DAD'S COAT: A CHRISTMAS STORY

Matthew 25:40

"The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'

Allen and I are wrapping Christmas presents, enjoying a “Dad moment” as we remember the
crazy shapes Ron would wrap presents in so no one could guess the contents. Allen sticks a bow
onto a gift--just a plain old shirt box--and whispers to me conspiratorially. “I already knew what I was
getting Dad for Christmas,” he says. 

“Really?” I say in surprise. “Dad died in July. How could you already know what he needed?”

Allen sighs. I know he is processing the words that will make sense to both him and me. Reconciling
himself to his father’s death five months ago was not easy and my autistic son spent weeks
believing his father would come back again if only he could find the magic formula. “Well,” he begins,
“Back when I thought Dad was coming back..” his voice catches "...I was thinking that Dad
needed to be safe and protected. You know, from all the illnesses and stuff.” He looks at me for
confirmation and I nod. “So, I wanted to get him a big coat--like the firemen wear--to protect him.”

As always, I am touched by the heart of my youngest son whose concern for his ill father was a
focus of most of his life. It is a moment before I can trust my voice to answer. “I am sure Dad would
have appreciated that,” I say. “But you know, we gave Dad a new coat last year.” I swallow.
“He only wore it once.”

Allen does not reply. He picks up another gift to wrap. “I still wish I could give Dad something.”

So do I, I want to say. But a person who is living in the Heavenly Kingdom has no need of material
items. Still, how could we honor Ron and his life? I begin to recall the gifts of years past and the
many, many years when we had no money to give anything to each other and scraped together
Christmas for our kids. Then, a thought enters my mind.

“You know,” I say casually, “my school is collecting things to give to the homeless population in
Philadelphia. Every Tuesday, a group goes down to Center City and gives out hats and gloves and
scarves.” I take a moment to fight back tears. “How about if we give Dad’s coat away?”

Allen considers it. “We’re sure Dad won’t need it?”

I shake my head. “No. Dad has no need of a coat. You know where he is, Allen. You know he’s not
coming back.”

There is a sigh. Allen’s acceptance has been hard won and is still tenuous. “I know,” he whispers.
“Sometimes I just like to pretend he is.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “It’s okay to pretend that. So, what do you think? Should we give Dad’s coat
away?” I go on wrapping presents as his atypical mind processes the information.

Finally, there is a nod. “Okay. Can I be the one to put it in a bag?”

“Of course,” I say.

The next morning, I pick up the bag Allen has left on the enclosed porch and carry it out to the car. Even though I was the one who suggested it, I am strangely reluctant to give the coat away. It seems so final. I bought the coat a year ago with hope: hope that Ron’s physical therapy would help him improve to the point where he might be able to leave the house; hope that with assistance  from his nursing aid and the elevator at church he might once again be able to join me at Sunday services; hope that a few small steps taken outside on the sidewalk might lead to a walk around the park, a Saturday in the spring sitting on a park bench watching the boats sail down the Delaware River, a family outing to a Phillies’ game. 

None of which happened. I feel the weight of the lost hopes as I heft the bag into my car and drive to
school, my eyes smarting tears, my heart breaking. I carry it into the school and it sits behind my
desk, an accusation. Why did I continue to hope? Why did I continue to think things would get better?
Finally, I ask a student to carry the damning bag upstairs to Brother David. I can breathe easier
when it is gone. Back home, I only tell Allen I have given the coat to the school.

During the days up to Christmas, I struggle to maintain some Christmas cheer. I engage with my students and the Christmas traditions of a Catholic high school in the best ways I can: the Ugly Sweater Day, the cookie exchange, the Secret Santa pick. At home I collapse after supper, going to bed early and waking up still tired. I plod along, expending emotional energy at school and with Allen, and helping my two older children as much as I can. I pack away more of Ron’s clothing for the Good Will donations and I order his grave marker at the cemetery. I put up a small tree for Allen and me, I unpack decorations. I function.

It is the day before school breaks for Christmas and I am getting my classroom ready for the students
that arrive before the first bell, students who are still learning English and crave the warm safety of
my ESL room. I am humming “O Holy Night” and taking deep breaths whenever I think of my late
husband. Ron loved Christmas. Everyday, I swim through the thick memories to surface with my
students.

