When Connor was first diagnosed, several people suggested that I would be going through a grieving process. I didn't get it. Why was I going to grieve? My son was alive and he wasn't suffering from a terrible illness. I just put my nose to the grindstone and got to work finding how to best help him.
I didn't cry when he got diagnosed, or even after some time went by. In fact, I didn't cry until just last year, when Connor was five years old. I was at a Burger King play place with a friend who also has a son with autism. Connor was running back and forth doing his usual thing: making noises, not paying attention to where he is running, and being in his own little, albeit happy, world. He frightened a younger girl and her "bigger" brother was getting into Connor's face to protect her. Connor didn't care, he didn't even notice. The father noticed, the other patrons noticed, and I noticed. I tried to explain it in a few simple words to the little boy and his father. I took Connor by the hand, left, and cried my eyes out all the way home.
I haven't cried since. Some tears may come to my eyes, but I push them back. I am afraid of what will happen if I actually let them go - I've just got to keep holding it together the best I can. If you know me well, you know that I am a bit of a control freak, and crying is losing control to me.
But I did learn the power of grief that day. It is mourning the loss of playing as the other children do at the dreaded fast-food-play-places of the world. It is the mourning of friends calling for play dates. It is the stab in the heart when other children and their parents look at your child and then you with "that look". It is realizing that you don't do so many things just because it is too hard. It is mourning the loss of what your child could be able to do without autism making it harder. It is your heart breaking when their brother or sister struggle with their part in the family. And you grieve every single day.
I guess you could say I was in denial about the grieving process. And I know, denial ain't just a river. But that will be a thought for another day . . .
Update 2020
4 years ago
1 comment:
Thank you for your beautiful reflections on the grieving process. So true - I don't think it hits you all at once, it hits you every day a little at a time. Like the Burger Kings and the mall playgrounds.
I get that "look" too - people first stare at Matthew for a second or two and then they look at me. Why is it they always want to see what the parents look like - are we going to give away some kind of "clue" to our child's disability or something? It's always the same. Kids never stare at him - with his coke bottle glasses, hearing aids, and funny speech. They just welcome him into the group and want to know what kind of toys he has.
One of the lessons I have learned from Matthew and his friends - we should all act more as the children do. The adults are the ones with the problems.
As you grieve you will also notice the gifts that Connor has been given because of his disability. Disabled children have miraculous abilities that "normal" kids do not - this is the real gift to the parents as most times we are the only ones who know about the wonderful things our kids CAN do.
You sound like you are dealing with the grief very well actually because you acknowledge it. That is all you need do, it is something that will accompany this lifelong journey and will continually change and reappear over the years.
Give Connor a big hug for me - he is a precious, precious child!
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