It is a new day at my house.
And a new day calls for a new blog.
If any former readers are still out there, I would like to invite you to my new blog:

Rays of Light and Rolls of Rain 

Come read how, finally, after 14 years, we have started to unlock Daniel's voice.

--Leah

The last time I posted on this blog, I wrote about the disappearance of a dream -- a dream that most parents take for granted, the dream of being able to truly communicate with my son.

It has taken me this long -- roughly four and half years -- to revisit those words.

I never won the battle between hope and acceptance, never became comfortable with the idea of a disappearing dream.  And I am so glad.

Because now I no longer have to dream about what my son might say to me, if only he could.

I can simply ask him.

14 years is a very long time to go without words.  I can only try to imagine Daniel's frustration, but I could write a novel about a parent's heartbreak and worry.  I can tell you that never hearing the words "I love you" from a child is not even on the list of the 100 most painful things about seeing your kid go without a voice.

It is not knowing if he is in pain, and if so, what hurts.
It is not knowing if people are mean to him when I am not there.
It is not knowing the source of his sadness when tears spring from his eyes.
It is not knowing if there is something that would make him happy that I have failed to discover.

It is a feeling of absolute failure as a mom and the immeasurable fear about what his life will be like when I am no longer here.

But today, there is rejoicing in my home. My son has a voice.
It is not conventional.  It comes from his brain to his fingers, through a keyboard and a voice-output program on his I-pad.

It is the most wonderfully enchanting voice I have ever heard.

Today, I could write volumes about how my son has found, and is continuing to find, his voice.

I could write about the speech therapist -- the only professional out of a boatload who really "got" my son -- who first told me, years ago, that he could read a lot of words.

I could write about the struggle it was for him learning to type,
how he does not have the fine-motor dexterity to write a single word,
how we were never sure exactly how much he understood when we spoke to him -- though we always knew he understood much more than he readily demonstrated.

I could write about my own struggles -- how many times I backed off and temporarily "gave up."

But I never really could get comfortable with the idea of disappearing dreams for my son.

And here we are.
Every day is such a gift.
Every word, every sentence, every beautiful peek into what I know now is an absolutely magnificent mind.
It is almost dream-like, this new reality we find ourselves in.

With Daniel's blessing, just given to me after I tearfully read all the above to him, I will share some of our rejoicing with you.

-- Leah  

The Waking, Dreaming, Fear

Years ago, I would have dreams where Daniel would talk to me.  He would just ... talk.

And it was beautiful.

And in my dreams, I would think, "See, I knew you would talk some day.  I always knew."

Somewhere along the way, the dreams stopped.

I can't remember the last time I had a dream where my son talked to me.  They are distant recollections, sort of like the feeling I had after he was born: that my life was so close to perfect it seemed unfair.  Why me?  Why did I deserve such an easy road?  Why was my life so golden when the world is filled with so much that is unfair, evil and unthinkable.

I had a dream last night where I was trying to escape something dangerous.  I am not sure the dream-me even knew what it was.  But I had to get away.  I had Daniel with me, and I was trying so hard to make him understand the urgency.  I was trying to shield him, move him along quickly, and, at times, hide him.

Then I woke up.

I was struck by the irony.  The feeling of danger-- that feeling of fear -- that I had in my dream is part of my every-day.  It has to be -- because I am Daniel's mom.

I read the stories in the news of parents who have lost their children with autism.  Beautiful children -- inquisitive like all kids, even though they do not have the words to express it.  And in seconds -- the time it takes for a sibling to run from a bee, or a parent to take a bag from a car --they are gone, walking without words, and without an awareness of what might happen.  My heart aches for these parents because I know that their dreams, too, were replaced by feelings of fear -- feelings that they never let go of and then were forced to face in the worst possible way.

I never let go of my feeling of fear, and, yet, how many times has Daniel darted toward a water fountain in a crowd of people and I could not see him?  How many times do all of us take our eyes off our children, if only for seconds, and look up to not see them where we expect them to be.

Because my daughter is a "typical-kid" I live in two worlds.  I go to Girl Scout meetings and dance recitals and basketball practices with Olivia.  I listen to parents discuss things about kids, and I marvel at the inability of some parents to "get real"  --  the "problems" of which they speak wouldn't even register as a blip on my parenting radar.  They are not only insignificant in the grand scheme of life, they are frequently humorous.  These parents do not know my feeling of fear.

If I weren't such a social dynamite in great need of strong friendships, it would be enough to make me shun them all and lock my doors. Instead, I search for those parents who actually see my son, who notice his enthusiasm for life, his infectious grin and his gorgeous eye-lashes.  They are easy to identify in time.

They are the people who keep me from being consumed by my feelings of fear.

I doubt I will have any more dreams where Daniel talks to me.  It has just been so long since the last one, and other things have happened that shattered the feeling I once had of living the golden life (though I still have many reasons to be grateful).

It makes me sad, in a way, and, yet, is it not a sign that I am "getting real"?  The person I was several years ago -- the mother who cried herself to sleep, who could barely bring herself to say "the A word," who wondered how she could effectively parent a child who might never talk -- has done a lot of growing up.

I may never be able to completely let go of my feeling of fear, but I have made a place for it at the dinner table.

Hopefully, one day, my dreams will be much less about fear, and much more about a different kind of hope for my child.   In the interim, I will cling to the people who understand my fear, because they live it, and those who try to understand, because they are such darn good friends.  I will be thankful I have learned how to spot those who fall into these camps, and those who do not.  And I will try to focus on the courage of my son -- who is, by far, the bravest person I know -- when I start to feel overwhelmed by my feeling of fear.

Doing Right By Daniel

I have learned from Charlie that love doesn't always come from what you say.  It can also come from what you do.  And so we do right by Charlie.  We love Charlie strong We watch over him with the might of angels.  We have to.   

-- My Brother Charlie, by Holly Robinson Peete and Ryan Elizabeth Peete

This afternoon, I will speak to two classrooms of first-graders.  My daughter will be among these bright children, who are learning to read and write in not just one, but two languages.

I will do my best to explain to them about my son, who struggles to communicate at all.

I will try so hard to explain this mysterious beast known as autism, to help them understand that Daniel is much more like them than he is different, and to inspire them to do right by kids like Daniel.

My words to these kids is my way of doing right by Daniel, my way of trying to make up for my many failures. Because as much as I hate autism, as much as I wish my son was not affected by the disorder, it is Daniel's spirit -- his pure love for life in spite of his challenges -- that makes him the bravest person I have ever known.  

