"A tree is part of the wood...the woods...a tree is part of the woods...a tree is a part of the woods... a lotta trees..."
I lie in bed with Elias on Sunday afternoon, exhausted after a weekend camping trip to Portage with a bunch of other families with kids. I tell him its rest time and he can't ask me any questions but he can talk to himself if he wants. I close my eyes and listen.
Elias whispers to himself before falling asleep. I've tried to listen to him before outside his bedroom door and have caught him sounding out words, practicing math facts, saying a version of the Pledge of Allegiance: I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, hello flag, what are you doing there Mr. flag...
"Lots of trees...there's an Ash tree in the garden...that's a silly place for a tree...and weeds...lots of weeds... we don't want weeds in the garden...go away weeds..."
I'm not sure who falls asleep first, but I awake with him curled up besides me breathing deeply. I stare at my perfect "damaged" boy and, like always, I find myself wishing I could be inside his head, just for a moment, to see the world through Elias's eyes.
On Friday, we saw another specialist from Seattle. The C.P. guy who flies up every 6 months to service Alaskan kids with Cerebral Palsy. I like him. He seems to get Elias instantly, putting into words my Mama knowledge, as if he can read my thoughts, interpret my child, and speak in a simple language not always accessible to those with doctorate degrees.
"Last time you were concerned about Autism," he says, remembering my rarely spoken questions. "My guess is could fall somewhere on the spectrum and could end up with an Asperger's or Autism Spectrum Disorder diagnosis."
There it is.
And the ground didn't swallow me whole.
"I can begin the groundwork with this visit and see him again in six months but if you find you need to move more quickly just give me a call."
For four years now, this has been the shadow I've carried in my breast pocket, pulling out from time to time to discuss with friends, therapists or doctors, only to shove it back in, closer to my heart, when my fears were assuaged or dismissed. So instead of hearing the roar of thunder with his words, I feel a sense of validation-- I'm not just a crazy-making mother creating more imaginary labels for a child already noosed with diagnoses.
I feel believed.
Relief.
And once we get home, a downpour of gut wrenching sobs.
Nick finds me crying in the pantry as I attempt to pack food for our camping trip. "Just take a break," he tells me, understanding my need to climb under the covers and create my own rain.
And I do. I squeeze the comforter as if I could mold it into an alternate reality where Elias arrived full-term, with a midwife by my side, and we never once spent a night wondering if he would live or die. I pound the pillow and cry no, no no. Not one more! Not one more fucking label for my beautiful boy! My beautiful broken boy! My beautiful boy! Why? Why this too? Why him? Why us? Why me? Why me? This was not in my plans. Why couldn't there be some other explanation for his repetitive questions, focus on small details, lack of empathy and social skills? Why?
And yet, I've known, in my heart I've known. And there is never a good answer for a flood of whys.
I fall asleep and don't dream.
When I wake, we are the same family that we were on Thursday. Elias is the same curious quirky kid who memorized all the roads from the Logan International Airport to my parents house on the Cape. The same kid who loved pointing out dumpsters and and outhouses on our camping trip and wasn't at all phased by the girl who mocked his diaper. The same boy who asked every adult, "Will you go in the woods with me?" and persisted until we all relented, one after the other, following him through the bushes as he smiled and said, "We're in the woods! We're in the woods!"
"It doesn't change anything about how we treat him medically but it can help with services and access to intervention for school and at home," I hear the doctor say.
We are the same family, we just may be joining another club. The Autism Spectrum club.
Why not? Why the hell not?
Just one more tree in the human collage that makes up the woods.
"We went to the woods...we took a long road to the woods...lots of trees together equals the woods..."