Category Archives: Autism & Epilepsy

Transition Check-In: The Keys to Supported Independence

If I had written this post just one week ago, it would have been titled “Transition Check-In: The Waiting Game,” because that’s where we were, where we have been, where we thought we would be for at least year two years, waiting for Nigel’s HUD to go into effect. I thought we would have to wait for that to happen before we could set him up in his own apartment with support from Living Opportunities, a local nonprofit organization that helps adults with developmental disabilities to live their lives as independently as possible, while offering assistance in any form that is needed. They have already begun to provide services for Nigel while he is still living in my home, taking him to appointments, helping him to organize his living space and his time. They are very professional and specially trained to handle various needs, personalities, and preferences. They focus on presuming competence and facilitating independence. In fact, they even provide services for a few people who do not communicate with speech, but with supports in place are able to be in their own apartments. Without this support they would undoubtedly be placed in group homes, sharing a small room with another adult. It’s amazing and wonderful what Living Opportunities does. We are so blessed to have this organization in our area.

Last summer, when I moved Nigel back from the group home, I was advised to apply and get him on the waiting list for HUD, which I did. I didn’t realize that in doing so, he would also be on the waiting list for several apartment complexes in our area that offer certain units for low-income tenants who are waiting for their HUD approval. A couple of weeks ago, I received a letter in the mail that one of these units was available.

I called the Housing Authority office to let them know that we were interested, and they said that they had sent that letter out to about 20 people. With Nigel, I drove by the place anyway, just to see what the complex looked like. It was new, quiet, and definitely not Crackville. Nigel agreed that it looked like a nice place to live. Unfortunately I had a very busy week and was only able to call about the apartment the day before the end date for applications, so I figured the apartment would go to someone else, and we would wait for another one of these apartments to become available.

But a week later, the Housing Authority office called me. They said that Nigel was next in line. I asked if that meant there was one person ahead of him and they said, No, he’s it. He’s the next one eligible to apply if he still wants to. And the very next day we went down to that office and filled out the application with me as the co-signer.

Four days later, they called and said the apartment was his! We are going in next Monday to sign the lease and get the keys, the keys to Nigel’s autonomy that he needs and so rightly deserves. The keys to the space for his massive Lego collection, the privacy to act out (in costume) scenes from his favorite movies, and the satisfaction of not having his mother telling him when to shower or take his meds (the support providers will do that when they check in on him every day). (!!!!) And these same keys are also the keys to my relief, to being able to focus on Aidan’s last year of high school next year, and to regaining my sense of self that has been shelved for so long I don’t even know what that self was. These are the keys to rediscovering her.

It’s another big step, probably the biggest, in Nigel’s journey to and through adulthood, a journey to which I have devoted much time and energy. He will have all the support he needs through Living Opportunities, he will spend time with family members at least twice a week, and I am always a text or call away.

Moving Day is in three weeks, when the rubber really does meet the road. It’s the start of something that I would have thought impossible just a few short years ago. But if I look at his trajectory, the journey we’ve been on to get here, every challenge he’s faced or taken on, I shouldn’t be surprised. This is the boy who, at the age of five, could not say his name when a doctor asked. This is the boy who could not go into stores, movie theaters, and restaurants because his sensory issues overwhelmed him. This is the teen who needed a modified diploma because, although he understood the material, he could not handle the volume of work.

But he made it through high school, and he walked across the stage to receive that diploma while his classmates cheered. He was voted “Most Likely to Survive a Zombie Apocalypse” by his senior class. He spent time getting to know a girl and he asked her to prom and she said yes.

When he said, two weeks ago, I don’t think I’m ready for this, I told him, “You can do this, Nigel.” And with the supports in place, I know he will.


Image courtesy of Wikipedia

Hope: Is It in You?