Another Shout-Out to Republican Barbie

Republican Barbie -- you know, the woman known for being caustic and abrasive while speaking in support of Republican candidates and viewpoints -- caused a stir recently when she referred to the President of the United States as "a retard."

Many people have responded to Republican Barbie. I will not pretend that my own words will come close to their eloquence.  (Here is my favorite.)  And, without a doubt, I believe Republican Barbie planned the "retard" reference days in advance -- what was disguised as an off-the-cuff attempt at humor was really one of many scripted remarks guaranteed to bring attention to a woman who must worry a bit more about her continued appeal, even to the most hateful members of her political party, with each shot of Botox.  So perhaps I only add to her smug self-satisfaction  by mentioning her at all...

But here I go ...

Republican Barbie, Ms. Let's-Convert-the-World-to-Christianity, my question for you, if God-forbid, I ever found myself in the same room with you, would be this:

Where in the Bible do you find God making jokes about persons with disabilities?

Oh, so you weren't poking fun at the disabled, you say -- just the president?

Well, where in the Bible do you find God using a term that describes a type of disability to insult/degrade/belittle ANYONE?  

After He laid hands on the sick, the lame, the blind, did He turn to his disciples and say,"Hey, guys, don't you approve of me being kind to this retard?" 

Because if He did, I somehow missed it.

I know that Republican Barbie is not worth the effort it takes to write a sentence.  She doesn't care what I, or anyone, has to say, any more than she cares about, well, anyone other than herself.  But what bothers me most about her comment -- and the ones that followed -- is that it arguably reflects the last area of broad social acceptance for hateful, discriminatory speech.

Don't get me wrong.  I was raised in Northeast Texas.  I know racial and ethnic slurs are far from a thing of the past.  People still throw derogatory words around about women, and gays and lesbians are obviously a long way from acceptance when so many people celebrate a chicken sandwich in the name of "traditional marriage."

But, geez, y'all, something is not right.

There are people -- lots of people -- who would never insult a person based on the color of their skin, their gender, or their sexual orientation, but they let the word "retard" or "retarded" fly from their lips in a hurtful manner without a second thought.

All you have to do is look at Facebook ....

How many of you have seen "the joke" shared God-only-knows-how-many-times on Facebook.  You know the one I am talking about. It has been recycled numerous times and with numerous targets.   People have used it to make fun of people with different political views, annoying habits, opposing team loyalties. And they make fun of these targets by comparing them to -- you-guessed-it -- people with mental retardation.

They start off something like this:

Voting for (that party) is like running in the Special Olympics ...

OR

Arguing with people on Facebook is like running in the Special Olympics ...

OR

Cheering for (some football team) is like running in the Special Olympics ...

And, well, surely you know the rest of the "joke."

These shared posters tick me off, and they are so much more hurtful than the garbage coming from Republican Barbie -- because they come from people who don't live their every-day by promoting hate.

So let me say something to anyone who has ever chuckled at a "retard joke", or referred to someone who was getting on their nerves as a "retard," or even referred to a differing point of view as "retarded."

It is NOT OK.

My son has autism.  He is gorgeous and energetic and loves the people in his life with the might of the angels.

His autism is, by many measures, severe.
He struggles to communicate.
He doesn't understand a lot of things about societal rules.

He also would never understand why somebody would want to make fun of another person.  He wouldn't understand why anyone would ridicule, would insult, would degrade another human being.

He simply likes people who are nice.

What a concept.

And when he likes you, he really, really likes you.

No exceptions.  No judgments.  No what-have-you-done-for-me-lately scales.

When you seek to ridicule people by calling them "retarded," you do, indeed, insult my son, and so many people like him --

people who have to work harder to accomplish things the rest of us take for granted,

people whose feelings are every bit as strong as your own,

people who would never return the insult -- because they do not see any value in seeking to hurt another person.

Where in YOUR Bible do you find God making jokes about the disabled?

And if you still believe, after taking some time to think about it, that it is OK to make jokes at the expense of persons with disabilities, then it is not my son who has the more profound problem.

(NOTE:  My reference to "Republican Barbie" is not intended as an insult to women, skinny blondes or otherwise, but is merely a nod to the notion that there must be a big blob of synthetic vinyl right where that witch's heart should be.)

Finding the Words

Nine.

Daniel is nine, as of two weeks ago, and it sounds so .... OLD.

In nine years I have gone from a new mother who believed she was blessed beyond anything anyone ever had a right to expect ... to a very different person with a much more realistic view of the world and of people.  And I have watched my son struggle, through no fault of his own.

I cannot overstate the impact of autism.

It is so much more than a "neurological disorder."  It is a force that robs, that overwhelms, that leaves you feeling woefully inadequate as a parent.

When I look at my son, I am struck by all I do not know and cannot possibly understand about what it must be like to walk in his shoes.   Autism has placed a wall before him, between us, and it is there every day -- limiting what he can share with me, restricting what I can know about him.

With my daughter, it is so different.  She fills my days with countless stories about her friends and adventures at school.  She plans her birthday months in advance; she flies through the house like a tornado -- building fairy houses and setting up hair salons, constructing forts and making Barbie clothes from Kleenex.  She asks me about the meanings of words.  What is generosity?  What is harmony?  What is chaos?

And there is her brother ... lacking the words.

Words, words, words.

It is only recently that my gorgeous nine-year-old son has even tried to say anything.

Let me say that again:

My son is NINE.  And he hasn't tried to say real words until this current year.

For so long, I have wanted to hear his voice.  And now it is as if a window has been opened just a crack.  I  have to prompt him.  "Use your words, Daniel," I say to him, like a mother might say to a toddler.  And I help him -- or at least I try -- find the words.

When he tries, he tries so hard.

In addition to autism, Daniel has apraxia.  So the oral-motor planning that most of us take for granted is a struggle for him.  But he is thinking about it ...  you can see it when he tries.  It is as if I can hear the thoughts going through his head:  stretch my mouth into a smile and tighten my jaw to make the long "e", gently purse my lips together and let out just a little air for "puh", stick that bottom lip behind my teeth for "f."

Just imagine having to stop and think about every little thing your tongue/lips/jaw have to do to make every little sound.

We go through this routine countless times, every single day.  Because if he can learn to say, "I want pasta, please" this year, then maybe ten years from now he will be able to say much more.