I am switching on the lights when Brother David appears at my door. “Merry Christmas,” he says and
I respond. “I wanted you to know,” he continues, “that your husband’s coat found a home yesterday.
We were able to give it to a homeless man who was very appreciative.”

My heart swells even as tears spring to my eyes. I can feel Ron’s warm smile bathing me. My husband had a generous heart.

"But it's funny how it happened," says Brother David. "We'd had the coat a few weeks, you know, but
we didn't meet anyone that needed a 4-X coat. Then, on Tuesday, a large man came by and said
he'd been looking for a coat but he could never find one to fit him. He said he didn't often come down
near City Hall, but someone he barely knew told him to come see us. In fact, he couldn't remember
ever seeing that person before. So he came down and there we were. And your husband's coat fit
him perfectly."

I nod but find I cannot speak.

"He said," Brother David continued, "that he'd been offered some construction work over the holidays
but he knew he needed something warm to wear. He'd just about given up finding a coat. He was
wearing a couple of sweat shirts, but that's all he had. When we gave him the coat, he cried. He said
it gave him hope that he could turn his life around."

I am crying right now, realizing that the hope I held for the coat I'd bought for Ron had been fulfilled
after all. Brother David reaches out and hugs me. All day, I hide this gift in my heart, thinking of how my son will react when I tell him his father’s coat is now protecting someone else.

Back home again, Allen has hot tea ready for me and I settle into my chair. “Dad’s coat found a home
today,” I tell him. I tell him the story from Brother David. Allen smiles, then is thoughtful for a moment.

"We should hang up Dad' stocking," he says. "Because it feels like Dad is still here."

"He still is," I say as Allen dives into the box of Christmas decorations to retrieve the stocking. "And he always will be."

Take a Moment...

"But I will look to the Lord; I will wait for the God of my salvation. My God will hear me." Micah 7:7

It is time, I tell my son. Time to clean out his dad's dresser. Time to give away clothing that other people might be able to use. The school where I teach has an outreach program to the homeless population; many are in need of the coats and scarves and sweatshirts Ron once wore. Allen nods at me and, resolutely, we begin to make piles.


Sweatpants.
Shorts.
Shirts.
Scarves. Not the Phillies' one, Bonnie has claimed that.
Hats. But not the Eagles' one, which needs to stay on his chair.
Sweatshirts.

The heavy blue coat Ron only wore twice.
Gloves.
Flannel pajama pants, never worn.
Fallen shirts. Not the gray one, which still carries scents of Ron's aftershave.

After a short time, Allen says to me, "I need a Dad moment."

"Okay," I say. Dad moments have become an integral part of our lives these last four months. Whenever we become overwhelmed by thoughts of Ron, we stop and share a memory. These are important to all of us, but most especially for Allen whose neuro-atypical brain would not let him easily process the finality of his father's death. In fact, Allen, who is an adult with Asperger's Syndrome, spent fourteen weeks convinced there was a magical formula that would bring his father back.

Autism grief is not typical grief. I needed to let Allen work it out for himself, joining him on his magical journeys to the parks and fields where he thought his father might leave clues, to the train station and the boat yard where his father might arrive, and finally to the tearful realization that his dad was not coming back.

But, as Pastor Aaron reminded us in church this morning, we don't stop waiting for God to work We trust that God is about His business. We must be about ours. And my business was to let Allen have the time he needed to work it all out.

"I remember," I tell Allen as I straighten the piles of clothing before us, "how much Dad loved Christmas. How he always wanted everyone to have lots of presents, even when we had little money to buy them. "

Allen nods. "And I just want Dad to know," he says, "that if he ever gets tired of heaven, he can come back. There will always be room for Dad."

"Yes," I agree. I cannot imagine anyone ever wanting to leave the glory of heaven, but I am glad that Allen has finally accepted where his father now resides. We finish piling up the clothing and place it into bags I will take to school on Monday. Allen carries them out to my car.

"You know," he says when he returns, "I still miss Dad. I guess I always will. But I am really, really glad I had a Dad like him. And I think," and Allen's voice drops to a whisper, "I can still feel him loving me."

"So can I," I tell my son. "So can I."