In the past week, I have met with a Vocational Rehab counselor, written a visual support social story about going to doctor appointments, created multiple visual support schedules, and contacted an agency that provides long-term in-home support for people who need assistance meeting their needs. Last week, I left work and picked up my 19-year-old son and took him to sign paperwork for his case manager – twice, because the first agency that was supposed to provide the in-home support fell through, so my son had to come in and sign another release authorization so that his Functional Assessment could be sent to the new agency. His previous case manager asked if we could go to her office to sign some other freaking paperwork. She offered to mail it and I said Yes, please. Next week, I go to our state capital for a six-month course I’m taking called Partners in Policymaking (more about that here). It’s a four-hour drive one way, and I do this every month, so that I can learn how to help my son have the most fulfilling adulthood possible.

This is some of what you do when you have a child with a disability and he or she is transitioning to adulthood. Other parents have to change their adult child’s briefs, or feed them by hand, brush their teeth, help them bathe, or carry them up the stairs. Others look at residential homes for their child, as I did last year. And when they’ve been there for two months and the caregiver calls you and says, “He’s not functioning here,” you have to move him again, back home, and then the process starts all over as you try to find something else.

I go out in the community and see my son’s previous classmates. They are also 19 years old and working their way through college. Some of them live at home still. But they register for classes themselves and take themselves to dental appointments and don’t have Functional Assessments and their parents don’t have to constantly leave work and pick them up and drive them to various agencies to sign release forms. If they have to sign anything they go and do it themselves.

I have been doing this – parenting a child who has had years of therapy appointments, IEP meetings, behavioral challenges, and other issues too numerous to list – by myself for 15 years. And it’s not over yet. It may never be over. I don’t think there is a word to describe how I feel. Exhausted doesn’t begin to cover it. Drained is part of it, but there’s more to it than that. And I have another child, so I know that when there’s no disability involved, you still have to do all the regular things that parents do for their kids, but it’s so much easier. Believe me, it is.

I’m guessing there are other parents out there who feel as I do. And I don’t like to write about it because the last thing I would want is for my son to feel that he’s been a burden to me. He has taught me many things, and I am a better person for it. It may not sound like it, but I’m very grateful. In fact, it’s not so much him and helping him to meet his needs as it is doing it by myself. If being a parent is “the toughest job you’ll ever love,” what is being a single parent? What do you call it when you’re still doing it and your child is an adult?

I realize that I’m not sounding very gracious, like I’m feeling sorry for myself. Maybe I’m venting. But something’s got to give. When you don’t see a light at the end of the tunnel because the tunnel never ends, how do you keep going? I meditate (when I can fit it in), I pray, I have a mantra that I say to myself throughout the day, I go to support group meetings, but I feel like I have nothing left, like this rodeo has kicked my sorry ass, and I have to keep getting up and getting back on that horse, over and over again.

And somehow I do. I push through it and keep going, with a little venting, a lot of patience, and the hope that I’ve got it in me to continue.


Image courtesy of www.

Transition Check-In: Limited Means

IMG_0031“I don’t like it when you say ‘special needs’ or ‘developmental disabilities’ about me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that.”

“It makes me feel like I’m incapable of doing things.”

“I’ll do my best not to use that terminology with you. What do you prefer that I say instead?”

After a moment of thought: “Say that I’m a person of limited means.”


As I write this, I am on day two of a pretty bad migraine. The boys and I have just finished getting over illnesses and dry throats due to two and a half weeks of the central heating system in our new apartment not working properly. The fan blew recycled air out of every vent in every room 24/7 for two and a half weeks. The technician had to make three trips here before it finally shut off, which was yesterday. My computer was not connecting to the internet for almost a week, which is bad because I do a lot of work online from home, and after spending an hour and a half on the phone with Dell’s tech support in India, it crashed completely and I couldn’t even work offline. Over three more hours and two more calls-to-India later, it was fixed. Apparently this occurred during the peak of Mercury in retrograde.

So yes, the next step in Nigel’s transition to adulthood: we have moved into a 3-bedroom apartment, and everyone is pretty excited to have more space. I am happy that all of Nigel’s stuff is confined to his new bedroom. Aidan is happy not to have Nigel’s captain’s bed sitting in the middle of his room. And I’m sure Nigel is particularly happy that no one is constantly tripping over him or his things. (As an aside, I’m also glad that the light never goes out in the middle of my shower anymore.)

