In honor of autism awareness

That Saturday morning in October had been wonderful. I went rummaging with a friend and spent hours just laughing, bumming around town, and being responsible for no one. It felt like high school again. We planned to go to the pumpkin patch at 10 with friends, so I needed to grab groceries after my morning of sailing carefree around town. Greg was getting out of the shower when I told him I needed to leave for the store. I could have waited, but I didn't want to. So often I feel the needs of my family are thrust upon me when I am least capable, or ready to assume the responsibility. “Now?” He asked.

            "Yes, now," I thought with a huffy sigh. I knew it wasn't fair, but I wanted to go now. I didn't want to run late on meeting our friends and knew the trip would just take a few minutes.

            I ran to the store, just two blocks away, and frantically grabbed the chips and pop in order to make it home in time for our outing. Turning onto our street fifteen minutes later, I saw the figures of a man and child walking hand in hand. My heart stopped when I neared. I pulled the van over and stopped next to them. Greg looked at me. There wasn't accusation or anger, but just exhaustion. "Is everything ok?" I asked. He covered his face with his hand and began to sob. I didn't ask any more questions; I knew what had happened. When a spouse faces something so incredibly horrific in the absence of the other, it becomes unfair to even ask questions or probe for details. So I didn't.

            Moments after I had left the house, Brenna had taken advantage of the moment while Greg was in the bathroom and had promptly opened the front door, walked outside alone and left Sam and Emily in the doorway, sucking their thumbs and watching her wander away. In the few minutes I was gone, Greg had paged me at the grocery store while I loaded groceries in the parking lot in oblivion, called the police and had taken off running down our street, calling Brenna’s name. He and I both knew she wouldn’t answer to her name, in fact may run from her name being called, but the instinct in every parent is to search loudly and frantically. Several minutes later, he had found her several houses down the street, in the backyard, looking at a neighbor’s dog.

            Statistics show that 80% of marriages between couples with a special needs child end in divorce. I believe it is true. There is something so raw and draining at times like this that it appears laughable that this relationship is meant to anchor the entire family. How do you become stable enough for anyone to hold onto when this sort of terror is never more than a moment of distraction away? It's no one's fault when Brenna runs from the house, simply caught up in a mission of finding a puppy in someone's backyard. And that is perhaps the sting. There is no one to blame. This is simply life and Brenna doesn't know any better.

            Brenna is unmoved by her Daddy's choked voice and tears that he quickly wipes away with a closed fist. Has she noticed him crying? Does she even care? I don't know. It's hard to say.

            At a conference in Bloomington a few years back, a mother commented that she didn't understand why people were devastated when finding out their child had autism. She was thrilled with her son, exactly as he was. I found that that statement completely psychotic. Who wishes for a life like this? For a child who is so prone to danger and unaware of consequences? I don't wish for a different personality for Brenna, but at these moments, I would give anything for her not to have a disability. I no longer care about the semantics of language and "special needs" or putting the child before the named challenge. This is a moment of my life that is hard, and some unnamed force is responsible for it. Proper language becomes ridiculous at a moment like that.  I want to scream, "Forget the details of the label! Just help her! Help me."

            She's sleeping peacefully in her bed tonight, unaware that her 15 minutes of roaming the neighborhood unhindered by parental supervision changed my life forever. There is a weight on my shoulders and a responsibility that won't be easily lifted. There will forever be a constant scanning and awareness—a counting of heads and urgency to continually do so. I suspect Greg may feel the same, though neither of us wants to voice it. I don't know what the answer is to this question that is so hazy. Psalms tells me to "cease striving" and I wish I knew how. When I try to do that though, my daughter gets lost and it feels like my family will fall apart.