitchen chair. If nothing else comes
of this, I think, David's giggles are reward enough. I silently promise not
to expect anything more..
Our first day with the puppy that Gina calls Mikey has passed in a flurry of
delighted squeals. Gina falls asleep chattering about how happy her brother
is with Mikey to protect him.
David lays on the couch, sausage rolled in his favorite fleece blanket.
Mikey jumps, ever so gently, into the crook between David's outstretched hand
and the back of the couch. As his lids flutter towards sleep, his index
finger strokes the silky fur of the puppy's paw. David is rewarded with a
kiss to his palm. A gentle half smile forms on my son's lips. He sighs
deeply, buries his face in his dog's side, and laughs.
David has found a friend. I have found peace in Gina's realization that in
spite of David's difficulties, he is still a little boy who can bask in the
love of a dog. Suddenly, David the autistic has taken a back seat to David
the child.
My litany of worries is lighter by one.
copyright 1999, Traci Yates-Poff, excerpt from "On Mended Wings: Life Lessons
Learned from my Autistic Sons."