Incidentally, three days ago Nigel turned 19. He received a couple of checks for his birthday, and yesterday we went to the bank to deposit them. I have taken him to the bank several times before in the past three years to do this very thing. We walked over to the counter where all the deposit and withdrawal slips are, and I said, “Okay, pretend I’m not here. Just do all the things we’ve practiced before, and ask me if you have any questions.” He stood there, blank look on his face. In a defensive tone he said, “How am I supposed to remember what to do?!” I calmly reminded him that we’d done all of this many times before. “I bet you didn’t have to do this when you were 19!”

I refrained from telling him that when I was 19, I had my own apartment, a car, a checking account, a credit card, paid my own bills, and college tuition. I simply said yes, I did, and walked him through the steps for perhaps the ninth time. And so it goes.

What’s next for Nigel? As soon as I get rid of this migraine, I will be signing him up for Goodwill’s GED program, and he will focus on that for however long it takes. He’s been getting out into the community by riding his bike on an almost daily basis and remembering to text me when he leaves the house and when he returns. We’re at about a 30% rate of him remembering on his own to take his medication twice a day, despite various methods of helping him to do it on his own. But, as in most situations with a person of limited means, one thing at a time.


I told him, gently, that the term “limited means” usually refers to a low financial status (and other things that I know he didn’t have in mind). “Oh,” he said. I assured him that I wanted to be respectful of his preference and suggested “differently abled,” which he vetoed. Finally, in frustration he asked, “Why is it so important to you?” I didn’t have an answer for him, other than what I had already said about being respectful. And, just like that, he had made his preference known.

Transition Check-In: Back to the Diving Board

“Many things in life, at most times, are filled with both uncertainties and possibilities.” – Nigel, age 18

“Life is a holding pattern.” – Tanya, age 98


The phrase “back to the drawing board” supposedly originated from a cartoon featured in the New Yorker in 1941. The cartoon showed various military men and ground crew racing toward a crashed plane, and a designer, with a roll of plans under his arm, walking away saying, “Well, back to the old drawing board.” And as I found myself moving Nigel back to my apartment, with his big captain’s bed and many boxes of belongings (he would be a hoarder if left to his own devices), just two months after his much-prepared-for move-out, I couldn’t help but think of it.

With the situation I described in my last post about Nigel’s transition, things rapidly deteriorated. He had started pulling out his hair and eating it again, and refused to eat meals with the rest of the household, becoming extremely reactive whenever the other client walked into the room and thereby disturbing the entire household, although every effort was made to accommodate him (Nigel). This would occur even when the other client hadn’t said anything or even looked at him. Finally the house manager called me at work one day (he’s not even in school anymore and I still dread, and receive, those calls) and succinctly stated, “Nigel’s not functioning here. He needs to be moved.”

And the curse word that I reserve for situations such as this almost escaped my lips, but in an effort to maintain diplomacy, I said that I would contact his case manager right away. She then proceeded to describe Nigel’s reactive behavior, stating, “It’s obvious he hates the other client.” And diplomacy all but flew out the window as I said, “Whoa! Has Nigel actually used the word ‘hate’?” “Well, no.” “Then let’s not make assumptions about how a person who has difficulty expressing himself thinks or feels!!”

And it dawned on me that no matter how old he is or where he lives, I will always have to fight for him.

His very new (to him) case manager, who has more experience with older adults but is happy and willing to learn as she goes with Nigel, emailed me that she contacted four different agencies, and we had a meeting set up with one of them within days. However, it turns out that these agencies provide services other than housing. They do daily check-ins with those who have apartments, and they provide transportation and job coaching, etc., which will be great in a little while. But until his HUD goes into effect (we are on month two of a four-year waiting list), the only other housing option for him (besides being on a pad on my living room floor, since my younger son moved into the second bedroom two months ago), would be placement in another supported living home.

Why that won’t work:

a)      Several of those homes in our area have babies in them (he can’t handle the crying)

b)      What happened at this last house could easily happen in another home, including his reactive behaviors

c)       If there are no openings in our area, he will be sent anywhere within the state that they have an opening, as far as 300 miles away

d)      He wants to remain in this area, near family and friends, so he can have support while he works on his GED

And something else dawned on me, equally as significant: It’s not about the other client.

