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Reflections on what I don’t have to think about anymore

I had brunch with Lisa the other day. We hadn’t met in person before but we’d shared not a few laughs and commiserations online. Lisa is a fellow ‘disability mom’ – shorthand I use around the house when Carsten asks, “Now who is this again?” “Oh you know. A disability mom.” Say no more.

I’m not sure how it started but we’re friends on facebook. We occasionally message back and forth or acknowledge each other with a quick comment or thumbs-up or haha.  Her son is approximately the same age as Owen would have been. Their issues are quite different in many ways but of course she and I share an experience that allows us to connect quickly. With an obvious exception: her son is very much alive and the things she worries about are current. 

The worries we would have shared seem long in the past for me now – 7 years this fall since Owen died – and I rarely give voice to the simultaneous relief and anxiety I feel bubbling up when I occasionally think what my life would be like now if he hadn’t. Hanging out with Lisa was a stark but comforting reminder – it really is as hard as I remember, and disability parents develop a special kind of resilience. They – we – can handle it.

The conversation turned to how she’s facing that horrific precipice every disability parent knows is coming: when your child ages out of high school at 21. We talked about options (variously: “not entirely sure” “still looking into it” “no idea what other people do” “maybe start my own thing” – indications of how much support there is for ‘transitions’), and at one point Lisa paused and said, “So, what do you think?” I don’t know what she meant exactly, but I’d been quiet for a while and she was probably simply curious, looking to see if I had any ideas.

I didn’t. Nothing helpful, anyway. Just thinking about it though made me remember something – a memory lodged so deeply in my gut it was kind of physical. I can only explain it this way: I would sometimes be going about my business with Owen – changing his diaper, feeding him, moving him from floor to chair and back again – and I would think, “JFC I will literally be doing this forever. No, actually. Forever. Like, literally. Forever. Seriously.” It would always be a stunning moment. Time would stop, if briefly. Despair was avoided only by staying busy, which was easy to do.

We all know that didn’t turn out to be the case, but I didn’t know it at the time. It was an unsolveable, intractable problem. No amount of support or planning would have changed that.  The relentless emotional labour of having a child like Owen can be a prison of its own kind, regardless of what kind of help is available, or how much money you have. 

———————–

When I tell our story now I’m aware of my revisionist tendencies – the way I cherry-pick anecdotes to turn into poignant teaching moments. The way I present the wisdom of today as though I knew it back then. I give disclaimers in my talks but at some level it’s all kind of an unavoidable elaborate lie. Tales spun for entertainment, to soothe, to convince it wasn’t all for nothing. A way to take an experience so truly indescribable and turn it into words so others can catch the barest of glimpses into that strange and lonely world – one which, frankly, grows increasingly hazy in my mind. It’s doomed to fail as an exercise in accuracy. It’s maybe more an exercise of creativity, even fiction. 

Anyway, with Lisa I said this: what got me through (inasmuch as you can say I got through something), was that I decided not to be imprisoned by my responsibility. Which meant more than just ‘taking breaks’ and allowing others to care for Owen – it meant accepting whatever consequences would come of that decision. Meaning, it likely wouldn’t always work out the best for him. He would have great moments, sad moments, painful moments, many of which I would know nothing about – and I was alright with that. I didn’t want his fate solely in my hands anymore, because otherwise I couldn’t breathe. 

Owen’s death was devastating for me. It’s not at all what I wanted. But I’m okay that I wasn’t with him when he died, and I don’t fret about whether I could have prevented it. I had already relinquished a power I never really had in the first place (to save Owen from his own frailty), and was prepared to accept any outcome. 

So while I didn’t have any helpful suggestions for Lisa, I could access that old terrible feeling and share what new insights I could muster – all while chowing down on a hearty breakfast, laughing about the bothersome waitress and thinking about the homemade butter tarts she had generously brought for me.

I don’t know about Lisa, but here’s what I got out of it: connection with a hilarious and kind disability mom (say no more), and, through the side door of revisionist story-telling, I got to hold Owen close and forgive myself all over again.

butter tart

Lisa brought me butter tarts!

Jennifer

8 Comments

  1. This is so beautiful and poignant and ultimately sad. I know Lisa very well and I love her heart and soul and compassion. She is an angel on earth to more than just her `boy`with a disability, she is a ray of hope for those in despair.

  2. Thank you for this, Jennifer. I remember stumbling upon your blog five or six years ago, when Andrew was still going through the tumultuous early years of NICU/PICU/EMU hell. I hungrily read through each blog post; your perspective was refreshing and unlike what I was finding on other special needs blogs. I felt imprisoned by our circumstances but you pointed me in a direction to think about how to be “free” and not *as* weighed down by the heaviness of the weight we carry with us. And then I arrived at your post about Owen’s death (I was reading in reverse chronology), and I cried and grieved with you. Has it really been seven years??

    Like you, I have also arrived at the “decision not to be imprisoned by my responsibility” to get me through this extraordinary journey.

    I have no idea what the future holds for Andrew. And at this point, I don’t think about it *too* much. For now, it’s day by day; I will continue to be his mom, love him fiercely, and hope for the best – whatever that may be.

    • Hi Jennifer! I remember you well :) Thanks for stopping by again!

      I just popped over to your blog and oh my goodness, those videos!! And your kids! If something I said planted a seed that influenced where you are now, I’m so pleased and humbled to have played a small part. You all look so wonderful. Having said that, I can certainly imagine what ‘behind-the-scenes’ must occasionally look like… would be hard to put that to music :D

      Look forward to staying in touch.

  3. “…was that I decided not to be imprisoned by my responsibility. Which meant more than just ‘taking breaks’ and allowing others to care for Owen – it meant accepting whatever consequences would come of that decision. Meaning, it likely wouldn’t always work out the best for him. He would have great moments, sad moments, painful moments, many of which I would know nothing about – and I was alright with that. I didn’t want his fate solely in my hands anymore, because otherwise I couldn’t breathe.”
    This post and the above arrived at the right time. My 21 year old son with autism moved into a group home last month and I’ve been struggling with this huge change in my world. I have felt for many, many years that I was the one holding it all together — keeping our heads just barely above water. Near the end, it was obvious it was falling apart (my son has big behavior/aggression issues) and I find it hard to believe I could hand over the responsibility. And why wouldn’t I think that? I was keeping him home some days from school due to his behavior and picking him up as he wouldn’t get on the bus. They called 911 multiple times and tried to get him admitted to a psych ward. I know that I am no longer able to be solely responsible for him anymore, but I feel guilty for it at the same time. I wonder too, Jennifer, if it’s harder to not be imprisoned by it if you believe you played some part in causing the disability. Thank you for this post — it is very helpful.

    • Genowefa,

      Thank you for taking the time to read and post. I totally get the contradictory feelings. Seems like there’s no good option and never a good time. And yet, there’s only one reasonable course of action. I wish I had something wonderful to say. Perhaps I can offer you this, for whatever it’s worth: my ‘decision to not be imprisoned’ did not happen overnight, and did not happen without a considerable amount of pain. The guilt doesn’t really go away, but I’m used to it now, and have decided that it just comes with the territory. Anyway, I hope every day gets easier for you. xo

  4. I met you today for the first time . You mentioned to us that the anniversary of Owens passing is two days away. I will keep you in my thoughts while I give thanks that you are with us sharing Owen and your reflections and your path forward – thanks you

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