Acceptance

I've spent a lot of days in the past four years just surviving.

I have said over and over that this past year, I've been fine. Free of depression. That's all well and good, of course, but I was sort of, without realizing it, still only surviving day to day.

In a few weeks, we will mark one year ago that William was diagnosed. He has not only crossed more hurdles than I ever saw coming, but he's lept over them with vigor to spare. I've said it before: my son is a champion. Me? I've come a long way, but have oh, so far to go.

I recall to mind this month, with humble sobriety, where my mind was set, where I put our family goals this time last year. I thought, yes. I'm about to see a neurologist in a few weeks who will surely (even eventually) diagnose my son with autism. But recovery is possible. I've seen a million stories. Biomedical works. ABA works. We're getting him help no matter what I have to do. This time next year, we'll be looking at mainstream preschools.

Seriously. I thought that.

I still think all those treatments work (I'm watching it with my own eyes!), and I still know there's nothing I wouldn't do to get him what he needs. But. I guess it's going to take longer than a year. That's amusing, sure. But, let's think about this: ...he might not recover, ever. Even though there are kids all over the country and all over the world who are losing their spectrum diagnoses every day, William might have his into adulthood. I mean, he might. He might not. But he might.

A year ago, I couldn't bear the thought. I either had to reacquaint myself with the abyss of depression, or I had to rule "not recovering" an impossibility. So, for a year, it was impossible.

Now, I have faced the seven stages of grief. Hey, guys, remember me doing all this stuff?

1. Anger and denial. I remember the first time George's aunt suggested William had autism. I was furious and thought it was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. He was 12 months old, and, um, he had autism.

2. Pain and guilt. If you've read my blog, like, ever...you remember me working through that s***. I mean, WHAT DID I DO TO MY BABY?!? I remember just wanting to scream in agony. All the time.

3. Anger and bargaining. It pissed me off, you know? Why can everyone else have perfectly healthy kids? Why is it my kid? Why is it any kid? And, okay, fine, he has autism, but we're gonna fix it. We're making this better; I don't care if I have to sell my kidneys. Or, like, my gall bladder. People have that removed all the time. Seriously, do I need that?

4. Depression, reflection, loneliness. I hit this over the summer. Every day, a city away from all our friends, anyone we know. Just me and Nora, digging our toes in the sandbox and a park, by ourselves. I stopped cooking. I didn't see the point, since hardly anything was safe for William anymore. I felt like autism ruined us, all hope we had of ever being social or having a life outside the walls of our home (literal and figurative), or, you know, eating. I felt everything come back, only the pain wasn't so acute as it was at first. It was a deep, long ache. Ohhh, this happened. And look what it's done. You know?

5. The upward turn: calmer and more organized. We've become more organized with our diet. I started thinking about food again, in terms of packing lunches and recipe gathering. School started, bringing routine back to the house, forcing social situations.

6. Reconstruction and working through: I started cooking again last month. The new plan is to cook for me, George, and Nora. Everything I make is safe for him, but if he doesn't want it, fine. If he tries it, it's an accomplishment worth celebrating. We've worked playdates into our afternoons, since we can't meet our playgroup in the mornings. I've connected with a few autism experts and parents of spectrum kids. And I'm concocting new plans for his future treatment, focusing on his whole person--not just squashing the behaviors I don't want to see.

7. Acceptance and hope. Here I am. I have, almost exactly one year later, accepted my son's diagnosis. He has autism, and that's it. He doesn't have autism for the year, or for just the years leading up to kindergarten. This is going to be on our radar for a long time. And that's okay. We have some great ideas, and we're ready to move forward.

My goal all along has been to change him into a normal kid. Now, it's to help him. Really help him. That, all by itself, feels like hope.