Though it will never be like his sister ....

There is so much I do not understand about Daniel.  I know there is no hierarchy of parental grief when children struggle, but autism is especially cruel to the children it impacts, and to their families, because it robs us of the essential foundation of human relationships -- shared communication.

And, yet, even as I confront the grief that surrounds all that has been stolen from my son -- and I confront that grief daily -- I am struck by the irony:  I know about every emotion my daughter experiences, as she fills the air with words from the moment she rises until the late hour when she, finally, gives up the battle to stay awake ... I hear about her friends and disappointments and dreams...

But Daniel is the child who can make the rest of the world go silent when he looks into my eyes.

And so we will keep trying, my son and I ...

to find the words.

What Do We Tell Those Parents....

I sat near the back of the room. The focus of the workshop was children with autism, but the audience was not "my people" -- the presentation was targeted to educators, not parents.

I listened to the speaker, a man who knew me and my son. I watched the videos he presented. And I looked at the others in attendance.

Would one of these people be working with my son one day? Did they seem to be paying attention? Were they there because they cared, or were they merely fulfilling a continuing education requirement?

My son was in pre-school at the time. Four years have passed. In that time, I have had my world turned upside down, and I have struggled to prop it part-way back up. My mind, my memory, and my will aren't what they once were. But ....

I remember one of the final questions from a teacher in the audience so clearly. It went something like this:

I see parents who feel like they must be spending every moment of the day working with their autistic child. What should we tell those parents, the ones who feel like they need to always be doing something to engage and teach their children?

I turned my eyes to the speaker. When I heard his answer, I think I may have stopped breathing for a moment.

I would tell them that they are right -- that keeping their children engaged throughout the day is the most important thing they can do for their child; that, to the extent they can, they should be finding ways to teach their child and work with their child all day long.

The teacher, God bless her, pressed a bit:

But that is so hard. These parents put so much pressure on themselves.

The speaker nodded as if he understood, and followed up with:

Yes, it is, but the nature of autism is such that these kids need somebody keeping them in this world, as much as possible, all day ...

OK, so he didn't say anything ground-breaking. He didn't advise anyone to ignore their other, neuro-typical children. He didn't tell anybody to forget they had a spouse.

But he didn't mention those people either.
Nor did he acknowledge parent-fatigue.

I sank in my chair.

I watched the people in attendance gather their things and prepare to head to their cars, and I wanted to scream:

WAIT! But wait! That answer SUCKS. Seriously, it stinks! Don't say that. Certainly don't leave it at that. No, no, no, no, NO!!!

But I didn't. I just sank in my chair. I listened to the chatter from the teachers as they left the building, and I thought about how nobody in that room that day -- no matter how much training or education they had -- could really "get it." Unless they lived with autism day to day, they could never grasp the impact of autism on parents and families.

For a time, I was one of those parents the teacher described that day. I felt like every moment that my son was with me, I needed to make sure he was learning. I knew I couldn't spend hour upon hour "teaching him." But I believed that a significant portion of every day should be devoted to me trying to improve his concentration and pre-academic skills. And the rest of the day needed to be spent doing something "normal" -- something active and fun -- ANYTHING but stimming and otherwise "being autistic."

And what did I get for those efforts?

A lot of guilt about not focusing enough on my other child. A lot of resentment from a spouse who thought I was not devoting enough attention to my marriage. One heck of a lot of exhaustion. Oh, yeah, and my son still has autism.

Do I wish I had spoken up that day. Yes, I do -- although I would have been speaking to the wrong crowd. And so I say it now, to anybody who might still -- God bless them -- be reading. To every parent of a child with autism, and most especially to those whose children are on the severe end of the spectrum --

Give yourself a break.

Don't lose yourself, and don't lose your marriage. You are a parent first: NOT an ABA-provider, NOT a special education teacher. When your efforts to teach your autistic child start to leave you frustrated - when your efforts to "modify behavior" have you displaying your own autistic-like symptoms -- it is time to stop. Don't even let it get to that point.

Autism is so incredibly hard, and it is not your job to kick its ass. You can't.

So hang up the cape. Just be a mom. OR a dad. You know -- a person who is loving your child in this world, and in his world, as much as possible, all day ...

My Not So Amazing, Amazing Race

On Sunday, I ran another race, a half-marathon. I ran in my hometown, passing the sights and landmarks from days that seem so long ago, when life was simple.

At mile 10, I passed my children.

They stood along a residential street with my parents, who got them ready and out the door in time to watch this group of half-crazy people who paid money for the privilege of climbing out of bed and running 13 miles in the early morn.

Olivia has been to a couple of my races, but just a few, and always at the end. She has seen me at the finish, but this was her first time to stand alongside the race route, and it was the first time she has been to a race event longer than a 5K.

I am always so happy to have her there. She is my greatest joy, after all--the child who fills my life with words, the one who can say, "I love you, mama," the one who provides the kind of rewards I envisioned when I imagined myself as a parent.

But it was just as important to me to have Daniel there on Sunday morning, even though his understanding of what was taking place was limited.

At mile seven, I passed the spot where I thought they were going to be. I was a bit disappointed to not see them; I wasn't sure how difficult it would be to find them somewhere else along the route. But at mile 10, even my terribly near-sighted eyes could make out the four figures in the distance--two children standing close to their grandparents, one watching each runner with an intense focus, the other holding a sucker and looking every which way.

I smiled and waved, and the cheers rang out--from the three of them who can cheer. And then there was Daniel, still looking all around, taking in the bright sun, I suppose, or the slight chill in the air ... who knows for sure.

It is a peculiar thing when you see the people you love cheering for you during a race. Your feet really do start to move faster without any conscious direction from your brain. In an instant you feel ten pounds lighter, and you just GO, even though you would like the moment to last. In a flash, your loved ones are behind you, and you wish you could still see them, still hear them. Three miles left, my body was starting to feel a bit tired, my right knee was predictably starting to twinge, and I could've used a bit more cheers, a bit more love.

But in that moment--that fleeting moment when I passed my children--I witnessed something so typical of my daughter--so amazingly, wonderfully typical of my little dancing, singing six-year-old girl.

You see, as I glanced at my family, the person I focused on--the one whose face and eyes I sought--was Daniel... Daniel, the boy who has broken so much of my heart, but never with such intention ... the child who has taught me what it truly means to be responsible for a child ... dear Daniel.

