As Autism Awareness month comes to an end, I feel compelled to post for the first time in a year. What I’d like to say is Thank You: Thank you to all those families over this past year who I’ve been honored to walk beside in some small part of their journey – as they either started to explore the possibility of an autism diagnosis, began to navigate the world of services, or continued the delicate balance of the business of grieving and hoping.
What is weighing on me most, however, is this feeling of constantly being a fraud. I sit across from you, expected to have the answers. I welcome you and assure you we’re going to help you sort out what’s going on with your kiddo and help make a plan of intervention. Yet, I wonder if you can tell what kind of morning I just had with my own child? Does it show that our continued attempts at smooth transitions – with timers, and visuals, and warnings, etc.- were all failures this morning? Does my smile come across as empathetic or as pathetic and exhausted? Maybe you even saw me run down the road chasing him at some point and on the inside you’re just laughing.
When you express to me your concerns about the future and I assure you of your child’s endless potential, do you see through me? Do you believe me when I tell you that I strongly believe in the power of early intervention? Or can you tell that I’ve lost sleep worrying about how slowly my own child is progressing? That I worry that he may never read and without that skill he might never have gainful employment. When I talk about putting behavioral interventions in place do you notice my fresh bruises or my scars? When you say you and your family can’t even go out anymore, does it show that we’ve been there too?
If we encourage you to apply for or enroll in other resources, do you take our advice? Is this a fruitful exercise for you? Or should I warn you that this is just another frustrating road to walk down as a parent? (That even if you qualify for the service, you’re unlikely to find a provider available to provide it.)
How can I help you, when I can’t help us? Maybe I shouldn’t be saying thank you at all, maybe I should say I’m sorry.
But this walk is not linear. This walk is an honour. When I am convinced my son will never read, I remember how long it took him to hold a pencil and begin to write. I remember there was a time when he couldn’t hold his bottle or a spoon and acted like his left arm didn’t exist. On our worst days we adjust our plans and might have to stay in, but are thankful we’ve made it to a place where we are able to go out and do things and all enjoy it in our own way on the good ones. He is successful at school. He is loved. He has friends. He is growing everyday, as am I.
There are days I sit across from you and I feel as tired and as worn as you come in. Other days I am inspired by the successes we are currently having in our own home. I hope to let both the good and bad days humble me, to make me understand all your days better, and to be some help to you along the way. It really does take a village. Thank you and I’m sorry.
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