Grief

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Since Monkey’s diagnosis I have had ebbs and flows of different emotions. Some days I feel completely overwhelmed, break down and want to hide in a hole. Other days, I spend my days researching treatments, autism therapies, and contact as many people as possible  and try to educate myself and help Monkey out as best as I can. I think that my husband J and I have done a pretty good job of staying positive for the most part and throwing ourselves into research – but there are bad days too.

Yesterday, we attended a birthday party for a very good friend’s daughter. I find it hardest when I see just how different Monkey is from neurotypical children her age. I see all of the different milestones and things that other children can do and I grieve for the child I thought I would have. Every major milestone or Facebook update I see with my friends’ children I wonder if Monkey will ever get there. I realize that I am grieving for a non-existent future experience, but some days feel like I am missing out. I realize now that this is an experience that all ASD parents go through and that it is alright to grieve and is a completely normal response. Every parent that I have met so far on a similar path has told me this – but I still feel like an awful mother and am filled with guilt when I feel this way.

Then – I shake myself out of it (or try to) and tell myself that Autism is something she has – but she is not defined by it. She is still the most amazing little girl who loves to dance, gives the most wonderful hugs, and has a smile that can light up the darkest room. I have joined a lot of Autism parent support groups on Facebook – and I came across this and thought it was perfect.

When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip – to Italy. You buy a bunch of guidebooks and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum, the Michelangelo David, the gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.”

“Holland?!” you say. “What do you mean, Holland?” I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.

But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to some horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place.

So you must go out and buy a new guidebook. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It’s just a different place. It’s slower paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around, and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills, Holland has tulips, Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy, and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life you will say, “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.”

The pain of that will never, ever, go away, because the loss of that dream is a very significant loss.

But if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things about Holland.

So, we will continue to appreciate the small victories and the amazing little girl that we have – because she’s awesome.But, at least for a little while I know that I will still dream about what could have been – but I will stop and bring myself back to the present – because there is a little girl who needs cuddles, tickles, and kisses and puts a smile on my face every day – and she needs me to be the best version of myself that I can – for her.

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