It was one of those "Kodak moments." A photo that will be treasured, framed, put on table and seared into memory: Julian, handsome. Cap and gown. Mother, Julie, beautiful, smiling. Father Billy, handsome, smiling as well. Proud. Pride. I gushed in my Facebook comments at how beautiful they looked and how exciting their futures. And then I stopped and checked within. Inside of me. Yes. Of course I felt this joy for them. Moments later I traveled in my thoughts to Anne. Her daughter would graduate at the end of the week.
And then I cried a single tear.
Bittersweet?
Joy for them. Celebration in their fullness. Knowing that I have my own fullness. Just different. So 18 years later I am just visiting this pain?! Damn! I hit the ground running when I learned my daughter had autism. It was about the time our small playgroup was dissolving, our children entering different preschools. There were miles and miles to run. Miles of marathons. None of us are at the finishing line. The finishing line will come at death, I guess. But maybe at 18, our children break through a ribbon at the end of one long race.
The destinations are different and Grace has another year to go before she walks across the stage and get what our state allows: a certificate of attendance. This fall, Julie's son and Anne's daughter will go on to college, new adventures and careers. I cannot romanticize the hurdles that they will also face. To do so would not be reality–telling the truth to myself. Nor, compassionate nor fair.
Rocks are hard. Water is wet. I will spend my daughter's 18th summer taxing her around town to venues of intervention for three hour periods of time. I'll camp out in coffee shops and try to work.
Peace. Joy. Acceptance. It is a cocktail that I choose to sip. Sometimes more readily than others.
Funny. When my teacher began probing at this scabed over wound, never healed all these years, I recalled this post I'd written a year-and-a-half ago: Mother Angst. Mother Peace. The flaw that I see in it now, all this time later is this:
"Perhaps I had felt a twinge when the other moms compared notes about their teen girls. I know I did have a fleeting thought about the contrast in our lives, mine including a teen daughter as well, but who has moderately severe autism. But the thought was just that, fleeting. Had I felt a twinge? Maybe. But I am so used seeing those thoughts race in and then out of my mental doors, that I don't offer them a place to sit. I just seem to notice their coming and going some of the time."
…The fact that I allowed the uncomfortable thoughts to race in and then out again, I now know, means I never grieved this aspect of my journey. I made peace with difference. But I never stopped and took toll and grieved what could have been. What is is fine and beautiful. But what could have been has to be grieved. So, here. Now. As my friends' children go on and off to more typical paths that we expect our children to follow, I am faced with this. Though painful to realize, I am grateful for the opportunity as I know it will only deepen and expand my wholeness.
The rest of the series:
This post has inspired me to write about my own grief. Thank you.
Seems I have to feel it for it to truly pass through me. Jumping over or around just leaves it there for another day. Sucks in a beautiful sort of way.
Beautifully, beautifully expressed, as always.
I think one of the many things I admire about you is your unflinching ability to look at the deepest parts of yourself and call them what they are. Precious few of us really have the courage to do that– I know there are many times in my life that I have much preferred to flinch! But you are definitely the better for it, and so are all of us lucky enough to have crossed your path.
Thank you all for responding. I appreciate it greatly.