Hot, heavy tears drip off the bottom of my chin and onto my
shirt. I neither bother with trying to wipe them mid-cheek nor do I attempt to
employ the “mascara-saving-dab.”
Each time I inhale I notice how tight my chest feels, and with each exhale my stomach is greeted with waves of tingly nausea.
Goodbye.
Each time I inhale I notice how tight my chest feels, and with each exhale my stomach is greeted with waves of tingly nausea.
Goodbye.
Observing my sobs and snot, one would think it’s 1815 and I’m embarking upon the Oregon Trail.
It’s a very hard word to say sometimes. Often I find that the reason it is so hard to part with those we love so tightly and dearly is because we know that they need us. They need our help, our love, our guidance, our laughter, or our presence. There is a piece of us we know they need and we try to find it in our hearts and put it in their soul before we leave. The thought, “He needs me,” circulated in my mind countless times in the driveway on Stanbridge Avenue. What made the goodbye so hard was not just the thought, “He needs me,” but the immediate accompaniment of, “I need him.”
I don’t just leave behind someone whom I love, but someone who loves me.
Dearest William.
Will is nine-years-old. William can tell you what note you’re singing and how many beats per minute you are walking. William can mentally convert decimals to fractions with exceptional speed. He is well versed in stick shifts versus automatic transmissions. He knows every registered AKC dog breed. He also knows that I like coffee, the color pink, playing the ukulele, and my birthday.
William also has Autism. Like every child with Autism, he had his down days, but even on the rough days I still had the best job ever. Sure there were days when I chased him in circles with a spoon trying to get him to eat or he literally cried over spilled milk. However, none of the bad times could compare to the highs of everyday life with Will.
During the bluster of midterms, I passed a mirror
in his home and muttered to myself, “I look like a train wreck.” He heard and
assured me, “You do look like a train wreck, but don’t worry! It’s just a
little deal, not a big deal!” I nearly tumbled to the floor with laughter. One morning, on three hours of sleep, I
laid on the couch as he patted my head and whispered, “I will take good care of
you.”
I had horrible roommates and one day asked William,
“What do you do when friends are mean to you?”
“Forgive them.”
“What if they keep being mean to you?”
“Then you don’t listen to them. Then you find new friends.”
Some people found it amazing, or even inspiring, that my work was taking care of a child with Autism. I mentioned, “Oh, I work with a little boy who has ASD,” and then it was as if a halo surrounded my head or people saw a glowing heart of gold. Like I’m a saint? Bull.
The reality of it all is that the amazing, inspiring one isn’t me. It is William. He’s the one who keeps going. He’s the one who encourages me on a bad day, takes care of me when I’m sick, reminds me of the rules, and hugs when I’m sad. He is the one who picks me up.
William will be okay without me. He is surrounded by many wonderful aids, teachers, therapists, friends, and family. He needs me, but I, to a certain extent, am a replaceable individual. Another PCA can get him off the bus. Someone else can drive him to therapy.
As for me, I still need him. Since this isn’t 1815, and I am not trekking the Oregon Trail via covered wagon, FaceTime dates can happen. I will move on and experience great adventures. I will be okay too.
How I will miss that darling boy. How the piece of my heart that William touched will forever glow gold (I can be semi-saintly).
I had horrible roommates and one day asked William,
“What do you do when friends are mean to you?”
“Forgive them.”
“What if they keep being mean to you?”
“Then you don’t listen to them. Then you find new friends.”
Some people found it amazing, or even inspiring, that my work was taking care of a child with Autism. I mentioned, “Oh, I work with a little boy who has ASD,” and then it was as if a halo surrounded my head or people saw a glowing heart of gold. Like I’m a saint? Bull.
The reality of it all is that the amazing, inspiring one isn’t me. It is William. He’s the one who keeps going. He’s the one who encourages me on a bad day, takes care of me when I’m sick, reminds me of the rules, and hugs when I’m sad. He is the one who picks me up.
William will be okay without me. He is surrounded by many wonderful aids, teachers, therapists, friends, and family. He needs me, but I, to a certain extent, am a replaceable individual. Another PCA can get him off the bus. Someone else can drive him to therapy.
As for me, I still need him. Since this isn’t 1815, and I am not trekking the Oregon Trail via covered wagon, FaceTime dates can happen. I will move on and experience great adventures. I will be okay too.
How I will miss that darling boy. How the piece of my heart that William touched will forever glow gold (I can be semi-saintly).
