Breaking the news

I should have mentioned it sooner. That thought crosses my mind as I am asked a simple question: “Do you have kids?” I usually try to work it in long before the question is asked. But for some reason it didn’t work out that way today.           

“Yes. Just one. A boy, 17.” I respond, wary of the topic. “Oh? What grade is he in?” she asks. Scrambling to think, I say. “Tenth, No eleventh. Yes eleventh.” Her quizzical look seems to say, “You don’t know what grade your only child is in?”

No, I don’t. We don’t move from classroom to classroom or get a new teacher each year. The school year isn’t punctuated by summer vacation. A day rolls into a week and then a year with little change.

I try to segue to a new topic as she interjects the question of where Sam goes to school. “We don’t go to school locally,” I say finally. “Sam is has autism and attends a wonderful school about an hour away.”

I catch the look of discomfort as it flits across her face. I watch her hand briefly cover her mouth as if to prevent the words, “I am so sorry” from spilling out. And there it is. The subtle reminder my child is undesirable to some.

I want to tell her a part of me understands. When I first heard the word autism, I was scared. But that was so early on I barely remember the emotion. I don’t know if she would understand.

She hasn’t experienced the laughter. She hasn’t seen the victories. She doesn't know the joy or laughter. She doesn’t know the people we have met. She hasn’t had her heart melt as Sam looks deeply into her eyes with an ever-sly grin. She doesn’t know the quiet peace of holding hands. She doesn’t know our life.

And so I smile and gently respond, “Thank you. But I am not sorry.” What I hope she does understand is that like her, I see perfection in my child. Like her, I can't imagine him any other way. 

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Putting the special in Olympics

I hate skiing. I really do. I don’t like the cold, the snow or the clunky equipment.

Still, some eight years ago I brought Sam up to Wachusett Mountain to attempt skiing with Special Olympics. I was hoping he would hate it. I could say we tried and move on with my good mother halo intact. 

He started by getting a feel for the equipment. Boots on and skies snapped into place, Sam intuitively bent his knees and found his center of gravity. I remember saying, "Hey that’s great, enough for today. We’ll come back another day." But Sam looked up at the big mountain, “Want ski!” That isn’t the kind of statement you can ignore. Particularly when it comes from a kid who barely talks.

That began eight years of the mad Tuesday night dash to Wachusett Mountain where Sam worked with wonderful volunteer coaches like Melissa, John and Dave and in earlier years, Maureen, Lynn, Kevin and Ken. Each taught Sam something important. With their help Sam quickly progressed to the chair lift. I remember the first time he fearlessly skied down the mountain sporting a grin encompassing his entire face all while reciting, “Green Eggs and Ham.”

Everyone cheered. So we continued.

Saturday we completed our eighth finals at Wachusett with teams from all over the state. The waiting room was noisy, confusing and congested with people: your basic nightmare for a kid with autism and lots of sensory issues.

Somehow Sam rose to the occasion, displaying a tolerance he typically can’t master. He patiently waited in the start position at the top of the hill for over 30 without loosing his cool. He cheered through endless awards despite the background din of a few hundred people and the reverberations of a noisy microphone.

I mentioned to one of the other moms at the beginning of the finals that Sam really didn’t care about the metals or winning. We participated for the weekly ski practices. But I watched Sam as the day progressed and I saw something different. I saw tolerance and perseverance. I saw pride.

It is true Sam wouldn’t mind if everyone in the room got a medal except him. It wouldn’t even slightly dent his self-esteem. But that isn’t to say he doesn’t like metals. 

This year he won three. A bronze, silver and finally a gold. Each time he went up to retrieve his medal he stood on an increasingly higher pedestal. Each time he smiled more broadly.

By the third trip up he glowed. 

To every coach, volunteer, mom and dad who offered kind words or an encouraging smile over the last eight years: You’ve converted me. No, you’ll never see me anywhere except the base of the mountain, it’s true. But you have made every trek to the mountain worthwhile. 

I can’t thank you enough.