Are You Happy?

This experience took place when my son on the autistic spectrum was approaching ten years of age (he’s now 16). Our public school had suspended him.   A private school later dismissed him, the implication being that he must stop saying and doing as he did.  A period of home schooling began, but even in this cocooning setting, he still struggled with a host of phobias and obsessions that often added panic and even trauma to his everyday experiences. I was beginning the process of letting go of misguided dreams and the words of supposed experts, and rather stood at the beginning, the real beginning of a new untraveled road, learning better to listen to my son’s voice and harkening to my own.   While armed with love and a drive to fight for a better quality of life and greater understanding for my son, I was also struggling with fear, feelings of inadequacy, and immense sorrow for the difficulty of my son’s journey. What I couldn’t know at the time was that my son and I were truly on our way to what matters most in life:  meaning, purpose and true happiness. A diagnosis of Autism would not take that from us as I sometimes worried; we simply had to learn to fall into a new rhythm, uniquely our own.       

Walking into a packed doctor’s office, I scanned for a seat amongst the crowd. I had brought along a novel to read, something I was rarely finding time to enjoy anymore.  I was secretly wishing for a long wait so I could lose myself in the tumults and triumphs of fictional characters in a distant world of blessed escape. Homeschooling awaited me when I returned; honestly I was in no hurry.  

Break. Respite.         

As I was settling into my chair, I noticed a disheveled man across the room staring at me. Although I only glanced at him briefly, he stood out in this crowd of well dressed professionals and shiny suburbanites as he was clad in worn, polyester gray pants, an untucked flannel plaid shirt, an old, dingy jacket, and hair that appeared uncombed and unwashed.  

Ignore. Avoid. Break. Respite. 

As I clasped the hard binding of the pages seeking refuge, my peripheral vision indicated there was movement in the room.  The disheveled man was getting up and coming my way.  He sat down right next to me, plopping a large duffle bag on the floor. 

 Ignore. Avoid. Break. Respite. 

His mumbling distracted. His unloading of the duffle bag and setting up his large radio on the table distracted, the buzz of a poorly tuned station scratching into the otherwise awkward silence.

Ignore. Avoid. Break. Respite.

 “Hi, I’m Johnny. Want to see something neat?”

 I gave a sigh of momentary resignation, mumbling a half-hearted "okay" in return.    

He carefully opened his duffle bag and pulled out an empty egg carton.  I was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling I had been trying to push away from the moment I saw him.

Autism.  I know you.  Why though, why now?  My boy sits at home, and I’m not sure what to do for him.  If others couldn’t help him, how can I?  Aren’t they the experts? I feel inadequate and overwhelmed.

Break. Respite.

Shamefully, I briefly considered telling this man I had to make a phone call. Yes, I would manage some level of politeness as I bolted to the lobby. 

Break. Respite. 

As the sounds of a fuzzy radio station floated throughout the room and as others stared while this middle-aged man kept initiating conversation while holding an empty egg carton, a transformation in my spirit began.  Tenderness replaced discomfort.  Compassion replaced indifference. I yielded to this moment, closing my book and setting it down.    

 

“Hello Johnny.”  I smiled at him and told him my name.   

He began to pop the bottom of each empty egg shape on the carton.  “I like that popping noise,” he spoke with satisfaction and excitement.  Flowing with the moment, I found myself eventually placing my own hands on the egg carton. Pop! Pop! Pop! He looked at me again, and we both smiled. “I like it too Johnny.”

Johnny's voice would probably be deemed too loud for waiting room standards, and others in the crowded room were watching us, but joyfully the entrapped feeling I had at first was released, and a sense of freedom began to envelope me in a way I had never quite felt before. For often I had felt self-conscious when I took my son on outings and others stared at us, and I imagined their judgment, felt sorrow and sometimes anger rising within me, a cacophony of negative voices obscuring the voice that mattered most:  my son’s.   How empowering it was to have this moment focused on what really mattered: the ability to choose not for one’s self or to please the crowds, but purely for the good of another.     

Sometimes Johnny mumbled, sometimes he talked loudly, his brain seemingly in sync with the random flipping of radio stations, some tuned in better than others.  “My mother is seeing the doctor.  My sister is with her. 92.5 is pop, 94.7 is hip-hop, 97.8 is classic rock. My dad died.”

 “Oh, I know that must have been sad, Johnny.” 

“He just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. He’s not there anymore.  I live with my mom.”

He tuned the radio again to another fuzzy, crackling station with far off voices.  He said, “Hey, want to do the egg carton again?” 

