Jennifer Byde Myers
Grocery shopping this morning, a mom and her son passed by me in the
floral department. She is probably in her 50’s because her son looked
about 10 years older than mine… and yes, her boy plays for our team:
Autism. Right down to the 6 foot 2 inches of young man flapping his
hands next to the strawberries and “oooo–Wheeeeing” in the dairy
section. I could tell before the stims though, it’s amazing how quickly I
can spot a person with autism who’s in the same part of the spectrum as Jack.
When I see another family with a special needs child, I always try to
smile — at the child, or the parent, hopefully both, to show that, even
though I don’t have a stamp on my forehead or my son in tow, I
understand a little bit about their life. I always hope that a friendly smile will make a person feel there is
more good than ill-will in this world. I know there are days when I just
hope that we can get through one single transaction without a struggle,
and knowing that there are compassionate strangers nearby can make all
the difference for me. But she wouldn’t make eye contact with me, or
anyone else for that matter, except her son.
And while I
thought it was precious that she spoke to him so clearly, looking
directly into his face, in an undistracted and meaningful way, I also
found it a little distressing to think that perhaps she has had to block
the rest of us out. I felt compelled to go over to her, and make some
benign comment about her shoes to initiate a conversation, just to make
sure she knew that there are those of us out here, who would help if we
could, and know a lot of resources, and could take the cart if things
got a little hairy in the parking lot (even though her son was doing an
awesome job). And, let’s face it, I just wanted to take care of her. Which made me
feel a little like a creepy stalker, because maybe she just wasn’t that
social in the first place. I think what I really wanted to know is
this: will I become like her? and will Jack be like her son?
I be so over other people staring at us by then that I will stop
bothering to make eye contact? Will I look a little more resigned, but
braver just the same? Will I look that tired, which is even more tired
than I look now? Will my shoulders be that hunched? Will I look like I
*really* need a break?
and will my son be pushing the
cart? Helping a bit, pausing for a little stim, then back to the cart,
not running anyone over, not running off? Will Jack still be with me,
daily, when he’s 20? 30? (and will he be that handsome?)
Jack wears a size 8 shoe already (that’s a 10 woman’s shoe in case you need a
little frame of reference.) He grows taller and stronger and more like a young man every day. It’s getting harder to pretend that he is going to
stay a little boy forever when you’re shopping for shoes that big. And
like so many parents, the future seems so far away right now.
|photo courtesy of Moore & Warner|
For awhile things were so hard I couldn’t wait for Jack to get older, and grow out of whatever those troubles were. Then he
got older and surprise! that age had its own pile of troubles. And
certainly we experienced a lot of joy in there too, but it always seemed
like a better version of our family was just around the corner. I am
trying to be more aware, and happy with exactly where I am at any given
time, and now that we’ve gained some stability, I’ve been been
neither looking back or looking forward. We’ve just sort of been living,
and enjoying, which I think is okay as long as I get back to that
planning for the future thing, fairly soon. Sniff some flowers, but stay
on the trail. And I want to make sure there’s a plan for me too;
maintaining my friendships, increasing the vegetable intake, getting
more sleep. I don’t really want to end up looking like that old red
barn we pass on our way to the coast: confident, but beaten down, still
in use but possibly not structurally sound anymore.
There are so many things to worry about, to obsess over, to wonder, and so much to do, all the time. That day, of course, I went to the grocery store without a shopping list, came home with eight bags of groceries, and still had no plan for dinner. So
perhaps I’ll start with feeding my family before I move on to the rest
of my life.
A version of this essay was previously published on Salon.com, on February 11, 2011.