I think Nigel realized (and eventually I did too) that he doesn’t belong there. Not just that particular home, but any of them.  He’s not ready for his own apartment yet, but someday – with daily check-ins, transportation, and other services that these disability-related agencies provide – he will be. And until then, I can’t stand by, able-bodied, and let him be miserable. Yes, I’m exhausted after 15 years of single parenting. Yes, I wanted more than anything to spend some one-on-one time, finally, with Aidan before he graduates from high school. Yes, I wanted Nigel to feel like he could be semi-independent.

But the supported living home didn’t work. And I know there might be others that might work for him. Unfortunately with the limited resources in our area, we can’t be choosy. Often there’s only one choice, one opening. If there’s something about it that won’t work for him, the only alternative is to stay in my living room. And of course no one here is enjoying that.

Instead of “back to the drawing board,” for me it’s more like “back to the diving board.” As I fill out applications for 3-bedroom apartments and get the money together for the deposit, bracing myself for another move, I feel like I’m diving into cold water, and I’m dreading it. Things were supposed to go much differently than this. But they didn’t, and now I’m right back in the situation I was trying to change. And as I dive off that board, back into it, I’ll try to keep in mind Nigel’s positive words from over three years ago, when we experienced a similar life-changing decision that didn’t work out in our favor: “Maybe some good will come of it.”

I’m sure it will. We just have to get there.

Transition Check-In: On Chickens and the Counting of Them

Sometimes waiting to count your chickens after they hatch isn’t going to help. Because if they aren’t doing well after they hatch, what do you do then?


The good news is that after seven weeks of Nigel living in a supported living home, I am still confident that he is receiving the best professional care possible, that he is well taken care of. The bad news is that he has a housemate, another client, who drives him insane. This guy, who is not on the autism spectrum, is very talkative and constantly tries to engage Nigel. Explaining that “Nigel needs a lot of time to himself” works for about five minutes until the other guy forgets and comes over to talk to Nigel again. The house managers have tried to help by giving the guy incentives and reminders, and they’ve also incorporated coping strategies for Nigel such as having him wear over-the-ear hearing protection as a signal that he does not want to be disturbed. But it has only resulted in engendering animosity, and things are escalating.

It’s gotten to a point where Nigel is constantly on edge, reminded of when he was in middle school and being bullied, even though this time there is no malicious intent. It doesn’t really matter. He feels badgered, even though the other guy, who is angry and feels rejected, can’t help it. The fact that Nigel can’t make the badgering stop throws him right back to the agitated state he experienced in his early teens. And he’s regressing behaviorally and socially. I have seen him overnight at least every other weekend since he moved, and I can see the difference. He’s rapidly losing ground.

Part of me wants to hold off from swooping in and rescuing him. This was something he wanted to do (“I can’t wait to be out from under your rule” was a common refrain last year), and it’s important for him to learn what he can from the experience. We’ve all had to learn to coexist with people who irritate us – coworkers, roommates, even family members – it’s a fact of life, and a social skill. If he were being bullied, I would instantly make changes. But he’s not. He’s uncomfortable, but he’s okay.

And so I’ve come up with what I hope will be a positive (and swift) solution. We’re looking into alternatives where we can move him. I’m certainly not excited about the process of this, having already gone through it for most of the past ten months. Lots of phone calls, emails, and appointments. Lots of driving over 50 miles to pick up Nigel, drive to where the agency offices are (he’s in a rural area), and then either have him spend the night and/or drive him back to his place, another 50+ mile round trip. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I’m sure Nigel is thinking the same thing.


When it comes to chickens, I’ve learned to just not count them at all. Not at any point. Life is eternally wait-and-see, demanding patience and detachment, but, fortunately, buoyed by hope.

