Its My (Pity) Party

Most of the things I have written on this blog have been shared as a means of explanation, describing to a certain extent what life with an autistic child is like. I had intended to always do so by throwing in some sort of positive spin, some glimmer of hope. There were many reasons for this, ranging from not wanting to sound like a victim, (in other words, this blog being a sort of perpetual pity-party), to the desire to use this medium as a means of processing my experiences and learning from them. Our family life being the constant drama that it is, I assumed that I would never lack material from which to draw. What I have discovered -- and what has become evident in the huge gaps in between postings -- is not that I don't have experiences or feelings to share, but rather that many of these experiences are diffucult to put in any sort of upbeat form that anyone would care to read. This is not to say that life in our home is constantly negative. Its really not. However, I do find that I am hard-pressed to pull out many moments of glowing success.

The past ten days or so have been quite a challenge. He seemed to regress in many ways, was manic and moody, and struggled to regulate himself in circumstances where he recently had improved. We have been at a loss as to an explanation, ruling out most of the typical culprits. Apart from his behavior, nothing has changed.

Needless to say, I found myself worn out and depressed. It was a heart-wrenching reminder that we still have so far to go, that there is so much that we don't understand. There was nothing to write about but conflict and tears. And I was in no mood to wax poetic or positive. I don't want to be subject to my son's mood, his outbursts, and his whims. But the fact remains that all too often when he crashes, so do I.

Friday found us at the pediatrician's office. If you recall, his 5 yr appt was not all that easy. That being the case, we didn't attempt his vaccines at the time. (Don't even think I'm going to touch on THAT issue.) So, now there we were, an appointment for a simple procedure involving four needles. He was under a chair, having been dragged away from the corner of the room with the oxygen tanks (reserved for parents in such a circumstance?) he had escaped to this more confined location. Fortunately, hubby was on call in the waiting room. Twenty minutes later, after having been pinned down by two nurses and both parents, he has received his shots. He is crumpled in my arms, crying and refusing to leave the room. My only thought was that if this be my lot (that which I had spent the last week and a half pitying myself over) I would take it. And that somehow we would survive.

Sunday we sang of the greatness of God. Of letting the world know of that Greatness. I don't know how, but I do believe He will make His Greatness known through the circumstances of our ragged little family. Through my little boy. That's where I find my hope. And I'll just keep trying to share a little bit of that with anyone who cares to read this.