Moments

Have you seen the wall art on Pinterest where people have a display of clocks, set to the time of their wedding and the births of their children?  It's a sweet way to commemorate special moments.  I don't have a display like that on my wall, but in my head and my heart I've had certain moments imprinted for years.

For many years I've thought of my life as "before autism" and "after autism."  The date of Alex's autism diagnosis is a point in time where everything changed.  I somehow thought it was the most important or significant event until, suddenly, it wasn't.  The day of Alex's cancer diagnosis changed that.  Another moment in time that changed everything.

Since then, since "the cancer day," I've done a lot of reflecting upon the idea of "moments."  I've been thinking about how moments shape us and shape our lives.  And how, more than the moments, it's really our choices we make when faced with those moments that define us.

Perhaps the first in a chain of moments was the moment I walked into the first debate team meeting of the year when I was a sophomore in high school.  It was my second year in debate, so I walked in with at least a small degree of confidence.  In addition to all of our returning team members, were some new kids who wanted to join the team.  That was the day that I met John.  He walked in and he appeared much more outgoing and confident than I felt.  He wore a camera around his neck, and faux leather pants.  (In 1978 those were actually pretty cool.)  I didn't know that day that this was a moment that would change my life, yet I can remember it pretty clearly.  I think of it whenever I walk by Mr. Rutter's social studies room, which hasn't been Mr. Rutter's social studies room in decades, in a school that isn't even a high school any more.  (When we take our fourth graders to tour the middle school every spring, I point out the classroom as we walk by.  "That's where I met Mr. Forster for the first time."  The girls all go, "Awww...."

And of course I remember our wedding and the births of my children, but there are other everyday moments that stick out.

I can remember sitting in Jessica's bedroom, in our tiny home on Wilson Street, rocking her to sleep and singing Dan Fogelberg's "Another Auld Lang Syne."  She was only a few weeks old. I vividly remember feeling like I needed to capture that moment and hold it in time.  It's like the character Cam Janssen in the kids' mystery series.  Cam says, "Click" and remembers exactly what she sees.  I remember what Jessica looked like, what she smelled like, and what she felt like on my shoulder. "Click."

And I remember the day of Alex's autism diagnosis.  The early childhood team came to our home for their assessment.  We'd already had multiple assessments and phone consultations so the diagnosis on this day was a confirmation, not a surprise.  But it was still a moment that changed everything.  I remember the feeling of knowing I would have to become an expert about autism, and I didn't want to.  I remember the fear of not knowing, and wishing I had a crystal ball to tell me everything would be okay.  I didn't have a crystal ball.  But I did have John.  John who reminded me that nothing was changed.  Alex was still our beautiful son.  He reminded me that our job as parents was to take our children from where they were as far as they could go.  He said that might look different for Alex, but it was still the same job.  And we did become experts.  But we also vowed that autism wouldn't define Alex and wouldn't define our family.  And that we wouldn't become so obsessed with chasing miracles that we would give Alex the message that we were trying to fix him because he was broken.  We never, ever wanted him to believe that he was not good enough, or less than.  We found a way to live life and have joy.  That was our choice.

I remember Alex's first communion and all the preparation.  I remember my panic when we got to the end of mass and I didn't know what to do because we never practiced the end of mass.  We practiced going in, and we had an "escape" plan that Father and the teachers knew about so we could take Alex out early if he needed to go.  But he didn't need to go.  He made it through the entire mass, and he received his sacrament, and then it was time to process out with the rest of the communicants.  It seems silly now, but it had honestly never occurred to me we'd make it to the end, but we did.

And Jessica had many "moments."  There were so many recitals and concerts and plays.  She was involved, talented, and accomplished.  And many of her "moments" were things that were too difficult for Alex to participate in.  Sitting through a play or a recital or concert was impossible for much of their childhood.  So Jessica had to learn at a young age whether the event was a "one parent" or "two parent" event.  A "one parent" event was one that she was excited about but she could be content to have only of us attend and the other would stay home with Alex, or the three of us would attempt to attend and she would be okay if one of us had to leave with him.  A "two parent" event was more special to her, and then we would make arrangements for Alex.  It was always a balancing act.  Our fear was never that Jess would demand too much but the opposite.  We always feared that she would put her brother's needs before her own and not tell us her true desires.

Now there's the cancer diagnosis.  Another life moment that changes everything.  You get the news and the whole world looks different, feels different, sounds different, smells different.  I feel sheepish for thinking that autism was the defining moment of our lives.  Autism changed the direction; cancer really does change everything. 

So now you have a choice.  We didn't choose cancer, and we can't control the outcome, but we can put forth our best effort.  We can help Alex and support him.  We can literally and figuratively hold his hand through every treatment.  Once again, we have to become experts in an area we didn't think we'd have to know anything about.  We know so many words now that we didn't know three months ago.  But we're also lucky.  Hodgkins is a very treatable cancer with a high cure rate.  Alex is young and was very healthy before cancer.  He has a support system that won't give up on him. Now there's a point in time that's "before cancer," but I know that we'll have a point in time that's "after cancer."  We have much to look forward to.  Jessica and Rusty's wedding.  And the family celebrations that Jessica and I are already planning for "after cancer."

I wonder how many of those clocks I need on my wall?