It was over 35 years ago, but, I remember it like it was yesterday. I was on my way to a neighborhood shindig at our local township building. It was summer, it was hot, and I was wearing terry cloth shorts and a matching terry cloth shirt that tied at the shoulders (it was 1979 people, and I was stylin'). As I shrieked goodbye to my mom, I ran out our big, heavy, wooden, front door and slammed it closed as I had hundreds and hundreds of time before. This time, however, I left a little something behind.
In my haste not to miss out on the shindig, the shindig that I whined all day about attending, the door closed too fast, or I moved too slow, and the tip of my ring finger remained behind...in the latch...where finger tips aren't suppose to remain. I felt the pain, I saw the blood, and that's when the screaming began.
"Mooooom, I cut my finger off in the door!", I screamed through hysterical sobs. "Calm down, you probably just pinched it, let's go rinse it off." (I was unaware a "pinch" could cause so much blood). "Oh my God, you did cut your finger off!" my mother squealed in a hysterical voice that nearly matched my own. Once I saw the panic in my mother's eyes, I knew neither one of us were equipped to handle such an injury, so through my hysteria, I sobbed, "I want Dad!".
In my haste not to miss out on the shindig, the shindig that I whined all day about attending, the door closed too fast, or I moved too slow, and the tip of my ring finger remained behind...in the latch...where finger tips aren't suppose to remain. I felt the pain, I saw the blood, and that's when the screaming began.
"Mooooom, I cut my finger off in the door!", I screamed through hysterical sobs. "Calm down, you probably just pinched it, let's go rinse it off." (I was unaware a "pinch" could cause so much blood). "Oh my God, you did cut your finger off!" my mother squealed in a hysterical voice that nearly matched my own. Once I saw the panic in my mother's eyes, I knew neither one of us were equipped to handle such an injury, so through my hysteria, I sobbed, "I want Dad!".
After three sets of eyes determined the fingertip was indeed gone, off to the ER we went with said fingertip placed gently in a Ziploc bag of ice by my much calmer during a bloody crisis father, only to be told upon our arrival that the end of the finger was too small, too insignificant to reattach, so I would just have to live without it. Of course, besides the pain, I worried how my finger would look, since it clearly would not look like the rest of my fingers, or more importantly, look like anyone else's finger in fifth grade. The doctor warned me, it would "look fine", but, even though in time my finger would heal, without that oh, so insignificant fingertip, the nerves would be more exposed, more raw, and would lie closer to the surface where just the slightest bump or whack would make those nerves feel very ouchy and painful, regardless of how much time would pass.
The doctor was right. It's funny how even after 35 years, that finger some days still feels pain that is similar to the day my fingertip was chucked in the hospital waste disposal bag. You would think over time, the pain would dull and those nerve endings would just get used to being a little more exposed and they would sort of toughen up, and I guess in some ways compared to that first day and those first few weeks, the pain has dulled some, but, under certain circumstances, when just the right nerve is hit, the pain is as fresh as it was the day I ruined my favorite light blue terry cloth shorts. Damn, those shorts were cool.
The doctor was right. It's funny how even after 35 years, that finger some days still feels pain that is similar to the day my fingertip was chucked in the hospital waste disposal bag. You would think over time, the pain would dull and those nerve endings would just get used to being a little more exposed and they would sort of toughen up, and I guess in some ways compared to that first day and those first few weeks, the pain has dulled some, but, under certain circumstances, when just the right nerve is hit, the pain is as fresh as it was the day I ruined my favorite light blue terry cloth shorts. Damn, those shorts were cool.
I was reminded of that long ago distant finger injury just last week. No, I didn't whack my finger on the granite counter top or hit my finger just so on the dog's giant canine tooth while fighting him for his beloved frisbee (which is truly quite painful). No, this long ago forgotten pain didn't have anything to do with my fingertip-less finger, this pain came from an injury to my heart. And just like the damage to my finger that happened so long ago, the pain to my heart is duller now, but, occasionally, a little jab to that wound and I am reminded of how exposed my nerve endings still are, and that raw pain, regardless of how much scar tissue has built up or how much time has passed, the wound definitely still hurts.