I wanted him to see me.
Would he see me?
Would he be able to focus, with all that was going on around him, with the crowd and the noise and the unfamiliar setting ...
Would autism keep him from seeing me in this moment when I wanted it so badly?

Please, let him see me .... run, run, run... Daniel! Daniel!... run, run, run ...Please let him look ... Daniel! Daniel!...run, run, run...

And there it was: my daughter being her typically amazing self.

She turned to Daniel just as soon as she saw my face.

"Daniel'" she said, pulling and tugging and tapping at his arm with one hand, while pointing at me with the other. "Daniel, THERE'S MOMMY."

She knew.
She is six years old, and she knew.
She knew how much I wanted my boy to see me, and she did everything she could to make it happen.

And he looked.
And my feet soared.

After the race, Olivia took the finisher's medal from my neck and the race-bib from my clothes, just as she always does. She once suggested that perhaps it wasn't fair, that perhaps I should give some to Daniel.

"They are for you, Olivia," I told her. "And it is OK for me to have something special that I share just with you."

Yes, it certainly is. Because my girl knows so much more than I did at her age. She knows about differences and disability. She knows about unfairness, and she knows about fear. She knows so much about her brother, and, God help her, she knows so much about me. She knows that I worry so very much about Daniel. She knows that I long for him to be happy, that I hate it when he is not, that I apologize more than I should I ever need to, to both of them, because I sometimes let frustration get the better of me.

She even knew, in that flash of a moment, how much I wanted to feel that connection to her brother.

My amazingly wonderful, typical Olivia made my race -- which was quite unremarkable by a true runner's standard -- truly incredible.
And my heart soared.

My Biggest Fear

There are so many things I have not learned how to deal with well when it comes to autism. Coping is a never-ending process, I suppose, and we all have our limitations. Mine are fairly gargantuan.

I still cringe when Daniel is having a billboard-sized autism-moment in public.

I sometimes display a total lack of patience when I am trying to get Daniel to stop the stims and participate in life the way I want him to ... the way his sister does ... the way I thought he would, too, back in the day when baby-giggles and first steps were enough to make me feel like I was the luckiest woman in the world ... in the days before autism entered stage-left and took over the show.

And I get frustrated at the end of a long day when he hollers. Screaming, you see, is one of his primary ways of getting my attention -- especially when we are in the car. He has something he wants me to know, and I should be sympathetic. If he could express his thoughts with words, after all, he would. And whatever it is, it obviously is important to him. But he can scream so loudly that one of these days, surely, I am just going to drive right off the road.

So many things I have not managed to do ...

And here is THE ONE -- the one thing I am not able to do that is of paramount significance:

I have not learned how to let go of the fear of what will happen to my son when I am six-feet-under.

I know there are so many special-needs-parents out there struggling with this fear -- this anxiety that can overwhelm you when everything is going relatively well -- emphasis on "relatively." This fear can sneak out of the dark and take you down. It is vicious; it is malicious; it is all-consuming.


I know that I can make plans for him. I can move to another state with better programs for adults with disabilities, and given that I currently live in Texas, I probably will. I can find a group home or some other living environment where I think Daniel will be safe. And even though I won't be around anymore to make sure that Daniel's days are dominated by the things that bring him the most joy, I can search for an arrangement where somebody at least promises trips to the pool, days at Six Flags, and Dairy Queen cones with chocolate coatings.

But when I am gone, will it really happen?

What will happen to this boy -- MY boy -- the baby who started moving in my belly whenever I turned on Norah Jones, the toddler who took his first steps from the couch to my extended arms, the eight-year-old who finds joy in so many things but who cries the tears that pierce my heat like arrows when he is struggling to tell me something and I just ... don't ... know ....

What will happen to Daniel when I am no longer here?

It is the fear that will haunt me, even though I have gotten fairly good at living in the here and now ... it is the fear that will haunt me until I take my very last breath.

Raindrops Keep Falling on My Nikes

When I was a kid, I loved music and I loved to dance. But I hated P.E.

So I was thankful when junior high came around and I could replace P.E. with band.

No more running in front of peers.
No more feeling slow and awkward.
Yipee.

Last Sunday, I ran my third half-marathon.
The temperature was around 39 degrees.
And it was RAINING.

I finished in two hours and 46 seconds -- a personal best.
I finished 165 out of 981 in my age division.

Five years ago, I never would have thought of running a half-marathon. Maybe a 5K. But a half? In a cold rain? No way. I am too slow, too big, too clumsy ....

And then came autism. The kind of autism I could no longer deny.
With it came personal disappointments galore. Another child with a birth defect, a marriage in trouble, fear, stress, loneliness ... sadness.

If I hadn't started running, I am not sure where I would be.

Here is what I will take away from my last race:

(1) Maybe running a half marathon sub two hours isn't such a pipe dream, after all;

(2) When your knee starts to hurt, and then you see somebody pass you who is running with just one leg, you really don't feel like complaining;

(3) I really appreciate people who get up early and stand in some crap-weather to cheer;

(4) As difficult as it is to run 13.1 miles in a cold, non-stop downpour, it is not nearly as tough as parenting a child with autism, and it pales in comparison to the challenges my son faces every day.

And what do you know?
I don't really suck at this running-thing.
Yipee.

To Josh, from Round Rock

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I write this to sixteen-year-old Josh, from Round Rock,Texas.

Thank you, Josh, for playing with the boy who took such an interest in you in that hotel pool.

Thank you for not questioning why he invaded every bit of your personal space and clung to you like you were a long-lost friend, even though he had never seen you before.

Thank you for returning his laugh. Thank you for looking him in the eye. Thank you for talking TO HIM, and not around him.

When I told you that he has autism, thank you for responding as if you already knew.

When I told you that he is non-verbal, thank you for again responding as if this wasn't some kind of strange news.

And, mostly, when I told you that my son loves being thrown in the pool by his dad, thank you for throwing my 65-pound child around that pool.

After watching you interact with my son for just a few minutes, I knew you had to have some type of connection to at least one person with special needs.

You told me that you volunteer, through a program at your high school, to work with kids with autism.

Of course you do,

Because look at how wonderfully you interacted with my son -- a boy who usually keeps to himself in that pool and draws the occasional glances when his differences become apparent.

Thank you for welcoming his attempt to interact. As you saw, he doesn't have the skills to approach people in typical ways. Thank you for accepting his clear interest in you and returning the attention.

Thank you for commenting on his strong swimming skills.

Thank you for saying that "he seems high functioning."

