T
he cold front came in from the north, almost instantaneously. As the dark clouds rolled in, we could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. I tried to hurry David inside before the first drops of rain, but when I turned to call him he had closed his eyes and tipped his head to feel the wind on his face.
He watched as the crisp leaves rolled down the street, tip over stem, scraping the cement. Brown. Yellow. Red. And he joined their dance, prancing to the edge of the driveway, one-two, one-two until he would go back to usher some more on their way, waving his arms in big circles like they too had been caught in the wind.
They were dancing to the music--the leaves, the wind and David. Music only they could hear or appreciate. And I was a mere spectator.
Just when I think I have it all figured out, David turns my world upside down. Or sideways, as the case may be.
He came home yesterday with this picture. I am always amazed when I recognize something that he has drawn because, as I have well documented, he does not like to color.
But this picture was clear. You see it, right? The open mouth filled with sharp teeth, scaly body, legs, a tail and even an eyeball. David's vocabulary is still pretty limited and I was not sure if he would call it an alligator or a crocodile. (Plus because he chose a side angle, it was difficult to see if the snout had more of a U-shape or a V-shape as I am certain David must know the distinction.)
I wanted David to show me his picture, so I held it up, praised him and initiated a conversation, "David, tell me about this great picture."
"A ROCKET SHIP!" he said with enthusiasm.
"It's a rocket ship?" I asked incredulously. "I thought it was an alligator."
"A rocket ship!" he confirmed.
Huh. Once again, David has turned things sideways and as always, this rocket ship may be in for a bumpy ride.
Earlier this week, David asked me a question. Actually, it was more of a statement—something said in the hope that the mere utterance would make it come true. "Naybe Sunday…we go to church!"
It was not at all what I had expected him to say.
Please don't get the mistaken impression that David was feeling particularly pious. There is a brand new playground that was installed a few weeks ago at our church, and I would like to think that was the reason for David's statement, but that is not what David was interested in seeing. I am sorry to say that he spends more time opening and closing the gate of the fence that surrounds the playground than playing on the actual equipment.
David's real reason for mentioning church, his ulterior motive, was to go see the elevator.
It has only been fairly recently that David will sit through even part of a church service after we went to church on Ash Wednesday, about seven months ago. It sounds comical, but David is worried that someone is going to try to put something on his forehead, for him a very real fear.
For months, we have been reassuring him and today, he will sit for most of a service. He will walk to the front of the church to receive a blessing, but he is still reticent. As we nudge him forward, he will turn to us, give a little wave and offer himself encouragement by telling us, "It's okay Mom-mom. It's okay Daddy."
Part of the reason that David has been willing to go back is because we have bribed him. Yes, we have bribed him with rides on the elevator. He is allowed to ride to the basement once before church starts and then if he sits still and is quiet he can ride it a few more times when the service is over.
I sometimes struggle to know how much David understands. Does he take anything else away from a trip to church aside from having had a fun elevator ride, or eaten a fresh glazed donut? I do not know for certain, because David cannot tell me.
I want to believe that he does. I know that he has always enjoyed receiving a blessing. I know because he can frequently be found cutting in the communion line to position himself for a blessing from Father Tom, who has been particularly kind to him since we joined this Episcopal church shortly after David was diagnosed. I know because David gets excited, often flapping his hands as he is being blessed.
The last time we went to church, David waited in anticipation of his turn. Tom bent way down to David's level, leaned toward him, called him by name and began the blessing in his soft Southern accent. David leaned in like they were sharing a secret and for a moment I was afraid he was actually going to touch his forehead to Tom's. They looked like they were in a huddle, having a sort of prayer pow-wow.
So, here is what I do know. Although David may not understand the full meaning of the words, he does find comfort in them.
As autism moms know, sometimes you do what it takes to get the job done. So for now we'll skip the stairway, because we are taking the elevator to heaven.
David’s red cast was removed almost six weeks ago. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he loathed that cast, which the physician’s assistant left on the exam table just in case we wanted to take it home. Nostalgia aside, David picked up the two pieces of the cast using only his fingertips like it was some sort of hazardous waste and then promptly threw it in the garbage.
A broken arm--another childhood rite of passage. Another episode on which David has to put his own personal stamp. There were no signatures or drawings on David’s cast. In fact, many people did not even realize he was wearing a cast because he insisted on wearing a splint over it. In his mind, I suppose, if he could not see it he could more easily deny its existence.
The splint or “black” as David refers to it was the ER issued stabilizing device given to David to protect his arm until the swelling went down and the cast could be applied. Apparently, in addition to giving his arm stability, the splint also provided David comfort. I am sure that it was a great relief physically as the pressure must have felt good, relieving the pain. I underestimated the emotional support that it provided for him, however. He was prescribed to wear it another four weeks after the cast was removed.
Over a week ago, the doctor proclaimed David’s arm healed, the range of motion good and said that he no longer needed to wear the splint--except that no one told David that last part. Check that. We have told David that last part, but he has chosen as he so often does, not to pay attention. He insists on wearing the splint and only willingly removes it at bath time, during which time he keeps his arm wrapped in a striped washcloth.
Oh, to be able to simply pick it up and throw it into the garbage as David did with his cast, being careful to use only my fingertips because, by this time, it really is hazardous waste. But with David, things are not always that simple. Just talking about giving up the splint makes David begin to well up with tears.
So, I did what any good mother would do. I started secretly cutting the straps while David was in the bath tub. Sometimes when something gets broken, even if David was attached to it, he then willingly relinquishes it. That is how we weaned him from the red allergy alert hospital band that he wore for a few weeks after this very same visit to the hospital.
But David is attached to his black splint like the Peanuts character, Linus was attached to his security blanket. So, I have become more aggressive in my approach. The past two nights I have completely cut through a strap rendering two of the three straps completely useless—or so I thought.
It really is reminiscent of Linus, who used his blanket to fashion, among other things, a whip, cape, necktie, kite or even a shepherd’s headdress for the Christmas pageant. Although initially distraught, David scurried off to a corner, the pieces of his splint in hand. I swear I could almost hear that sound effect, you know that one that sounds sort of like the whisper of “schoo, schoo, schoo, schoo, schoo” and David turned around, relieved that he had reworked those now unattached straps to somehow secure his splint around his arm.
Can I tell you how tiring it is always to be trying to out-think that kid? That kid, who like Linus, is exceptionally smart, but probably frequently underestimated. That kid, who like Linus, not only wears a red shirt every day, but really does not care what anyone else thinks—Linus, by carrying a blanket and David, dancing with abandon to a mariachi band in the hallway at school. Linus acted as the resident philosopher, a theologian of sorts and each day David opens my eyes to see my life, to see the world in a new way.
I wish that there was some way to let David take the comfort of the splint with him, without wearing it, like a child may carry a corner of a blanket, a piece of the satin binding with him, tucked away out of sight. In one of the Peanuts specials that I watched as a child, Snoopy whipped Linus’ blanket into a sport coat. While I’m not expecting a sport coat, stay tuned to see what incarnation David’s splint may take as I cut the third and final strap.
