Babies, Hopes, and Dreams

A new year. Seven days into 2008, and the hits just keep on coming.

Stephen's sleeping pattern has been erratic lately - and that's putting it mildly. Readers dating back to the humble beginnings of "Inside Out" might recall that my very first blog came along on a dark and sleepy October morning. And, so it was again this morning (and 2 days ago...and 1 day before that...) that Stephen and I got up at 4:00 a.m. to usher in another day.

Usually if we manage to get through those 2 1/2 hours before Kerry has to get up (and by manage I mean no tantrums over which video to watch, and no meltdowns about turning on the lamps at 6:30) then I can usually drag my tired-and-puffy-eyed self into the bathroom and sort of get ready for work. But not today. Just couldn't do it, and so once the boys were sorted out and off to bus and school, respectively, and David headed out for his class...I crashed. A little bit of rest in my darkened bedroom, and I emerged feeling fairly close to human.

I treated myself to a couple of favorite shows on the Food Network, which is the only channel I really like, and enjoyed some "me" time, as they say. But you know what happens when you get too much time to think. At least in my case, the memories come pouring in. At first it was just a trickle - I'd walk to the bathroom and pass the boys' baby pictures that are arranged in the hall - and I'd smile to myself remembering the tow-headed butterball that was Kerry at age 2. Next on the wall, three-month-old Stephen...a bundle of chubby baby fat, soft brown hair, dark eyes crinkling like his mama's...and then the dam holding the memories bursts, flooding my head till I could barely see.

My lifelong affliction is rearing its ugly head...when this happens, it's just not a pretty thing. "Experts" call it chronic sorrow and in this case, they've hit the nail on the head. This thing, this disease, or syndrome, or disability... it took my baby from me. It's just as simple as that, and as stark and blunt and hurtful. We grieved when we heard the official diagnosis, when the words "he has autism" hung in the air before they fell like lead balloons...but, you see, there's no closure here. There's no one moment that we can take a deep breath and say, "Well, okay, this isn't good, but we know what to expect...we'll still be sad but we can recover and move on." The sorrow is deep, and often.

No, with autism we get something new all the time - maybe it's an unexpected reaction to a certain restaurant. We took the boys out Saturday night, and decided to go to California Pizza Kitchen. Not exactly fancy eatin', but nice and casual, and the food's good. Step one: David and Stephen dropped me and Kerry off at CPK then headed for McD's as usual. Step two: Michelle and Kerry ply the hostess with "our family member has autism" comments, hoping to be seated quickly. It worked! Instead of 20 minutes, we were seated in a booth by a window in 5 minutes. Step three: Order for David (had to plan that out ahead of time, of course), Kerry and myself. Step four: David and Stephen arrive, we get the McD's food arranged, and wait for our food, which mercifully came only a few minutes later. We dig in, and for a while, it was fine.

Until Stephen got finished with his fries... Normally he is content to play with the trains we bring along, or maybe to look at a book, but not this time. He firmly plugged his ears with his fingers (a sure sign that there's too much sensory input) and began to whine. He slid under the table. He turned sideways in the booth seat and started pushing against me, and I compensated by speeding up my pizza consumption. Almost as with one mind David and Kerry sped up, too. It felt like we were smack in the middle of an episode of "24," racing against time before the Stephen bomb goes off. Tension builds, and I see it in the faces across the table from me. I looked around at the crowds of well-dressed, happily chattering groups of friends, and families with their kids, all enjoying their meals - and I said to David, "Look at all these people who take this for granted...just being able to eat out, and relax." There we sat, a tightly-wound little group of four, doing our best to choke down our food before we hit critical mass, amidst Stephen's warning cries: "Good-bye...good-bye! Time to go."

Oh, man. Chewing our last bites of pizza we made it out in one piece, swung by Costington's (okay, Wal-Mart) and dealt with assorted Stephen-gripes in THERE (including his absolute refusal to get the doughnuts I knew he'd eat, and his insistence on buying doughnut holes instead), and finally dragged ourselves home. We were all silent in the car, wrung-out, stressed, and sort of beaten down. It's such a striking contrast to the times we manage to eat out and run errands successfully - we definitely don't take that for granted.

So, back today...trying to stem the tide of those and other memories, as I tried to rest and enjoy the rare solitude, I did a bit of channel surfing and found myself engrossed in TLC's "A Baby Story" - which gently began to bring back memories of being pregnant with Kerry, working part-time as I waited for him to arrive. Watching baby stories was a favorite activity back then, and I smiled to myself as I thought back to those hope-filled days. Now...today...I felt decidedly different as I watched. I saw families preparing for newborns, laughing with older children...and I hated them. I hated them for their normalcy and their joy. I found myself thinking, "Yeah, just wait till your son gets autism. See how happy you are THEN."

What a bitter old crone I'm becoming, people!

The baby stories culminate with the birth of the long-awaited baby, as you would expect. I watched as mothers worked hard to bring their babies into the world, and I remembered my own labor experiences with crystalline accuracy. I saw screaming newborns placed into waiting arms, and I closed my eyes as I thought of each of my sons being wrapped and given to me...if I concentrate I can remember how the tops of their heads smelled. Of course by this time I realize that I have succumbed entirely to the memories instead of pulling myself away...while I'm drowning I might as well stay here a while. The water's fine.

So, I cried. Huge wracking sobs that have been hiding out for quite some time, apparently. This isn't that wimpy sort of crying you do when you're out of sorts and you've had a bad day. We're talking lay on the floor and bawl till there's a wet spot on the carpet - your body shaking silently as you try to rid yourself of the emotion that would probably drive you bonkers should you try to bottle it up. Because I remembered with loving pride the hopes I had when my baby boys made their entrances - I have no doubt that Kerry will go far, as he is already the most talented, loving, and brilliant almost-ten-year old on the planet. :-) But my baby...I had those same hopes for him. Those people on the baby stories were full of hopes and dreams for their children, and I hated them for it.

I cried myself out and managed to clean up enough to go pick Stephen up at school. I drove over there with my dark mood wrapped tight around me like a blanket...and I was pretty intent on keeping that blanket with me for the rest of the day. That lasted until I opened Stephen's classroom door, and this beautiful, slightly messy boy hurdled toward me at top speed, laughing the laugh I love, and enfolding me in his arms. He planted kisses on my cheeks and then got his backpack...he took my hand, looked up at me, and said clearly, "Time to go?"

My heart, cleaned out and freshed up merely by letting myself fall apart for a while, swelled with pride. My child, whom I once suspected would never say a meaningful word, was talking to me as any child might talk to his mother. "Yes, baby. Time to go."

And so hand in hand we walked to the car, singing a little song Stephen made up..."Time to go...I go home!"

It's not the ideal. It's not even close to normal. I still want that for him, and for us. But for today, it's enough.