The Past is Not the Present

Tuesday was one of those days. Or really, it was the afternoon that got me. Tuesday afternoons are crazy. Right when Anna gets off the bus, Sara the occupational therapist arrives, followed by Jessica until 5:30. I'm usually trying to simultaneously cook dinner, talk with Anna about her day, and keep tuned into what the therapists are doing. This is manageable most days, but becomes challenging when Ethan doesn't particularly feel like having an appointment.

I can hardly blame the kid, the other day. He's had three solid weeks of being sick on and off and is getting over round two of strep throat. He's barely gotten to play outside, and then Tuesday morning when we did get out it was to go to the Bible study at church, where he played in the bigger kid nursery, at bit of a stressor for him. Then it was off to Target, a quick lunch, and down early for nap so he could be up for his appointment. The boy had been rushed around and had no down time all day, so I don't blame him for not wanting to be pushed to do stuff as soon as he woke up from his nap.

Sometimes he doesn't mind. Sometimes he ready to go "play," because it really is play, melded with learning. Most kids would be off and running for extra play time like this, but as I often have to remind Anna, for Ethan, the play sometimes can feel like taking medicine. It's not completely pleasant, although good for him.

But yesterday he didn't want to play, particularly at first. Ethan wanted to run away from Sara and do his own thing. And Anna's bus was late, so we had absolutely no time for her to just unload a bit about her day before Sara showed up. So here we were, Ethan clinging to my legs or running in another room, Anna talking non-stop, the therapist waiting to start, a half-made casserole on the counter. I often try to explain to Anna if she will just give me a few minutes to work to get Ethan settled with the therapist, I'll have a chance for more one-on-one time with her. There are times she just doesn't get it. She IS only five, I have to remember. And when Anna feels ignored, she doesn't get pouty but rather gets loud. She gets louder and wilder and does more and more zany things to get people's attention -- in this case, me and the therapists. Then when they stop to acknowledge her, Ethan thinks it's a free pass to book out of there and get to do his own thing.

In the end, after me almost bursting into tears and simultaneously almost losing it with Anna, everyone settled down and I had a chance to talk with her in the other room. That was a good thing, particularly because Anna is not one to open up about her feelings. Either that, or what she'll do sometimes is "milk" my sensitive nature to get sympathy. I walk a fine line sometime, wanting her to open up but trying to remember she's not me as a child, ready to cry at the smallest incident. That part is the hardest, not comparing myself to my daughter, because I had a little brother with autism, too. I can't tell you how many times I have to remind myself, "My story is not Anna's story, and Andrew's story is not Ethan's story."

So we talked a bit about why the therapists were there, and about Uncle Andy, who has what Ethan has but a more serious form of autism, which is why he's a grown-up but still doesn't talk much and has to have people always watching over him. The therapy would help Ethan, and it's therapy that Uncle Andy never had, so that's why before he goes to preschool he needs to have these appointments in the home for the next year --

"The next YEAR?!" Anna exclaimed, crestfallen, and I knew just where she was coming from. A year (or nine months, really) seems like a really long time when it involves people in your house every single weekday. To a five-year-old it must seem like an eternity.

"I know it's a long time, and I know it's hard," I told her, giving her a hug. I went on to explain that they have special groups for kids who had a brother or sister like Ethan, and wanted to know if she ever wanted to go to one. She nodded, gave me another hug, and the situation was done. We went back in the kitchen and played for a bit, and all the while there was a part of me that wanted to cry and laugh. The tears because I could feel myself teetering toward the painful territory of the past, and the desire is so strong within me that Anna is not damaged the way I was. The laughter because here I was, dealing with something I'd always feared and approaching painful situations I knew all too well, but was able to turn every negative thing that had happened to me over on its head. I hadn't felt comfortable ever sharing with my parents how upset I was about Andy's situation, but I could let Anna express her feelings about Ethan. I never had an option of attending a support group and not feeling so alone as a sibling, but I could give Anna that opportunity.

That's what makes all of this so complicated sometimes...to grasp onto the truth that Ethan, and Anna, have their own story, and history does not always have to repeat itself, even when some circumstances seem so familiar. Sometimes I feel as if something deeply personal is going on here, that God is trying to get a message through to me and this was the only way I'd understand. I don't have all the answers. But I do know that there is a verse that often runs through my head these days, about overcoming evil by doing good. Sometimes it feels is if that is what I'm doing, with God to strengthen me. I'm overcoming everything that happened to me, making different and better choices as I trust in Him. This seems like quite an unconventional way for God to work, and I'd certainly have chosen something different. Why is it that God works so thoroughly in us when we are in pain? Probably because it is only in those times that were are broken enough to pay attention and rely on Him.