He is not -- at least not according to the traditional indicators employed by school districts and educational evaluators. Daniel struggles. We struggle as his family. BUT thank you, thank you, Josh, for reminding me that someone who knows a little something about autism can see Daniel and see a lot of great things.

Thank you for talking directly to my daughter, who too often gets overlooked. Like me, she wishes her brother had friends. Like me, she loves watching her brother being happy. She was thrilled watching you interact with him in the fun, positive ways that you did.

Thank you for reminding me that there are kind, golden-hearted people in the world who can look at my son and see more than just a nonverbal child with autism.

If you read this, Josh-from-Round-Rock-who-was-in-DFW-for-the-Cowboys game, show it to your family and tell them how lucky they are to have a kid like you. And if you are still single when you are 35, look us up. You are, after all, only ten-years older than my daughter. ;)

He is eight-years-old.

“Autism” has been spoken in my home for seven of those eight years.

Autism has wreaked havoc – on my son, on his sister, on my family, and on me.

My life, when I choose to go beyond the confines of my home, is a never-ending public service announcement.

This is what autism looks like, it says.
Real, down in the dirt, never let up, autism.

I am tired, and so this post might seem cliché. But parenting a child with autism is a lot like swimming upstream -- or floating in the ocean.

He is eight-years-old.

And I am still wondering: what is it that I am going to hang on to?

I look in all directions.

I take note of moms who embrace their faith, who turn to scripture and prayer and find not only strength, but reasons to hope and reasons to praise.

I take note of moms who embrace the fight, who spend their midnight hours reading every book, who wear out the tread on their tires by taking their children to people who claim to have found answers for others, who buy the supplements and the gluten-free foods.

I take note of moms who embrace a mission, who battle the insurance industry and lobby Congress members, and raise their voices in support of this growing community of families who see autism impact the lives of our children in debilitating ways.

I admire them, all of them.

But I am not one of them.

It is not something I am proud of.

I am part of that barely-hanging-on group.

I once fought with an insurance company, only to be shot down.

I have requested more services from a school district, only to be shot down

I have moved with my children so that my son could have ABA services, and I have driven him to multiples therapists … and there is autism, so very real, so incredibly disabling, still such a royal pain in the ass, robbing my son of so much.

I wish I could say that I have found resolve and strength from a renewed faith in God. But I have not. I do not hate God. But I have questions, big-time questions, for Him should we ever meet.

I wish I could say I have searched tirelessly for answers.

I wish I could say I have really advocated for my son in the way he deserves.

But I have not done these things.

I am living in the day.

He is eight-years-old.

And I am still wondering: what is it that I am going to hang on to?

My Visit the Second Graders: Part Five

The last thing I want for you guys to know is that people with autism are a lot more like you than they are different from you.

If Daniel could talk, I think these are the ways he would tell you that he is like you.

I think he would say:

Hey guys, I really love to swim. I would swim every day if my mom would let me.

And I love waterslides, especially the really fast ones.

I also love rollercoasters. I love to go to Six Flags and ride all the scary rollercoasters, even the Shock Wave and the Titan. I love it when the rollercoasters go really fast and when they make me go upside down.

I love pizza and popsicles and popcorn. But my absolute favorite food is cupcakes and my favorite candies are Sour Patch Kids and peppermints.

I love to climb, and I love to watch the otters at the zoo.

I love to go to football, basketball and baseball games and I love watching videos on my I-pad.

I think that Daniel would tell you that he really likes going to school and that he is paying a lot more attention to you all than you realize.

And here is what I would tell you about Daniel, as his mom:

Daniel loves people more than anybody I know. He loves people very deeply. He doesn’t care what kind of clothes you are wearing, or whether you passed your spelling test. He doesn’t care about any of the things that don’t really matter. He just loves people who are nice to him.

And Daniel is also the bravest person I have ever known. He started riding the big roller-coasters at Six Flags, even the one that goes upside down, when he was just four years old. He wasn’t even scared. That is one of the ways he is brave. But there are others.

Every single morning when I tell Daniel it is time to go to school, he puts on his shoes and gets in the car with a big grin. And if I were Daniel, and I knew I was going to this great big school each day and I couldn’t tell people what I needed – I know for sure that I would not be as brave as Daniel.

I don’t think I will ever meet anybody as brave as Daniel for the rest of my life.

And I think Daniel would tell you that even though he is a lot different from you and even though he can’t talk to you, he likes it when you pay attention to him. I think Daniel thinks that all you guys are really awesome. And every time you try to help him, it makes him feel really good.

My Visit with the Second Graders: Part Four

My answers to the rest of their questions:

Why does he run around the classroom and run away when people are trying to help him?

Oh, I LOVE this question. Because it tells me that you guys are trying to help Daniel. And that really means a lot to me as Daniel’s mom.

Well, I think there are a couple of reasons. And I think it depends on where Daniel is and who he is running away from.

Sometimes, I think Daniel is trying to get away from work!

Daniel is really good at escaping when he is tired of working, and I can hardly blame him. We all have things that are hard for us. When Daniel comes to school, he is being asked to do the things that are the very hardest for him -- like listening.

Another reason I think he runs away, especially if he is running away from you guys, is because he is a little nervous. He KNOWS he is different. He knows he can’t do all the things that you guys can do. But he doesn’t know how you guys are going to respond to that. So that makes him a little nervous, and probably even a little scared.

You guys are so great at talking and listening that when you are talking to each other it probably sounds a little something like this:

HEY! OH MY GOSH I HAD SUCH A GREAT WEEKEND AND DID YOU SEE JUSTIN BEIBER ON TV THIS MORNING AND CAN YOU BELIEVE ALL THIS HOME WORK WE HAVE TO DO IT IS RIDICULOUS.

Imagine how you might feel if one day you moved to a different country where everyone spoke a different language. And imagine if everyone in this county was talking that fast and you couldn't even ask them to slow down. I think that is sort of what it is like for Daniel every day, and sometimes he just wants to escape and take a break.

Why, in PE, does he squeal and cry out when the teachers are trying to help him?

So you guys have noticed that sometimes places like the gym can be hard for people with autsm.

And here is something else you should know about autism. Does anybody know what the five senses are?

(With a little help, they named them all.)

People with autism sometimes experience things with their senses a little bit differently, because the connections in their brains are different. So, sometimes people with autism see, hear taste, touch or smell things differently that the rest of us.

