Sadness

Another story about the fullness of life on the Spectrum

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Everything is Ausome

Near midnight, Calvin wakes up and seeing the downstairs lights on, he bumps ungracefully down the stairs to find me. He squints and blinks as his eyes adjust from his dark bedroom to my late-night makeshift coffee table office. He clumsily avoids the laptop power-cord and settles in backwards for a hug. Calvin’s default hug posture is to give you his back, so you can wrap your arms around him for an embrace. It’s one of many socially awkward habits of my son, a 10-year old boy who lives with his parents, older brother and his place on the autism spectrum. He says, “ Daddy, I’m sad.” There is so much to celebrate in that short sentence. Part of me gets teary-eyed and paternally proud. The other part of me is curious and concerned.

The tears would flow if I dwelled on his sentence. His language skills are developing. I like his grammar. He addresses me by name, a new language habit that reflects my personhood. Even better is his use of a pronoun – for years Calvin did not grasp how to use pronouns –especially when talking about himself. He would third-person-it, “Calvin is hungry” or “Calvin wants the playground.” The use of a contraction is a perfectly placed proverbial cherry placed on top. While his autistic brain easily memorizes all fifty states in alphabetical order – pronouns are trickier for him. “Why is Calvin sad?” I am curious why this semi-awake boy is dealing with his feelings. I realize I don’t use a pronoun; at this hour I am a poor pronoun-speaking example to him. I lapse into a style of childish talking. My wife stressed to me just yesterday the importance of modeling proper pronoun usage to him. Good thing she’s asleep and not there to poke me with a glance. I want to smile about Calvin’s expressive language, but need to show concern for his feelings. He has been working on identifying and recognizing feelings in his speech classes. At the end of fourth grade, he has a solid grasp of happy, sad, frustrated, surprised and angry. He has devoted copious minutes with crayon, markers, pencil and ink to rehearsing these feelings. Amongst my bills and correspondence spread out on the coffee table are many of his pages of his animated emotional artwork – all dealing with feelings. Calvin’s prevalent emotional color on his palette is “happy.” He is typically happy and often at the least typical times. l recall him struggling in distress while I pin his hands to his wriggling chest in the dentist chair. Without my ad hoc role as an additional, although untrained dental assistant, he would interfere with the dental instruments in his mouth. And after my exertion, seeing him squirm, I worry that he may never want to visit the dentist again. Yet after the appointment Calvin orchestrates his iPad app to ask out loud “How do you feel when you go to the dentist?“ “HAP-PY!, “ he beams, punching out the two syllables like they are two words. Yet tonight he is sad. I see his lips quiver and he is about to cry as he reflects on this sadness. But he replies, “June 17th.” Ironically, it is already June 17th, but I know he is referring to the daytime ahead, the last day of school – sort of the last day of school. Calvin decided a long time ago that June 17th would be the last day of school. The actual scheduled last day is Monday, June 20th – but Calvin determined that June 17th will be his last day of fourth grade. Most kids would end school early by decree to pounce on the freedom of summer, but Calvin’s motives are more complex. He loves going to school and studies calendars all the time. He enjoys the day he receives his mass-produced colorful school district calendar more than his birthday. He knew the last day on the calendar before me. “Are you sad that 4th grade ends tomorrow?”I ask. He looks down as he says, “Yes.” I acknowledge his feelings and hug him as I join him in wistful nostalgia for the school year past. Perhaps both of us are thinking of field trips, multi-digit multiplication, fossils, drum lessons, Japanese artwork, book fairs, American History, choir rehearsals, school projects, class parties, Laptop work, new apps, French Market day, and Field Day memories. “You love 4th grade, don’t you? I understand. Fifth grade will be great, too.” I realize that he couldn’t bear a whole weekend dealing with the sadness of a final school day, officially Monday. Long ago, he designed a less painful separation from 4th grade -- on Friday. He isn’t fully soothed, so I brainstorm an exercise, “Tomorrow, make sure you tell all your bus drivers, teachers, classmates and classroom helpers ‘Thank you for 4th grade, I had a great year.’” We walk around the living room role-playing this scenario repetitively. I assume the role of various school staff and students and Calvin eagerly shakes my hand saying, “Thank you for 4th grade, I had a great year!” As he contentedly walks upstairs to bed, I am uncertain if he will actually do this exercise during “his” last day. I hope so, but whether he does it or not, I am certain that he had a great year.