Stacie Sherman

Autism consumes us, so much so that when non-autism trauma happens in our lives, it throws us. It pushes us to the very edge of our sanity.

I haven’t written in a while, but I knew April was coming. I pledged I would write every day in April, as I have done in the past. Because I’m determined to open eyes and share our side of autism.

But as April approached, my father went into the hospital. And he never came out. So April for me has been a blur. But it’s more than halfway gone, and I can’t let it just pass.

Even as I visited my father every night in the hospital an hour away, and then mourned his death and dealt with the aftermath, I had autism to deal with. Autism doesn’t take a break when you need it to. I had my beautiful girl waiting for me and needing me at home. For once, I asked for and took the offers of help. Brielle got to spend more time with her stepdad, her aunts, her teacher, our neighbors and friends. I got to see her after my hospital visits. I would lie with her as she hugged me. She reminded me how beautiful it is to be loved like that.

I wonder if she knows about her grandpa’s death. She can definitely sense my grief, she is amazing like that. But I don’t think she understands. She and my dad had a simple, beautiful love. She would greet him with a kiss. They would sit next to each other and stare at each other. He would whisper he loved her. She would reach out to touch his arm and lean in for his kiss. I am so glad he was the recipient of such beauty.

My son Cam was even closer with his grandpa. They enjoyed nights out to dinner, sleepovers, watching baseball. The night before my dad died, Cam traveled over two hours to visit my dad in the hospital. He sat with him and told him how much he would miss him. He worried more about me than about himself. And he stood up at the funeral and gave a eulogy.

I have raised two amazing children on opposite ends of the spectrum. My son works, pays taxes, dates, drives, reads and writes and plays the guitar like a rockstar. My daughter helps prepare for mealtime. She shreds paper at the local church. She exercises and runs around laughing and smiling. She gives the best hugs. She dances to country music with her mama in the kitchen. She likes to go on walks. She eats like a machine.

The saying goes, If you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism. You can never assume that because someone has autism, they can’t do something. Each and other person on the spectrum is capable of beautiful, amazing things. Give them wings, encourage them and watch them fly.

Autism has been in the news a lot lately, thanks to Robert F. Kennedy Jr., and it has not been all good. This recent statement from Kennedy has rocked and riled the autism community: “These are kids who will never pay taxes. They’ll never hold a job. They’ll never play baseball. They’ll never write a poem. They’ll never go on a date. Many of them will never use a toilet unassisted.”

His statement has caused much anger. It is not true for a huge majority of people on the autism spectrum. It is meant to incite fear. It’s dangerous.

But…… as I read RFK Jr.’s statement, I couldn’t help but think about my daughter. She has that type of autism. The type of autism that isn’t the main character in a TV show. The type that makes people say to me, “I don’t know how you do it.”

I do it just fine, don’t worry about me. But do worry about her. I want people to understand and speak about Brielle’s level of autism. I don’t want them to turn away when she has a meltdown. I don’t want them to assure me she will speak someday. I don’t want them to pity me. And I don’t want them to assume that autism is what they see on TV or what they know about the special kid who lives next door.

Autism includes such a wide spectrum of people, and it’s portrayed very well in characters like Dr. Shaun Murphy in The Good Doctor, and the members of a dating group in Love on the Spectrum.

TV doesn’t show the really scary side. It doesn’t show the sleepless nights of parents. It doesn’t convey the injuries from aggressive children. It omits the hours-long meltdowns. It skips the dressing, bathing, and butt-wiping of our adult children. The pain of watching our children struggle to communicate without speaking. The fear of leaving this earth before our kids do.

It also doesn’t convey the beauty of loving – and being loved by – someone with autism. Thanks to my kids, I have observed strength and perseverance like I’ve never seen before. I’ve seen the ability to learn despite all the challenges. I’ve found a voice as their biggest advocate and cheerleader.

I’ve observed awe at simple things in nature. A bird soaring in the sky. A worm burying itself in the dirt.

I’ve felt the love from a hand reaching for mine. Arms wrapping around me from behind as I wash the dishes. A daughter who finds comfort snuggling with me on the couch. Who stares into my eyes as I run my fingers through her hair. Who tries to talk to me with her eyes and her wordless sounds. A son who picks out the most thoughtful gifts for his mama. Who tells me he loves me every time he talks to me.

Unbelievable challenges. Remarkable accomplishments. Immense joy. Pure love. Blessed families.

That is the spectrum of autism.