I know Daniel does sometimes. I know that when he looks at a waterfall, he sees things that I don't see. I think it is because he looks at it so much more closely while I am busy listening to what people are saying around me or thinking about a story I want to tell my best friend. Daniel is only looking at the waterfall.

I know he hears things differently sometimes too. I think he hears things louder sometimes. I have watched him before when we are outside and noticed that he is really listening to something. So I have stopped what I am doing and tried to listen really hard. And it is usually the coolest sound – like the pretty whistle of a bird in the distance or the buzz of a bug – something I never would have heard if I hadn’t really stopped to listen.

I think Daniel sometimes hears more things than we do and sees more things than we do, which, when you think about it, is really cool. But when language is tough, and when sounds are a little bit louder to somebody, someplace like the gym can be REALLY chaotic. It can seem SUPER loud and SUPER scary because what you guys are hearing sounds so much louder to his ears.

Why does he grab stuff and run?

I think the biggest reason is Daniel gets told NO a lot! The grownups in Daniel’s life are always pushing him to do things that are hard for him. We want him to listen to us all the time, so he will get better at listening and understanding. We want him to try to make sounds all the time. We want Daniel to try, try, try at the stuff that is hard for him so we tell him no when he wants to do something else. We tell him no when he wants to just grab something comforting to him, like those lids, and escape.

If I was used to getting told no all the time, I think I would probably try to grab stuff and run, too!

I think Daniel grabs things and takes off for the same reason his sister will grab a big bag of chocolate cookies and take off to her room. Because she really wants those cookies, but she figures she is probably going to be told no.

Why did he bite the teacher?

Oh, no, I really hate this question guys because I hate to hear about Daniel biting anybody at school. BUT I am still really glad somebody asked this question because it allows me to tell you something very important. I want you guys to know that Daniel never wants to hurt anybody.

I want you guys to think about the last time you had a rotten day. And if you can’t remember, then just try to imagine some things that would make your day really crummy. Maybe your dog is sick. Maybe your mom is sick. Maybe you missed seven words on your spelling test. And you just found out your best friend is moving away. I want you to think about some of the things you do when you are feeling just so sad and down and scared.

I'll tell you what I sometimes do when I get feeling super crummy or sad: I yell.

I even yell at people that I really love. I might even yell at my kids. I don’t mean to hurt their feelings, and I don’t want to hurt their feelings. I am just feeling so terrible in that moment that the words just come out, and they come out loud because I am feeling so badly.

Well, bad days for Daniel are even harder than my really bad days because he can't talk to anybody about why he is angry or sad. I think Daniel bites for the same reason I yell. It is his way, sometimes, of expressing his frustration.

One last post about my visit coming up

My Visit with the Second Graders: Part Three

They were an enthusiastic audience, this group of second-graders who spend part of each school day with my son -- these kids who know very well how different Daniel is and wonder why. As I moved from their most fundamental questions -- was he born with autism; why doesn't he talk -- to those focused on his behavioral characteristics, I wondered if I could even begin to explain the things that are so mysterious to me.

I "know" Daniel better than anyone else "knows" Daniel. To know Daniel is to worry in immeasurable amounts, to accept that love transcends words, and to wonder about all the things you can't really know. When you think about it, you can say the same for all of our most treasured relationships. Autism just makes relationships so much more complicated, because -- and I speak for myself here -- it leaves you longing for the opportunity to communicate with your child in the typical ways that bond people together.

Just as Daniel is complicated, so is knowing him ....

... although he is so worth knowing.

So I did my best.

Why does he want to spin things?

Here is what I think: this world filled with words is tough for people with autism in a lot of ways. You guys are so good at talking, and when you are talking with somebody, you are really good at being able to tell how that person is feeling and what they might want to talk about next. People with autism are good a lot of things, but that kind of stuff is hard for them. So, I think they take comfort in things that are predictable to them.

And we all do that sometimes. I will give you an example. Do you guys have a favorite movie?

(Yep, they did.)

How many of you have watched you favorite movie more than once?

(Well, duh, they all had.)

More than twice?

(Yep. The hands stayed up.)

More than five times?

(Yep.)

How many of you think you have watched your favorite movie more than TEN times?

(They all looked around the room at each other, and they all seemed to be on the same track. These kids really liked their favorite movies.)

So, even though you know everything that is going to happen in that movie,even though you can probably repeat lots of it word-for-word, you still like to watch it.

And I bet that when you guys aren't feeling well, you'd probably like to just sit on the couch and watch your favorite movie, even though you have seen it so many times. Even though you know that whole movie by heart, watching it brings you comfort. It is familiar to you.

Well, its the same for Daniel: things that are very familiar to him bring him comfort. He knows that when he picks up a lid, or something else that spins, he can make that lid spin every single time by doing the same thing each time. It is predictable. It is easy to understand. And when he is spinning a lid, he can get lost in it, and he sometimes will tune out the world around him – just like you guys tune out the world sometimes when you are watching your favorite movie or TV show.

Why does he grunt and say uh?

Do you guys mean when he kind of screams like this: AAAHHH!

(Yep, they did)

You guys have noticed that sometimes Daniel can make a lot of noise. And sometimes, I bet, all this noise really surprises you! It surprises me, too. I can be sitting in Chic-fil-a with Daniel and he will see a picture of ice cream on the wall, and he will shout "AAHH" so loudly that I nearly fall out of my seat onto the floor!

But even though all that noise can really startle me, it is also exciting, and here is why: Daniel hasn't always used his voice box to get attention. When he was younger, whenever he wanted something, he would either try to get it all by himself or he would come and find me, take my hand, and lead me to whatever he wanted. And he would put my hand on what he wanted to show me. Now, he is really trying to use sounds to get peoples' attention. But it is hard for him.

I want you to try something with me. I want everyone to make the "t" sound. Like this. Now I want you to think about all the things your mouth is doing when you make that sound. Your tongue is going up to the roof of your mouth, right? And what else?

("My mouth goes tight, kinda like I am smiling," says one child. "And I am blowing air out of my mouth," says another.)

That's right! And you have to do all that stuff just to make ONE SOUND!

Well, remember those roadblocks we just talked about? They are making it really hard for Daniel's mouth and tongue and lips to do all that stuff. So, right now, he is making the sounds that come easiest to him. And he really wants to be sure he gets your attention, even though he can't say things the right way, so he is LOUD!