Showering in the Dark

I remember the first time it happened. I had lived in my new apartment for a couple of weeks and went in to take a shower at the end of a typical busy day. I like to shower in the evenings; I can take my time, and it affords me the mental and physical luxury of washing off the day. I got in, wet my hair, and began lathering shampoo, feeling myself winding down, thinking about the evening ahead. I would do some yoga, check my email, and then watch a movie with Nigel. Suddenly, without flickering, the bathroom light went out. It was completely dark in the windowless room. I panicked, thought of both Psycho and Silence of the Lambs, and gathered my courage to step out and turn on the heat lamp that I had not yet used but figured would be bright enough for me to finish showering with. Naked, dripping everywhere, I fumbled my way around the still-new bathroom, found the switch for the heat lamp, turned it on, and got back in the shower to rinse my hair.

Later, I would discover that the bulb in the regular light had not burned out. I had decided to change it the next day, and that night while reading in bed, it suddenly illuminated the bathroom of its own volition. Glad that I didn’t have to change the bulb, I chalked it up to faulty wiring (since, upon inspection, I could jiggle the wall switch to turn it back on) and went about my life with a temperamental bathroom light.

No activity was exempt from its sudden desire to go out. I would discover this while sitting on the toilet and find myself yet again in total darkness, having to get up and hobble over to turn on the heat lamp. I would be washing my face, with soap in my eyes and water running down my arms. Shaving my legs. Dying my hair. It got to the point where if I were going to be doing something that made it difficult to stop and turn the light back on, I would just turn the heat lamp on at the beginning instead of the regular bathroom light.

This worked fine until summer. I absolutely could not take a shower with the heat lamp on. So of course as soon as I lathered up my hair, the light went out. I stood there in the dark, water pelting me, shampoo beginning to drip down my forehead. I stood there and thought maybe this is what it’s like taking a shower when you’re blind. I have no idea; I certainly don’t want to be ignorant in conjecturing about something I have no experience with.  But I wanted to try it. So I finished lathering and rinsing my hair in total darkness. I applied what seemed to be an appropriate amount of conditioner. And as I stood there, feeling my temporary deprivation of sight, feeling the water spray my body, listening to the sound of it, smelling it, trying to get in touch with my other senses, I realized something.

It was not profound. But for some reason I had not thought of it before, and I think that relaxing and learning what there was to learn from that experience is what caused me to try reaching my arm out of the shower to turn the light back on. Instead of panicking and leaping out of the shower to turn on the heat lamp, I enjoyed being in the dark for a minute, reached my arm out to the side of the shower curtain and around the wall. And I easily reached the light switch for the regular bathroom light. I turned it back on and started shaving (wasn’t brave enough to do that “blind”).

Of course, as I am wont to do, I tried to apply this experience to life metaphorically. I guess it’s just a reminder not to panic when something unexpected happens. Don’t freak out when you don’t know what to do. Relax, and clarity will come to you. I learned this with Nigel’s seizures. After he’d been having them a while, I realized that I needed to force myself to remain calm. I somehow thought that it wasn’t doing him any good if I freaked out, that he was picking up on my energy. And when I kept calm, I became clear. I wondered if I talked soothingly to him if that would help him. I told him, as he violently convulsed, that I was there with him, that he was okay. Even though he was not conscious, I gently told him to relax, relax. And immediately he began unclenching his feet and his hands, even as he still convulsed. Then his convulsions subsided, much sooner than usual. To my knowledge, it was his shortest and least violent seizure ever. And his recovery time was 10-15 minutes, instead of the hour or two that it used to be.

A year and a half later, my bathroom light still goes out on a regular basis. I’m still spending time every week in complete darkness. But also in total clarity.

image courtesy of Wikipedia

Why My Son Moved to a Supported Living Home

IMG_0909It’s not something you hear a parent say every day. It’s not “my daughter has a dental appointment today” or “my son had a meltdown today” or even “I had an IEP meeting this afternoon.” But the words ran over and over through my mind as I drove home: I moved my autistic son to a supported living home today.

Nigel’s 18 now, diagnosed over fifteen years ago, started talking at age five and a half. He has an emotional delay of about five years and the executive function skills of a typical seven-year-old. He has received various therapies since before the age of three and received a modified diploma last month. He likes to read Jules Verne novels and National Geographic magazines. He loves listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival and Bob Marley. He loves watching action/adventure/disaster movies and wants to go to film school and work for Disney.

