Wishing and Hoping
By Katie Donohue Bevins
Editor's note: The opinions expressed herein are those of the author exclusively.
By Katie Donohue Bevins
Editor's note: The opinions expressed herein are those of the author exclusively.
I had spent most of this week organizing fall/winter clothes, cleaning closets and thinning out toys and books – a nesting feeling that always hits me in mid-October – when sunlight is fierce and quick and my tired knees ache with the promise of rain. While cleaning out a bookshelf, I came across a journal that I had kept for a while. I had always loved the feeling of pen against paper, the measured, slow translation of mind to notebook, but that has since been replaced by quick typing skills and the easiness and portability of a laptop. I had filled several pages with my thoughts exactly a year ago, and one page was titled, “My Wish for Sean.”
I was curious to see what I had wished for a year ago, in a seasonal setting so similar to today, the trees changing in a fury of colors, leaves free-falling from brittle branches and wallpapering the lawn. What had I wished for?
This is what I wrote:
My Wish For Sean
To smile
Freely and often
Pink lips framing chiclet teeth
To bite into the goodness
Without hesitation
And not hide in the backseat of the mini-van
To be happy
Free of encumbrance
And at peace
With a brain
That runs and hops
Ahead of thoughts and words
To find love
In safe arms of another
A flower with tender petals
Blossoming open
An umbrella of color
Keeping him safe
And warm
Holding him tight.
I've never been greedy with my wishes
I only want for him
A window left open
A suture
A sling
To help make it possible
To share in the simplest moments
To be more than just this
Diagnosis
A year has passed. Another candle added to a frosted cake, a little boy's new wish (for me, the same wish – help me help him to be all that he can). Fall, tumbling into winter, melting to spring, bursting into summer and now back to fall. So much has changed and yet, here I am, holding onto wishes that haven't changed or been modified.
The other day Sean asked me, “Mommy, will I be married someday?” his eyes bright, his mouth speckled with grape juice.
I smiled and nodded and said, “Yeah, maybe Sean.”
I had an overwhelming need to nod my head, to keep the pain and sadness at bay, to not betray him or to let him know that those thoughts never enter my mind concerning him.
If it were my oldest son I would have laughed and said, “Yes if you decide to one day. But not until you're at least thirty. You have your whole life in front of you.”
I have always assumed that whatever he might want to pursue he will be able to do so. But I guess I don't share this assumption when it comes to Sean. Will he find love and marry? Honestly? I can't even imagine it. And yet, he has this thought, like anybody else. Isn't he entitled to think it and if so, why does it hurt so much? Am I fast-tracking the rejection that he will encounter in life, the isolation that often comes with autism? And what if he has the desire to belong and to be loved but is too impaired by his disability? Then what?
I try to remind myself that if he can love his dad, his brother and me, then surely he will learn to love others and he will be loved back. Right? But sometimes my heart breaks to think of him heartbroken and alone. Autism has robbed him of so much already.
I think I still need to hold fast to this wish of my boy being happy and loved. We all face heartbreak and sadness, and by suffering we learn to appreciate the good in life. I cannot protect him any better than I can protect my oldest son. All I can do is just love my boys and hold onto hope. And for now I think that's enough.
I was curious to see what I had wished for a year ago, in a seasonal setting so similar to today, the trees changing in a fury of colors, leaves free-falling from brittle branches and wallpapering the lawn. What had I wished for?
This is what I wrote:
My Wish For Sean
To smile
Freely and often
Pink lips framing chiclet teeth
To bite into the goodness
Without hesitation
And not hide in the backseat of the mini-van
To be happy
Free of encumbrance
And at peace
With a brain
That runs and hops
Ahead of thoughts and words
To find love
In safe arms of another
A flower with tender petals
Blossoming open
An umbrella of color
Keeping him safe
And warm
Holding him tight.
I've never been greedy with my wishes
I only want for him
A window left open
A suture
A sling
To help make it possible
To share in the simplest moments
To be more than just this
Diagnosis
A year has passed. Another candle added to a frosted cake, a little boy's new wish (for me, the same wish – help me help him to be all that he can). Fall, tumbling into winter, melting to spring, bursting into summer and now back to fall. So much has changed and yet, here I am, holding onto wishes that haven't changed or been modified.
The other day Sean asked me, “Mommy, will I be married someday?” his eyes bright, his mouth speckled with grape juice.
I smiled and nodded and said, “Yeah, maybe Sean.”
I had an overwhelming need to nod my head, to keep the pain and sadness at bay, to not betray him or to let him know that those thoughts never enter my mind concerning him.
If it were my oldest son I would have laughed and said, “Yes if you decide to one day. But not until you're at least thirty. You have your whole life in front of you.”
I have always assumed that whatever he might want to pursue he will be able to do so. But I guess I don't share this assumption when it comes to Sean. Will he find love and marry? Honestly? I can't even imagine it. And yet, he has this thought, like anybody else. Isn't he entitled to think it and if so, why does it hurt so much? Am I fast-tracking the rejection that he will encounter in life, the isolation that often comes with autism? And what if he has the desire to belong and to be loved but is too impaired by his disability? Then what?
I try to remind myself that if he can love his dad, his brother and me, then surely he will learn to love others and he will be loved back. Right? But sometimes my heart breaks to think of him heartbroken and alone. Autism has robbed him of so much already.
I think I still need to hold fast to this wish of my boy being happy and loved. We all face heartbreak and sadness, and by suffering we learn to appreciate the good in life. I cannot protect him any better than I can protect my oldest son. All I can do is just love my boys and hold onto hope. And for now I think that's enough.
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editors@autismspeaks.org.
Autism Speaks reserves the right to edit contributions for space, style and content. Because of the volume of submissions, not all can be published on the site.
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