Over the summer, Ryan had an updated psychological evaluation. Ryan had not had any type of assessment since his first diagnosis when he was 5. The evaluation was conducted in order to determine if Ryan's ASD diagnosis was having any type of impact on his learning. Ryan did beautifully in school last year, making the Honor Roll every marking period, but, in order for Ryan to achieve those grades, Ryan's brain has many more obstacles to overcome in an effort to learn than his classmates without an ASD.
Over the summer, Ryan had an updated psychological evaluation. Ryan had not had any type of assessment since his first diagnosis when he was 5. The evaluation was conducted in order to determine if Ryan's ASD diagnosis was having any type of impact on his learning. Ryan did beautifully in school last year, making the Honor Roll every marking period, but, in order for Ryan to achieve those grades, Ryan's brain has many more obstacles to overcome in an effort to learn than his classmates without an ASD.
When the report came on Friday, even though I knew what would be in that dreaded report, even though there were no big surprises, and even though I thought I was totally prepared to read the report because I thought that old nagging heart wound would have healed by now, I was absolutely positively wrong. When I read the words again, when I saw the words and felt Ryan's struggles in black and white again, I could feel the scab on that old wound tear open. I could feel the scar tissue being pulled away and exposing those raw nerves that I thought had dulled over the years, and the pain felt just like it did when that door slammed, not on my finger, but, on my heart, all those years ago when I first heard The A Word.
Words like "little eye contact", "flicking hands", "language deficits", "executive functioning deficits", "ASD" and struggles like "poor social skills", "anxiety", and "discrepancies between inherent ability and performance" felt like that front door slamming again and again, but, this time, all ten fingers remained intact, it was my heart that was left bleeding in the latch, blood dripping all over my spandex yoga pants, (I gave up terry cloth in 1982). Seeing the words Autism Spectrum Disorder again on paper, the letters and their meaning as evident as my missing fingertip once the blood was washed away, was still painful. Yeah, no matter how much time has passed, it still hurts.
Like I said, there was nothing in that report that surprised me, and no, I didn't think the doctor would say that Ryan no longer had autism.....or did I? Denial was next to me while I read the report and she can be very, very persuasive, so maybe there was just one tiny part of my wounded heart that believed, maybe they got it wrong all those years ago. Maybe, just like I closed our front door too fast, accidentally slamming my finger, maybe someone closed the neurotypical door too fast accidentally slamming my heart? As I sat next to Denial, absorbing every word of that report, I knew no one intentionally hurt my heart, but, I also knew that the ASD diagnosis was right and that no one slammed the neurotoypical door, but, instead, someone opened the autism door and in doing so, opened my heart. A heart that has taken a long time to heal and that occasionally, if poked, slammed, or whacked just the right way, exposes those sensitive nerve endings that still tend to sting a little.
Words like "little eye contact", "flicking hands", "language deficits", "executive functioning deficits", "ASD" and struggles like "poor social skills", "anxiety", and "discrepancies between inherent ability and performance" felt like that front door slamming again and again, but, this time, all ten fingers remained intact, it was my heart that was left bleeding in the latch, blood dripping all over my spandex yoga pants, (I gave up terry cloth in 1982). Seeing the words Autism Spectrum Disorder again on paper, the letters and their meaning as evident as my missing fingertip once the blood was washed away, was still painful. Yeah, no matter how much time has passed, it still hurts.
Like I said, there was nothing in that report that surprised me, and no, I didn't think the doctor would say that Ryan no longer had autism.....or did I? Denial was next to me while I read the report and she can be very, very persuasive, so maybe there was just one tiny part of my wounded heart that believed, maybe they got it wrong all those years ago. Maybe, just like I closed our front door too fast, accidentally slamming my finger, maybe someone closed the neurotypical door too fast accidentally slamming my heart? As I sat next to Denial, absorbing every word of that report, I knew no one intentionally hurt my heart, but, I also knew that the ASD diagnosis was right and that no one slammed the neurotoypical door, but, instead, someone opened the autism door and in doing so, opened my heart. A heart that has taken a long time to heal and that occasionally, if poked, slammed, or whacked just the right way, exposes those sensitive nerve endings that still tend to sting a little.