Yes, he is all of those things and more, the good as well as the challenging. He has epilepsy (the kind with grand mal seizures) and all of the doctor appointments, lifestyle changes, and medication issues that go with it. He also has bipolar and all of the tribulations that go with that. I won’t go into detail about his history of aggressiveness and other behavioral issues. After years of careful observation, intervention, and lengthy, exasperating medication changes, we have successfully resolved most of these issues. Why then, I have been asked, have I still pursued placing him in a supported living home?

In a word, need. After over thirteen years of single parenting a special needs child, I need this. After a lifetime of subsisting on the scraps of my attention and having to watch out for his older brother, my younger son needs this. And after coming to terms with one disorder after another and grasping at whatever semblance of semi-independence there is for him, Nigel needs this. And he wants it. For months we researched supported living homes in our region and found a highly regarded one that he liked that happened to have an opening right when he was ready to move. Right place at the right time.

Still, as I drive back from my son’s new home, forty minutes away, the guilt creeps in. The feeling that I’m not doing what I’m supposed to do as a special needs parent, that he’s supposed to live with me until I die and I’m not honoring that unspoken code. But why should we think that way? Is it pride? Is it duty? Is it love? Is it just…playing the hand we were given?

Yes, it’s probably all of that. But I say if we can trade in one of our cards so that we have another option, we shouldn’t feel regret at doing so. We still have the same hand – we can just do a little more with it now. Fulfill some needs. Maybe things will turn out even better than we’d hoped. And if they don’t, we can make changes. After all, we want the same basic things for all of our children, with or without disability. We want them to be safe and we want them to be happy. And if those things can be achieved outside of our home, there should be no chagrin, no second-guessing ourselves. There should be a sense of accomplishment, as with any other milestone.

This is my child, whom I’ve nurtured and shepherded into adulthood, like any good parent. We’ve experienced some different circumstances along the way. But just because I may no longer be his primary caregiver does not mean that I’m not going to be involved, that I don’t wonder every few minutes how he’s doing, if my trust was well-placed, if he’s safe and happy. No matter how confident I feel about my judgment, there are no guarantees. Some of us are not satisfied with that, but I cannot live in fear, and neither can Nigel. If there’s one thing he’s taught me, it’s to never give up. And I won’t. Whether he’s living at home with me or living in a supported living home without me, I’m still his mom. Nothing changes that. Nothing changes the love. Nothing ever will.

When a Thank You Note Means More

You know what I don’t understand? Apart from Advanced Calculus, I mean. And word problems. It was always hit or miss with those. But in the grand scheme of things what I really don’t understand is why children have cancer. It’s horrible enough for adults, but even before my dad’s bout with it, I wondered why kids had to go through that level of suffering. Why any level of suffering? I could not wrap my mind around it. Sometimes I would pace my hallway or lie in bed at night, cursing because it didn’t make sense, because it shouldn’t be this way. I just couldn’t understand why.


Nigel is enjoying the afterglow of being a graduate. He sleeps in every day, except for the early morning dental appointment he had last week. Sure, he’s had summer vacations for many years, but this is different, and he feels it. He’s earned this; he’s had to work above and beyond the call of duty to achieve it. And through the generous graduation gifts of family and friends, he’s been able to purchase a new laptop for himself, which he has graciously lived without for over four months since his refurbished one crashed. He never complained, not once. I was shocked and grateful.

And after over 18 years of either writing thank you notes for him or helping him to write them, I knew that I would need to facilitate the thank you notes for the new computer. I also knew that my efforts would be met with monumental resistance. First of all, although I’m not sure if it’s been formally diagnosed, Nigel displays characteristics of dysgraphia. He refused to hold any writing utensil until age 7. At the age of 13, he was finally able to indicate to me that writing caused pain to his hand. He supposedly had access to an AlphaSmart at school, although I’m dubious as to the extent of that. As it stands now, his printing looks like that of a seven-year-old (at best). I do not say that to embarrass him – on the contrary, to highlight how challenging it is for him.

