Life in Left Field

 My blog was born almost eleven years ago when we received Noah's Autism diagnosis.  

Today we received Ezra's diagnoses.

That day, Shawn and I were taking a collective breath in the parking lot after loading our six month old and our newly diagnosed nine year old in the car.  I still remember what we wearing, the chill in the air, the specific color blue of the sky.

We stood behind the car, taking turns staring at the ground, the sky and each other, kicking the bumper, heaving sighs trying to contain sobs--and trying to get ourselves together enough to make the 90 minute drive home.  Covid meant today was a telehealth appointment, so hey, no three hour drive home while trying to digest the day's news.  There's that, right?

Ten years ago, I shouted, "DAMMIT!  They just dumped us way out in left field!"

Noah's diagnosis wasn't necessarily a shock to us, but the diagnostician's treatment of the entire situation was.  They handed us a little packet of information (all of which I could've written for them at that point), helped us make an appointment for six months out and sent us on our way: "Congratulations!  Your kid has Autism!  We'll see you in six months!"  We did not return to them in six months.  We did not return to them at all.  We took our Autism and went elsewhere.

That was it; no supportive care, no interventive therapies, no recommendations: just a diagnosis and we'll see ya later!  At the time, Noah was not considered severe enough for interventions.  We found our own interventions, and made our own path through life with Autism.

We'd been living in left field all along, we just didn't have a name for it until that moment.  

Over the years we've found our groove here in Left Field.  Some days we're groovier than others.  Some days I forget my groove, things feel entirely too fragile and I fear I might break under the weight of all of this.  Some days I'm angry and I shake my fist--not at my children, not at God, but at a painfully slow and broken system, at things beyond my control, at a society which demands I constantly explain and excuse my kids.  Sometimes I scream CAN WE PLEASE JUST HAVE ONE NORMAL DAY--and I remember--this is normal.  It's our normal.  Some days I mourn the 'easier'--different--life I dreamed of for my kids, while other days I'm able to fully celebrate being able to live here at all in Left Field.  Some days I have some really big, hard feelings about it all.  And--other days I recognize this is not the end of things: no diagnosis, no specialist, no stranger gets to write the final word in our history.  My kids are healthy, happy and well loved.  I have a husband who does all of this with me, and some days, for me.  We have the ability to ensure our kids receive all the help they need, and because I'm able to stay home with them, we're able to provide what a traditional school setting cannot: curricula tailored specifically to their needs and one-on-one attention.  We are able to choose specialists who not only see the best in our kids, but work hard to help them.  Most days I completely thoroughly laud every little thing about my kids, and every day, every single day, I glorify the One who made them.  I know they are the way they are because this is how He needs them.

If you've made it through your child's formative years without having to go through any sort of diagnostic process, without having to fight a system which is supposed to be for your child yet is designed against your child, without having to fill your weekly calendar with specialist after specialist--there is no possible way you can comprehend any of what I'm telling you.  You might think you can draw a parallel here or there--but you simply cannot.  And I'm not saying that to be angry or bitter with you--but you are in that population that cannot comprehend a life steeped in special needs.  It's just a simple truth.  When your kids come with 'extras,' you live on an entirely different planet, often even an entirely different solar system.  We speak a different language and walk a different walk (sometimes rather literally).  For this matter--if you haven't gone through this, I pray you won't ever

I love my boys dearly.  I cherish them.  I'm so grateful for them.  They are funny and full of life, they have the most musical giggles, we have plenty of inside jokes--and they've helped shape who I am, and who I need to be.  I wouldn't change our kids at all, for anything.  

But would I change things for them?  In a heartbeat.