When he really slows down and tries hard, he can make a lot more sounds and he can say some words. I am hoping that some day he will be able to say a lot more, and that he will use a machine to help him with the words he has trouble saying ...

UP NEXT: the last of their questions and the ways that Daniel is so much like them.

Second Graders, Here I Come

In less than two hours, I will be sitting in front of a group of second-graders at my children's school.

I will be talking to them about autism and, in particular, about Daniel. How do you talk about Daniel without talking about autism?

I will be attempting to explain to these seven- and eight-year-olds why they should see my son as different, and yet so much the same -- as in need of some assistance, and, yet, deserving of acceptance as an equal.

No small task.

I am excited and nervous.

Yes, they are "just" second-graders.

But they are my son's peers. They are the kiddos who see him every day.

They are the children who either will or won't ask him to sit with them in the cafeteria.

They are the children who either will or won't stand up for him when someone is treating him as "less than."

They are children who are currently forming their opinions, based on their experiences with Daniel, on what it means to be a friend to somebody who can't return friendship in traditional ways.

They are the children who have the power to educate not only their peers, but their families as well.

Let's hope I do right by my son today. I owe it to him.

Breaking the Seal

Hope springs eternal in the human breast;`
Man never Is, but always To be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

--Alexander Pope,
An Essay on Man, Epistle I, 1733

Hope springs eternal ....

But does it?

For those of us who have brought a child into this world, so filled with excitement and plans and dreams,

so filled with hope .....

Only to hear the labels,

to see the signs,

to watch as our children's peers do all the things we thought our sons and daughters would do ....

somewhere along the journey the word "hope" takes on a new meaning,

if it doesn't leave our vocabulary altogether.

I do not wish to speak for anyone other than myself.

Because even though the path each special-needs-parent travels is sure to intersect with the roads of others ....

even though, if we are lucky, we find cherished friendships along the journey with parents who understand because they live it ....

Still, at the end of the day, we process our pain alone.

And we handle it, or fail to handle, on our own.

So, I speak only for myself when I say that I have had difficulty with hope the past few years. Other special needs parents, without a doubt, have had a much stronger handle on hope than have I.

I had it once. Four years ago, I moved myself and my kids 350 miles away from the city where they were born. I did it so Daniel could go to a school that offered special services to children with autism. I counted down the days until my husband would be able to be with us all the time, and I did my best to make two little children happy, even though I was filled with nervousness and fear and worry.

I still had hope then, even though I was anxious, even though my dreams for my son already were considerably altered from what they were when Daniel was born.

I had hope that Daniel would get the help he needed at his new school, that he would be able to talk to me.

That is really all I wanted: for my son to be able to talk to me.

Screw college degrees and baseball games.
Who gave a crap whether he ever read Shakespeare or learned the quadratic formula.
I just wanted to hear his voice.

It didn't happen.

And what happened instead? What I believed in -- what I based my life on -- turned out to be untrue. I had an up-close view of viciousness in its worst form, and I experienced a difficult lesson in how little words actually mean when the people who say them aren't willing to take actions to back them up.

And my son still can't talk.

Somewhere along the way, my hope vanished.

It poured out of me along with so many other things ... things that are impossible to retrieve.

But, hope, dare I say it, really does spring eternal -- at least when it comes to your child.

For a moment last week, someone gave me a little hope.

A speech therapist, one whom I respect tremendously, evaluated my son. She already knew him because he previously received services at her clinic. She didn't work with him individually but she consulted. She is in great demand, you see -- she is that good.

She is awesome.

I asked her to do an evaluation that I could present to our school district (because I am disappointed at the level of services currently being offered to my son, but that is a story for another post).

Her special area of expertise is PROMPT therapy, which is designed to help kids, like Daniel, with apraxia (which, when added to autism is such a one-two punch in the gut).

After the evaluation, she told me how well Daniel responded to her PROMPT techniques, much better than the last time when he was in her clinic more than a year ago.

I said something about Daniel already being eight-years-old.

She stopped me, and she took me into a private room, and she said:

This kid can be talking.

This was last week, and those words brought tears to me eyes when I heard them -- just a few because I was in public, after all.

But, now, as I type this, there is a torrential downpour.

So many times I have put dreams on a shelf.

So many times I have looked into my son's eyes, so thankful that he shows love and affection for me in ways I cannot doubt, but wanting, wanting, wanting ....

more.

It is terrifying ... this idea of breaking the seal on my boxes of stored-away hope.

My heart has been broken so many times, in so many ways -- ways far more painful than anything autism could ever accomplish, which is saying something. And there are scars on my heart that will never heal, not completely.

But is there a chance that some day I still might hear my son's voice?

Do I dare to hope?

How can I not.

My heart still beats.
I still dream.
And I am always a mother.

Sometimes a friend who has been there, because she lives it, can make a point in such a way that I want to shout praise from the rooftops.

So here is the blogosphere equivalent: a link to a post on her blog.

It's the Little Things

I hear ya, Deb.
I can count the number of times that has happened to me with, well, one finger. (Not the autism-related stress in public part. That is my life. But the stranger-approaching-with-a-kind-bit-of-encouragement part.)

I will never forget it.
It really does mean so much.

The Friends We Choose

Life is partly what we make of it, and partly what is made by the friends whom we choose.
-- Teyhi Hsieh

So true.

Tomorrow is Daniel's birthday.

He will be eight-years-old.

Autism has been with us the entire time, introducing itself during what should have been such happy days, hanging on like a pit-bull, throwing daggers and stealing dreams.

I haven't had the parenting experience I once envisioned. (I know, I know -- who does? But some of us get thrown more curve balls than average. And I was never good at catching.)

I haven't had the marital experience I once envisioned. (And I truly believe that my husband and I had much love for each other when we married. It is amazing how autism can put the spotlight on the weakest parts of a marriage and open the door to so much pain.)

And I haven't had the career I once envisioned. (Although maybe some day...)

But, as I search for silver-linings -- and don't we all need to do that sometimes -- I gotta say that I have been very fortunate when it comes to knowing some kick-ass gals.

I have some very good friends.

There are special things about each stupendous chic who has been a part of my life these past few years -- years when life was turned upside down by things that could have destroyed me if it weren't for some very terrific women (and some very supportive parents).

There is the woman I just happened to meet on a playground one day, who asked about the school across the street from the swings and slides where our children played. It was my children's preschool. I told her about the school's inclusive programming for children with autism -- the reason my son attended. Who knew that she would enroll her child, that we would connect through that decision, that a chance meeting on a playground would lead to a relationship that I value so very much. I admire her for the way she searches for the best in people, for the way she always tries to uplift. It is as natural to her as breathing.