Therefore, the eleven thank you notes were typewritten. I helped him to compose the messages, and then I showed him how to format the page so that he could cut them out and glue them to the inside of the cards. The only things he had to write manually were the names and addresses on the envelopes, on which I drew guidelines with a pencil. I also wrote the addresses out on a separate sheet of paper so that he could see them better to transcribe them. It was quite a production, and one I undertook only because I knew that, with assistance, he could do it. If he couldn’t do it, I would have written them on his behalf as I’d done previously. Our family and friends understand.

But it wasn’t his dysgraphia and help with formatting and content that was the hardest hurdle to overcome. It was the fact that he couldn’t understand why thank you notes were necessary. The social understanding that is compromised by autism causes this. Yes, it affects one-on-one social interaction, as we all know. But even someone who’s had years of social skills therapy may still have trouble with the “big picture” application of social understanding – why we are expected to do certain social things that people without autism take for granted. The why is inherent in our social understanding, an area in which Nigel is still significantly “from another planet,” as he said years ago to describe himself.

Even though I had given him ample warning (days) that we were going to do the thank you notes, when the time came, he flipped. For a full ten minutes he paced and tiraded, he yelled and cursed about how he couldn’t understand why he had to do this. It didn’t matter that I was helping him; he just could not comprehend the purpose of thanking someone for a gift. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it because the part of his mind that would understand it works differently. Finally, much to my relief, he calmed down and began typing, and although the whole thank you note process took at least an hour, he never complained again.


I’ve come to my own conclusion regarding childhood cancer: It just is. I will never understand it. It will never make sense. I just have to accept that that’s the way it is. And I suppose that after Nigel got his frustration out of his system, he realized that he would just have to accept the fact that properly acknowledging a gift is just the way it is. He may never be able to know why; it may never make sense to him. It just is. Apparently he’s now okay with that, and so am I.

Holding the Hand of a Stranger

IMG_0852I step gingerly into the cold, clear water of a narrow branch of the Applegate River. Boulders and trees surround the area, filtering the glaring sun. I can see my river sandals under two feet of water, balancing on a rock. I hold a bag of towels and food above the water. As I cross the side of a rocky pool, the water rushes by my legs and spills over a few feet before continuing on. There is a shirtless man in his sixties standing in the pool, the cool water swirling around him as if he were a boulder. He offers to help those in our party who need assistance to get to the other side, where there is a small beach area for spreading out our towels. I begin crossing, and the water level hits the top of my thighs. I hold my bag up higher and without hesitation grasp the man’s extended hand. It is familiar, this hand of a stranger, steady and somehow warm as I ford the cold water. I reach the other side and thank him, this stranger who was there right when we needed him.


How often do we hold the hand of a stranger? We hold doors open for them, we pick things up if they drop them, and we tell them if we know where something is that they’re looking for. But the last time I remember holding a stranger’s hand was when I was climbing out of the Jungle Cruise boat at Disneyland and the employee helped me. And I don’t think that really counts (although I suppose it could).

The quote “A stranger is a friend we haven’t met yet” has been attributed to several people in different variations, and it’s one that I try to keep in the forefront of my mind as we get rapidly closer to Nigel’s transition to a supported living home. I am putting my son’s care and well-being in the hands of strangers. We are crossing a cold, rushing river with only strangers’ hands to help us. Fortunately, I have met them, and they are truly lovely people. Theirs is the kind of home that just feels right, even though the situation isn’t optimal (Nigel will be sharing a room). But every positive point in the world doesn’t take away from the fact that my son will be living with people I had dinner with for an hour and a half. Why, then, do I feel okay with it?

Well-placed trust. These are highly regarded career caregivers, and we were blessed that they had an opening. The wife of the team told me that the best part of what they do is going to bed every night knowing that they helped someone, made a difference in their life. I felt it – her truth. It wasn’t a staged comment. It just came out in conversation, as she was preparing an organic salad, dicing red bell peppers. It was then that I knew – this was where my son would live. This was the extended hand we would grasp and hold onto.


