I ask myself sometimes
what it would be like to live a life where autism did not play a part at all.
It would be different certainly. I would not be on edge every moment as I am
now. I might have had fewer grey hairs and looked less tired. I might have
smiled more. My daughter might have had an elder brother who would always take
care of her instead of the other way around. But then I don’t really know, do
I? A life without autism may appear to be easier and it probably is but if
there is one thing I have learnt over the years, it is the simple fact that
everyone carries burdens and hurts that may or may not be apparent. Wishing for
something different may not be a bad thing but thinking different is always
easier may lead to more disappointment.
So over the years, acceptance
has seeped into all of us in this family. Mahi does not ask why she has to
stand up for her brother always. My husband does not speak of the moments he
probably wanted with his son but instead works harder so that he leaves him
with a safety net – perhaps because this is the only way he knows how to show
his love. I don’t complain about the fact that a constant high alert mode is
taking its toll on probably every cell in my body – instead I find moments every
day where I can learn to let go. It is all a work in progress.
I have also learnt to
view with gratitude the little things that make life light up when I least
expect it. A hug from my son who knows exactly when I need it the most.
Stumbling upon lovely bronze chrysanthemums in some shabby roadside nursery
that I then lovingly plant and fuss over. Watching how my little girl moves
magically about the house warming my very soul. Had things been different
perhaps I might have noticed little moments less and focused on what the world
in general focuses on. Now I have much less materially but a lot more in terms
of experience. I have a hundred stories in me that are clamouring for release.
I have a self belief that comes from trying so many things that I never thought
I would ever try. I have had to be twice the person I was just to be able to
cope.
In spite of how life
has wended its way to a place where I can start appreciating its beauties,
there is one thing that I will always regret having – it may be inconsequential
in the larger scheme of things but I want it so badly I can taste the longing.
I want to be able to share my words with my son. I want him to understand who
his mother was. I want to be able to share with him the beauty of words and how
they can capture what is hidden. I want him to lose himself in a book. I know
its too much to ask so perhaps its better if I try and understand his colours
and patterns instead. I have to keep at it and maybe one day I will understand
the language of ‘not words’.