“Oh sure, Johnny.  That would be great.” 

As if he hit the rewind button, he said “Hey, I’m Johnny, what’s your name?”  He then grabbed my hand and began to move too close into my personal space. 

While upon first seeing him I viewed him like a radio station of static I didn’t want to try to decipher, I now tuned in better to the song.  Delicately, and without any feeling of discomfort or judgment, I said “now, Johnny, we just met, so you can’t grab my hand.   You need to move back, and keep your hand right here.”  I moved his hand to the armrest between us. 

 

We continued to talk, and I told him how my oldest son loved music too.  I told him my favorite stations, using call numbers to connect with him. We went back and forth around local radio stations, finding comfort in numbers and genres. Sometimes he tried to grab my hand again, and I would just gently move his hand back to the armrest. 

There was a supreme comfort in talking to him that I can’t explain other than as I look back it was like falling under the guiding hand of a higher conductor orchestrating this moment in unexpected ways, choosing new notes and chords I had never been quite familiar with before, lightening my spirit as I felt unencumbered by expectations or tough emotions, freeing me to more fully enjoy the purity of the moment: human connection, in and of itself, no need for recomposing the song.   

His mother and sister eventually walked out into the waiting room.  Their steps seemed halting; their facial expressions contained a look of surprise as they cast their eyes over to Johnny and I walking toward them.

“Oh I’ve met Johnny and we have had a wonderful time talking together.” 

The mother and sister’s faces lit up in a full smile, eyes beginning to fill with a glossy sheen, a tender expression I will never forget.

“Johnny, I enjoyed your music and thanks for sharing your egg carton.”

 Johnny exclaimed with an animated, upturned face, 

“This was a good day, a very good day.  I’m happy.” 

And then as I was walking away from him, he called me by name.  I turned back towards him, and he looked deeply into my eyes, and said,

“Are you happy?” 

And to think I had foolishly thought I was the only one giving on this day. 

I recalled my recent wallowing in self-pity.  I recalled feeling far from happy as I was afraid to yield to the new moment life was presenting me, a station that often sounded like discordant, unorganized sounds lacking meaning. Johnny's question flowed along a deeper frequency, past the shallow, past the selfish, past the common.

“Yes, Johnny! I’m happy!”   

His mother and sister smiled at me again and said “thank you.”

Ah… thank you Johnny.  

As he exited out the door, he was still making his joyful proclamation, his voice echoing back to me like a song beautifully in tune,

“I’m happy.  This was a happy day.”

I sat back down and my emotions burst.  I noticed an older couple looking at me with tears in their eyes too, and a sweet smile on their faces.  Other faces in the room showed no emotion, but it wasn’t about them. It was about what Johnny taught me: the power inherent in us all to positively and mutually impact each other, despite perceived differences and outward appearances.  Johnny helped me step into the unknown and realize I would be okay, more than okay.  My tears fell in waves, sobs in the midst of joyful epiphany, unabashed and redemptive.    

Later, as I was driving home, I found myself full of reinvigorated purpose. While in the years to come I still struggled at times to find my inner voice and continued resiliency, I carried hope that I could teach all of my children that there are many stations worth tuning into in life. While none of us can know or control outcomes, I believe we all are a part of a mysterious and beautiful synchronicity, composing as we go.                   

Postscript:  After three years of homeschooling and another painful school dismissal, my son is now in his 4^th year at a specialized school that focuses on fostering social and emotional growth in a warm, nurturing environment.   My son tells me it feels nice to be understood. He looks forward to school. He enjoys friendships. He copes with life better now and can express his feelings in more emotionally healthy ways. Most importantly he is happy. My son imagines a future for himself that might include being a yoga instructor (my son screamed and cried in terror over the unknown in that first outing), a Planet Smoothie employee (we stared through the window of this establishment for several years as he refused to walk in due to loud blender sounds), a musician modeled after Moby (my son has often held his ears from loud sounds and started his own musical exploration with pots, pans and a spoon), or perhaps someone who makes short videos; he has been working on making movies at school that instruct and at times entertain as his stamp of originality is placed upon each creation.  I no longer fear the challenges of autism; in fact I am fully immersed in this world as I volunteer and work with a host of children facing unique challenges.  If anything, I learned along the way it wasn’t really the other person’s disability or special challenge that was the barrier; I was the barrier until I learned to better face my insecurities and fears around the unknown.  Individuals like Johnny and my oldest son continue to inspire and enhance the song of my life, and I am forever grateful.  It is a happy day!