Fearless Folks … autism and beyond …

When we first told Nick that Meghan was going to a new school, and that she would have to stay there overnight and come home on weekends when the time was right, he seemed to understand perfectly well. “Because Meghan breaks things all the time,” he said. I told him “well sort of” and explained to him, in terms that he could understand, that it was that and more… I told him that this school was one of the best schools for Meghan and that she was lucky to be getting the help that she needed. (I didn’t tell him that I was out of options and this was our last resort.) At first, he was fine with it, or so it seemed. He was quiet about it and didn’t seem to want to talk about Meghan or the school. I remember how quiet he was when we would visit the school—as if he didn’t feel comfortable there. Then again, I had a hard time feeling comfortable there as well, and leaving Meghan behind was never a happy thing, even though I hid my sadness from Nick as best I could. It was sort of like leaving your child at her college dorm, but she was only 12. As for Nick, I sort of thought he was dealing with the absence of his sister in his own way, like we all did and still do. I would bring it up with him quite often and he would brush me off and say, “I don’t want to talk about it.” I thought, well when he’s ready to talk, he will.

During this last year, her first full year at residential school, he remained pretty quiet about it, as if he didn’t care all that much. Not to sound cold on his part, but he also has autism, so I thought that he was indifferent to her coming and going—big mistake. During the weekends when she came home, he would tackle her with brotherly love (tackle—as in actually tackling her as if they were playing football—or at least Nick was playing football, Meghan was, and still is, and unwilling participant, but she giggles and that’s maybe what he’s going for) and then when she left to go back to school on those fortnightly Sundays, he would just say “see ya” and just walk away.  I though he seemed fine with it all, as we were all learning to be fine with Meghan’s new school life. Let me also point out that not only did he have both his parents to talk to about Meghan living at school most of the time, he also had a therapist to talk to too. So I though I had all my bases covered.

At the beginning of the summer—the one-year mark—he asked me a question that I was not prepared for. He asked me if he would have to go to a residential school too. Next to staring at his face in (hopefully) disguised horror, I told him “No, absolutely not!” The question struck me hard, like a dagger in the heart that I did not see coming, that I actually had to hold on to a table to steady myself. And I immediately thought, Geez, I hope the poor boy hasn’t been sitting on the prospects that he, too, would have to leave home to attend a special school. Then he asked me a few random questions about Meghan at school, stuff he wanted to know but nothing more. In fact, when I offered more information, like how happy she was there, and what programs she attends, he would tell me no and block his ears. He wanted to control the information he was getting and process nothing more than what he wanted to know, or could bear to know, I don’t know!

A short time after that conversation—that still stuck like a lump in my throat—we were driving in the car (btw: the car is the most perfect place to talk to your kids than any other place, at least it is for us!) and I told him that Meghan was coming home that weekend and he smiled and nodded. I asked him if he missed his sister and he said “of course, she’s my sister,” and I sensed a sad but beautiful moment. (“Sad but beautiful” is what Nick understands as “emotion,” moments that make you want to cry, even though you’re not sad. Like when we were moving to a new town many years ago, and his school classroom gave him a goodbye party, made him cards, and hugged him, it was so sweet that I started to cry in front of all the kids and Nick asked my why water was coming out of my eyes… Or when we were at the Charlotte’s Web movie and after Charlotte’s dying scene had played, water started coming out of my eyes again, and he turned to me and said, “it’s sad but beautiful, mom?” I said, “exactly.”)

It’s all so complex for an autistic boy with PDD, trying to come to terms with life’s problems, struggles, and sad but beautiful moments, but I think little by little he is on his way to getting the bigger picture. All I can do is what I’m already doing, just be there for him to help him along…