The curtain has fallen on the Longest “Brief” Hiatus in the History of My Writing, and I'm ready for adventure in the midst of New Normal. "Hiatus" – there’s a word that sounds like it came from a Human Sexuality textbook glossary. I could call my break a sabbatical, but that sounds like I should've spent the last several weeks in the Holy Land.
Although I’ve never made it to Jerusalem, I did spend a lot of time this year wandering in a wilderness – a harsh landscape where I was reminded, over and over, that I have absolutely no control over my son, myself, or my postman. The latter is included in my list, due to his affinity for bringing me the wrong mail. It's somewhat excusable when the mail’s rightful owner lives on my street, but last week, I had to fill up my minivan’s gas tank and use Google maps to deliver a Carol Wright Gifts catalog to the correct address. Never let it be said I interfere with another woman's shopping from home.
As I wandered, I learned more about my limitations as a human being. Life changed. And I hate change. Unless it’s rattling in the bottom of my purse, or it’s totally my idea, or it involves dirty underwear, I’m not a fan. I can’t blame it on DNA; I seem to be the only Change Hater in my family of origin. The only exception was Mom’s commitment to keeping her same hairdo. At 90 years old, when her assisted living facility’s beautician gave her the shortest haircut of her life, Mom was appalled. The entire family was shocked. My brother, Doc, exclaimed, “She’d had the same haircut for the last 40 years.” But in areas other than hair, she handled change gracefully and without trauma.
My continuing education course, One Thousand Reasons Why I Can't Control the World and the People in It, has been taught through various sources, including the Abrasive Doctor who told me, "Cowboy is 21. You need to back off." I knew it. Of course. Every mother knows it. I'd been practicing for years. But I didn't want anyone pointing it out to me; it needed to be my idea. My only consolation in struggling to loosen my clutch on Cowboy has been the fact that Flash is my fellow classmate; from Cowboy’s early years until now, it’s the only area of life where Flash resides in denial more than I.
"He knows how to fix his meals in the microwave," I told Flash, when Cowboy was eight.
"He what?" Flash replied.
"That's right. He's been playing us. His teacher told me he fixes his lunch every day at school, and he’s been fixing his snacks at home, too."
When Cowboy was 16, I urged Flash to stop picking out Cowboy's clothes for him. I claimed it was due to fostering independence, but fashion choices may have played a part in my advice. You can't trust a father who tucks his t-shirts into his elastic waist shorts, and wears argyle socks to complete the ensemble. I’m still helping Flash pick out his clothes.
Of course, I'd love to have someone pick out my clothes for me each day. Any type of Assisted Decision Making would be a dream come true. I once begged my elderly mother to be the adult over my life for a day, just one day, so I could coast. But the selfish woman wouldn't oblige; she'd paid her dues.
And this, dear reader, brings me to my dilemma. I must let go of my son, as needed, while simultaneously making 1003 decisions per day about his schedules, medical appointments, social engagements, dietary needs, sports practices, natural supplementation, medications, etc. Letting go, while managing, is tricky business.
Don't pick out his clothes; pick out his doctors
Don't always speak for him; always speak up on his behalf.
Don't make as many choices for him; help him navigate what his choices are.
For the most part, this year has been as much about my changing as it has been about helping Cowboy through his changes. It has been an excruciating time for all of us, mostly Cowboy.
But it has also been something else...necessary.
Without seeing my lack of control more clearly, I'd most likely still be playing the delusional game of I’ve Got This. Now, I spend my time on a new game: I Ain't Got This at All, but God Does. The odds of keeping my sanity are much better, and my trust in Him is at an unprecedented level. Often, when Cowboy is having a hard day, I think, We're not where I want us to be, but I know we'll get there. Until last week, when that Still Small Voice whispered, Maybe you are already there; this is how life is now. Making the past a constant goal can keep us disappointed in the present; I knew it was time to embrace my Present Tense. A present that brings Hope in the midst of uncomfortable uncertainty; I’m certain of God's power, not my own.
Four months ago, in the darkest tunnel we’d traveled in nine years, His Voice wasn’t so still and small; it was rather blunt, telling me, Cowboy was mine before he was yours. Indeed. All those impossible teachings about “give your child back to God” seemed more possible, because of God’s strength. Then God added, I never made it your job to make sure Cowboy’s happy 24/7; that’s not even normal. Now, that was getting a little personal. After all, I’m the Human Happy Factory. I don’t know if I would’ve been like this if Cowboy didn’t have autism, but I suspect so. Although I realize we moms with special needs kids often overcompensate more, and for a longer length of time, than other moms.
Repeatedly, I’d been telling Cowboy, “It’s okay to be happy, sad, angry, or frustrated,” for fear I’d somehow taught him that only “happy” was okay. But now, I have to live that out, helping him work through his feelings more, rather than my simply focusing on calming him down. We remind him to communicate with his iPad, which lessens his frustration, and to practice deep breathing. While going through his recent trials, Cowboy stepped up and started communicating for himself more, with us and with others. He has learned how to better relate his feelings, and how to tell us what he needs when he is feeling overwhelmed. My job is to help him walk through pain in this world, rather than trying to remove all emotional pain from his life. Ultimately, my job is to not play God anymore; it’s been the most wonderful career change of my life.
By removing my rose-colored glasses toward The Past, I realized Cowboy had been experiencing certain autism symptoms that had needed to be addressed for a long time; being too close to the situation, we’d acclimated to them, not realizing how they could hinder his life as an adult.
Rather than seeing light at the end of our “tunnel,” I’ve experienced it while inside. Increasingly, light was shed on, ironically, changes that needed to be made. Longing for personal health changes, I sought help for my own anxiety, brought about by Cowboy’s crisis. I began to broaden my circle – to deepen some existing friendships, to revisit relationships that had long lain dormant, and to make new friends. The latter was accomplished by joining a small Bible study group consisting of caregivers of special needs kids, and by joining a card playing group. Card games make everything better. As Cowboy’s quality of life improved, I made more dates with Flash. As I reached out to embrace life again, things began feeling more normal. Hope grew, and fear lessened.
And as I share our struggles with others, I find myself in good company - those who have been through similar tunnels help light my way. And you, dear readers, encourage me with your messages and emails. In the worst of times, my friend Becca frequently talked me off the Ledge of No Hope, texting me throughout days and late into the night. One day, when Cowboy’s anxiety was particularly horrible, she wrote, “Worship. Worship. Worship. When we worship, blessings come down.”
I stared at my phone for an eternity. How do I do that? I thought. I’m devastated. I had no idea, although I’d heard song after song about praising God during the storms of life.
So I started singing. While Flash tended to Cowboy in a local Emergency Room, where we sought treatment for Cowboy’s double ear infection and his anxiety, I sat alone in my car, in a parking lot, and sang the first old hymn that popped into my head. Every time I got in my car from that point forward, and even when walking around my house, I sang praise songs. And every time, I felt lighter. It became habitual. I woke up thinking of songs; I went to sleep thinking of songs. Our situation hadn’t changed, but I had.
Knowing Cowboy has brought more changes than I could possibly count. Changes that rocked our world. Changes that made me question God. Changes that made me question myself. But Cowboy has also brought, and continues to bring, changes that help define who we are. Flash and I are better human beings, less judgmental and more empathetic. We can better think outside the box, rather than using traditional ideas. We try to put ourselves in Cowboy’s shoes, and new worlds open to us. Cowboy brings us fresh perspectives, and being his mom calls me to continually check my priorities; he makes me a better mom.
Most of all, Cowboy brightens this sometimes dark world with his joy and love. And that’s a change this old world needed.