Dear Elevator Lady -- Thank You For Ignoring My Son

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Thursday afternoon, Theron and I were in an elevator descending from the top level of the Seattle Aquarium to the ground floor.

A descent preceded by a good 47 minutes of three consecutive tantrums/meltdowns/Jekyll & Hyde monstrosities that had left both Theron and I somewhat overwrought on the floor of the upstairs Aquarium cafeteria.

47 minutes that had drawn sympathy from our beloved companions with their angelic nine month old son, concern from the sales clerk who was worried that Theron might have bonked his head on the register cart that we were leaning against, and assorted looks from other families in the cafeteria. You might have seen some of those looks. I've even had some of them verbalized before: "Thank goodness that's not my child." "Please remove yourself from my zone of organic granola bars and perfectly clean, well-behaved children." (Not that I have anything against organic granola bars; I will purchase ~anything~ if a coupon deal). Oh, and my favourite: "All that kid needs is some sense smacked into him."

It's at times like this, that I wish for some form of messaging that I can whip out. A baseball cap. Layered t-shirts that I can pull off in stages. Maybe temporary tattoos for my forehead.

"Warning: Sensory integration issues ahead."

" Waaaaaaayyyy over-stimulated."

"Autism + 4 year old testosterone surge = TOTAL BITCH."

Not that I really give a damn what people think when I'm endeavouring to comfort my son, but as an Aspie myself, I'm adamant that if you're going to have an opinion of my family and I, it had better be based on a correct assumption.

I think I was ok till minute 32, as Theron had finally calmed down to the point where his breath was coming in teary judders and he was finally willing to accept that if he really wanted another chip, that a "no thank you bite" of carrot would be perfectly acceptable first. (Can't you just see what a passionate advocate he is going to be for his political beliefs in later life?). We stood up, held hands, walked over to the table, and sat down to finish our snacks. Only to realize that some of the chips had disappeared in the meantime.

As things dissolved again, Aaron and I gave up all hope of being able to complete our family afternoon out (we are tentatively feeling out the line between respecting Theron's autism and stretching his tolerance levels so that none of us are imprisoned at home inside his sensory comfort zone). I picked Theron up and walked out of the cafeteria with my head held high, ignoring the looks. But I was crying inside. And all I wanted was to drink. Disappear. Escape. Numb. And curse. Because one of the hardest things about recovery is that in committing to an addiction program, you give up the right to a chemical peace of mind. Sweet anaesthesia = no longer an option. Every raw nerve was jangling in both my little boy's body and mine.

The elevator doors sprang open again just as I thought our departure was certain, and in walked one of the granola bar moms with her four perfectly turned out, well-behaved kids. Theron was wailing like a banshee, smearing snot, tears, and goodness knows what else from below my ear to my shoulder. His feet were thrashing against my kneecaps, and I was endeavoring valiantly to not topple over, making a fine use of the elevator wall.

"How old?" the mom asked.

"Almost five," I replied.

"Tall isn't he. Kindergarten this year?" she said.

"One more year of pre-K," I said.

The sheer calmness and ordinariness of her conversation was infectious. Theron's wails dropped several decibels.

"Birthday?" she asked.

"September 12th," I said.

"Oh, his is September 1st," she said, nodding her head towards one of her boys. "We had twelve hours of tests. TWELVE. With a psychiatrist. To prove he could go in a year early."

Her youngest smiled somewhat sheepishly. Theron adjusted his head against my neck so that one eye could peep at this child who had undergone such tests. After a final juddery inhale, he was blessedly quiet. And I found a reserve of strength.

I don't remember how the conversation finished or saying goodbye. I don't remember leaving the elevator or the aquarium. I don't remember walking the half mile to the car. But I do know that the strength the woman in the elevator gave me helped me carry Theron all the way back to the parking garage. It also lifted me out of my introspection and reminded me that I can ask God for help and peace, and not rely on anything else for serenity.

So thank you elevator lady -- thank you for ignoring my son, or rather, treating him as if he were behaving perfectly normally. Thank you for providing the unexpected distraction that took the wind out of his sails. And thank you for providing me with the strength to be a better mom for another day. You probably have no idea how your intervention helped me, but I will always be grateful.

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