I sit on my towel in the gravely beach area, eating some cheese and crackers. I look across the narrow river to the rocky area on the other side where the helpful stranger is sitting in a beach chair, reading a book. He is facing the hot sun, his tan skin soaking up more of it, like my father used to do. I am reminded of the Bible verse about “entertaining angels unaware,” although I am the one who had a kindness shown to me. Still, it brings me comfort, the thought that his memory is with me even in small ways. And it brings me comfort to remember the fact that all of my closest friends, the people I’ve come to rely on the most, were at one point strangers. They were the smiling faces I chose to trust, the extended hands I reached out to take.

It Took a Metropolis, Not a Village

IMG_0960This day. This glorious, much-anticipated day. This day that I sometimes thought would never arrive finally did and, in the celebration of it all, nearly slipped through my fingers, like the final grains of sand in an hourglass.

How could I possibly recount the infinite, often heavy steps that brought us to this day? How many long days to this day? How many days did I put him on the little yellow bus to go to his Early Intervention school? And the first two years of elementary? How many “good” elementary days, when he would bring home an E.T. ticket as a reward from his full-time aide? How many “bad” days, when I would get a call to leave work and pick him up because his behavior was “too disruptive”? How many times did he shriek when the school landscapers fired up the lawn mower or because the multitude of sounds in any classroom on any day at any given moment became too overwhelming?

How many meetings did I attend trying to figure out what to do about it?

Yes, those thoughts and many others could detract from this special day. Instead, they only remind me of how far he has come, and how many people have helped him to get here. I really don’t think it would be possible to sit down and recount all of the therapists, specialists, doctors, teachers, educational assistants, and service providers. We started having him evaluated for “developmental delays” when he was two and three-quarters, after I finally found a pediatrician who didn’t say “don’t worry, boys start talking later than girls.” The good one saw him for five minutes and immediately said I’m going to refer him to Child Development Center for an evaluation right away.

Almost sixteen years later, we made it to this day. I am sitting in a beautiful park on a glorious, sunny evening, my brother to my left and Nigel’s father to my right. Aidan, my mother, and my sister and her family have also come to share in the happiness of this day. It is the same park where I graduated from college nineteen years ago, with Nigel in my belly. Soon he will walk across the same stage that I did, shake hands, and receive a diploma. His diploma is modified, but our pride is not. Our emotions are not. No one goes through an experience like that to feel anything less than absolute joy and triumph, no matter what’s on the paper.

And now, sunglasses on, he is walking down the aisle, escorted by his second grade teacher, from his first year of mainstreaming (with a full-time aide). Nigel’s high school has a tradition in which the students pick someone in the school district who had worked with them to escort them down the aisle and then announce them when it is time to receive their diplomas. Nigel said he picked her because she believed in him.

He is seated near the back, so I am unable to see him during the ceremony. But I can see so many wonderful kids I’ve had the privilege to know over the past eleven years we’ve been in this district. I’ve watched them grow into beautiful, compassionate adults, and I’m so glad that Nigel has had them in his life. I am so grateful to their parents for raising them to be this way, for teaching their children through their own example. For getting to know me, and for caring about my son. When I say that it took a metropolis to raise this child, I’m not just talking about all the therapists, teachers, doctors, and other professionals we’ve known in his life. I’m also talking about these incredible kids and their lovely parents. They are a huge part of Nigel’s success and his well-being.

And before I know it, his second grade teacher is announcing his name, and I am watching him walk up to hug her, to cross the stage, through the glass rectangle of my camera instead of with my own eyes. His father is doing the same thing. And we finish and put our cameras down and sit, asking for tissues. It was over so quickly and I feel like I missed it. I am in shock, I guess, but then I gasp and the magnitude hits me. This day. This day is here. We were scrambling at the end – he had tests to make up, missing assignments to do. His Senior Project presentation. Emails flew back and forth with his long-suffering special education teacher of the past four years. Somehow everything got finished, he squeaked by with passing grades, and we made it to this day.

Halleluiah. Halleluiah!

[The video below is very short, about 30 seconds. You’ll see him receive his diploma. He even hugs the principal, who did not solicit hugs from everyone. Then there’s an even bigger treat at the end, something I didn’t anticipate but wasn’t surprised to see. Nigel felt just as proud, just as triumphant, as I did.]