There is the mom whom I met shortly after moving to DFW, at a time when I was feeling lonely and uncertain. Her son, who also has autism, started at the same preschool at the same time as my son. And even though I was not then at a point where I felt comfortable speaking freely about autism and how it affected my son, even though a part of me just wanted to crawl into a hole and ignore the world, I couldn't help but be drawn to her. I am amazed at everything she does for her son. If someone told her she could help her son by moving a mountain, she would exhaust herself looking for a way to lift it upon her shoulders.

There is the friend from back home, my son's Godmother, who manages to remove layers of stress each time I see her. When I am with her, I feel young again. I laugh like a girl, like the girl I once was.

There is the childhood friend who now lives not too far up these congested DFW roads -- a woman who has felt too much pain, pain that was not deserved, pain that is particularly tortuous because it came from the actions of someone she loved with her whole heart. I admire how much she does, without help, for her children. She plays a role in my life that is unmatched by anyone, because hers is the strongest voice counseling forgiveness, urging patience, promoting love.

And there is the woman who has been there for me like no other, through layer upon layer of crap -- the woman who recruited me to run my first half-marathon, who consistently answered her phone in the middle of the night when I literally thought I couldn't take one more bit of pain, who sat with me in my car and cried after I learned an awful, unthinkable truth. What I would do for her .... I love how she listens and cares. I love how she tells me things I need to hear even when she knows I probably do not want to hear them. She could teach a seminar on what it means to truly be a friend.

There are other great women too ...

... the childhood friend who says both her first and last name every time she leaves a message on my voice mail, even though she is one in a million. She is getting married this fall. It will be the first time in such a long time that I have been excited about going to a wedding...

... my daughter's Godmother, with a soul so pure and nurturing, who one day -- back when I was pregnant with Olivia and so worried about what doctors were telling us -- made me laugh and feel good about myself with words I will never forget...

... the gal across town who looks like she just stepped out of a catalogue and says what she thinks without apologies. She reminds me of myself when I had more energy, NOT because I ever once looked like I stepped out of a catalogue, but because I once spoke with the same zeal. She can always be counted on for a favor, and, wow, if only I could organize my life half as well as she organizes a party...

...another autism mom whom I have known for a while but am just now getting the chance to really know. She understands way too much, which, unfortunately, is an indicator of how much she has had to endure. But, oh, how I am so grateful to know someone who understands my life on so many levels. She is such an example of dignity, such a model of strength ...

... the moms I have met through this blog, through autism. May God bless them all, and their precious children. The women who, like me, find some solace in the written word, who strive for a way to make sense of a disorder that has robbed our children of way too much, who pour out their fears, their heartaches and their joys in this great big blogosphere because therapy is expensive, and Lord knows we need as much therapeutic release as we can get, in whatever form we can get it.

My life is not exactly how I envisioned it would be, not even close.

But these women, these wonderful mothers, are so much more than I could have hoped for when it comes to friends.

You know who you are ... love to each of you ...

Leah

Today marked 36.

36 years on this Earth, and I think my face shows every one of them and then some.

I struggled today.

And it is difficult to explain why.

I suppose, to put it simply, this is not even close to what I envisioned life would be like at 36.

I suppose I struggled today because accepting reality can be so damn difficult sometimes.

And my reality is that I sat through an ARD meeting (also known as an IEP meeting) yesterday listening to educational evaluators describe tests results showing that my son is severely, incredibly, profoundly, greatly, monumentally challenged. BUT, despite those challenges, they would like to offer him an amount of therapeutic services that might be appropriate for, say, a kid who stutters.

My reality is that while I sat through this meeting I wasn't thinking primarily about my son's difficulties and how he will be challenged for the entirety of his life. I wasn't thinking primarily of how sad it is that our country places such a low priority on the education of its young people, much less the education of its special needs population. I wasn't even thinking of how stinking unfair it is that I cannot get a damn bit of help-- from insurance companies or the government -- for my son. Instead, I was thinking primarily about how my daughter, my son's only sibling, would handle the stress of trying to help her brother when she is an adult, and she is the only family member left for Daniel to depend on.

My reality is also that I have dealt with more pain the past three years -- pain completely separate and apart from autism -- than I have known how to deal with. The people who have read this blog since its inception know that I started it during a time in my life when I felt desperate and alone -- at a time when I saw my marriage blow up and my life completely turned upside down. I felt as if doors were continually being shut in my face, as if the person I had trusted most in the world had just disappeared, as if I was faced with a boatload of responsibilities for two beautiful children... and if I was not entirely alone, I was without the person I needed most.

That was the fall of 2009 -- a time in my life so horrible that the experience wiped many good memories of so many good years from my brain.

That time and the years since changed me in so many ways.

Some of them good. Some of them bad. And some of them ... well, I am just not sure. Is it a good thing or a bad thing when you go from thinking that most people in the world are honest and decent to thinking that such a belief is ridiculously naive?

Anyway, here I am... another year older if not any wiser. And the circumstances in my life have changed. And thank goodness they have. I know things can always be worse, but when I think of where I was two years ago, or even six months ago, if things had gotten much worse .... I hate to think about it.

I am not divorced, as you might have figured out from my last post.

I still struggle with how to be a good mom to my challenged son and my amazing daughter.

I still struggle with feeling like I am never doing enough for my children, most especially Daniel.

And now I struggle with mending a relationship that was once filled with so many expectations, so many dreams, so much friendship, so much laughter .... so much, so much, so much.

I have to continually remind myself that the heart is such a complicated thing ... just like the brain it is impossible to fully understand. I have to stop questioning myself and my motives and accept the simple fact that the things I am trying to do are based in love for my children and love for their father.

And I have to remind myself to try to live in the day, which is something I have been doing for an incredibly long time.

I am taking steps that I hope will help. I have accepted part-time employment, and I have even found myself in church -- trying to find comfort and peace within the rituals of Mass.

I have so many wonderful people in my life for whom to pray -- people who helped lift me up these past few years when I felt like I could barely function. And, surely, I can find some peace in that.

So, I ask all of you who know me, or who think that you might have some experience with the things about which I write, to keep me in mind from time to time -- either through prayer or good thoughts.

Because what I would really like for my reality to become is ...a peaceful one. And I am not yet there.