Just like I don't spend much time thinking about the days before I smashed my finger in the door, wishing for my missing fingertip (or wondering what the heck they do with fingertips that can't be reattached), I don't spend much time wishing for the days before my heart was so wounded by that 6 letter A word. Sure, there are days that just like a little whack to the end of my finger makes me scream, cuss, and kind of want to vomit, there are days, like last week, where my heart is hit in just the right spot that makes that old wound start to fester.
They say "time heals all wounds", but, I don't know if all wounds "heal" or if we just get really good at covering the scars, doing what we can to keep those ever present raw nerve endings tucked right below the surface where they don't hurt so much.
Just like a little whack to my finger triggers a pain from so long ago, that pain also helps remind me that as traumatic as the events of that day were at the time, that I have lived a happy, beautiful life no less wonderful had that finger remained intact, looking just like everyone else's. Without the protection of that much needed fingertip, the nerves of my finger are exposed, sometimes leaving my finger vulnerable to pain, just like Ryan's ASD diagnosis leaves my heart vulnerable to pain sometimes too. However, maybe my heart needs an occasional whack, to remind me how AWEsome and wonderful my life is despite that long ago injury. Sure, there are days that the nerves from that injury are more exposed, the pain bubbling just below the surface, but, most days, the pain is all but gone and I'm left with only the tiniest scar, a mark that only those closest to me can see.
Ironically, just days after I received Ryan's updated psychological evaluation, days after the wound to my heart was re-opened, my heart was triaged by two fabulous teachers (teachers wear many, many hats). These teacher sent me emails that not only shared how well Ryan was doing, but, shared that my son was being a leader, that my son was socializing with peers, that my son was outshining his fellow classmates in both music and computer aided drafting. With every word I read, I felt my wound closing again. A wound that I feared would never heal, with a bandage I did not know existed. The scar is still there, but, with each passing day, it becomes less visible, and I remain grateful for the occasional pain that reminds me of how much healing there has been.
They say "time heals all wounds", but, I don't know if all wounds "heal" or if we just get really good at covering the scars, doing what we can to keep those ever present raw nerve endings tucked right below the surface where they don't hurt so much.
Just like a little whack to my finger triggers a pain from so long ago, that pain also helps remind me that as traumatic as the events of that day were at the time, that I have lived a happy, beautiful life no less wonderful had that finger remained intact, looking just like everyone else's. Without the protection of that much needed fingertip, the nerves of my finger are exposed, sometimes leaving my finger vulnerable to pain, just like Ryan's ASD diagnosis leaves my heart vulnerable to pain sometimes too. However, maybe my heart needs an occasional whack, to remind me how AWEsome and wonderful my life is despite that long ago injury. Sure, there are days that the nerves from that injury are more exposed, the pain bubbling just below the surface, but, most days, the pain is all but gone and I'm left with only the tiniest scar, a mark that only those closest to me can see.
Ironically, just days after I received Ryan's updated psychological evaluation, days after the wound to my heart was re-opened, my heart was triaged by two fabulous teachers (teachers wear many, many hats). These teacher sent me emails that not only shared how well Ryan was doing, but, shared that my son was being a leader, that my son was socializing with peers, that my son was outshining his fellow classmates in both music and computer aided drafting. With every word I read, I felt my wound closing again. A wound that I feared would never heal, with a bandage I did not know existed. The scar is still there, but, with each passing day, it becomes less visible, and I remain grateful for the occasional pain that reminds me of how much healing there has been.
Seeing how far he has come, has helped my heart heal, but, there are still days when that old boo boo reopens.
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