ASPIRATIONS: Parenting Newsletter 1

Linda lives with her adult son with ASD in Pennsylvania, USA. She has a blog, is an author, and works with at-risk students in college and in high school. Linda got in touch recently about the possibility of joining our team, and with her experiences and writing skills I leapt at it. In her articles she’ll be offering her ideas on how to support your son or daughter with Asperger’s as an adult.-Dave Angel

ADULTS ON THE SPECTRUM

By Linda Cobourn, EdD

I sat in the sea-foam green waiting room, at least 1 ½ hours of forced inactivity looming ahead of me. I hadn't expected that the first appointment with the psychologist from Occupational Vocational Rehabilitation would be so long. Now I waited for my son, who sat with Dr. Puelo on the other side of the door.

I thought of Allen and the years of struggling at school and being bullied, of his quirks and his ideas and his spirit. It had taken four months for us to get to this appointment.  I hoped that OVR would be able to help Allen, 23 years old, with job training and mentoring. Immersed in my thoughts, I remembered a book I’d read about a slightly quirky protagonist who was socially awkward, liked to solve puzzles, and was unsettled by crowds and loud noises. Someone just like Allen who claims the noises from a turned off television bother his ears and who draws intricate mazes on kitchen napkins. The jigsaw of my son suddenly made sense.  I knew what Dr. Puelo was finding out. I knew what I had always known but had never put a name to.

Asperger’s Syndrome. 

Allen is not alone in  his adult diagnosis. According to Advancing Futures for Adults with Autism (2017), 1.5 million people in the United States are on the spectrum, but only 10% of the resources are given to help for adults. That leaves those of us who parent ASD young adults  to find our own methods and resources.

And we do. Websites like AutismSpeaks.org provide links to helpful research and resources.  The Interactive Autism Community site provides tips from getting a driver’s license to deciding when to disclose a diagnosis to an employer. On-line forums and groups help us deflect the sense of isolation. 

Allen’s diagnosis was four years ago. In that time I have discovered the most important tool in aiding my son to live an adult life: me. In the coming issues of this newsletter, I’ll share with you some of the ways I have helped Allen to find a therapist, graduate college, get and keep a job, and adjust to life as an “Aspie.”

Linda Cobourn is an education specialist in the United States. You can follow her blog and find her  books at Linda.cobourn.com.

http://www.aspirationsnewsletter.com/

One Last Gift

4 ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
Revelation 21:4

It's been four months. Exactly four months. The memory of that night will, I think, never fade. Bonnie and I walking into the house to see Ron sitting in his chair, sleeping. The call to 911. The house full of EMT's and police. Bonnie's phone call to her husband and her brother. My calls to my Dad, my brother, Ron's brother and mom. My call to my best friend Chris.The breath caught in my throat as the EMT's tried to revive Ron. The tears that choked me when my husband was pronounced dead. Allen, who lives on the upper edges of the autism spectrum, holding an ice cube in each hand to keep himself centered. The older kids gathered on the back deck, arms around each other.

We'd known the moment would come. But not this soon.

Four months. I've moved through 123 days now, taking care of final arrangements, dealing with insurance and medical equipment. I've been beside Allen as he used magical thinking to come to terms with the sudden death of his father. I've been there for the older kids and let them talk when they needed to, cry when they had to. I've tried to be a support to Ron's mother. I've gone back to work as an ESL teacher in an urban high school. I've paid bills and kept house and found a way to manage without Ron's social security income. I've picked out a grave marker. I've stopped waking up at night to check on Ron, who slept downstairs in a hospital bed for the last nine months. I've rearranged the living room, pushed my queen size bed to a corner of my bedroom. I've moved on. A little, anyway.

But the 13th of every month throws me back to that night 123 days ago, that night when I came
home to find Ron had, quietly and without fanfare, slipped away. I keep the tears at bay by keeping busy, teaching my students how to construct a sentence in English, working with the kids at church, playing Rack-o with Allen.

Plain and simple, I miss Ron's presence. Not his illness or the nursing tasks that fell to me. Just,
well, him.

I feel no guilt at his death. I know the truth of what my oldest son, Dennis, said to me the night his father died. "Mom, you sacrificed your life for Dad. No one could have done more than you did." In that truth there is some consolation. Despite the challenges of the last 19 years, Ron knew he was loved.

But still, the 13th of each month--and every month has one--looms. A hard day to get through. So far, there have been four of them, different from the other 119 days in their sharpness, the details of his final day imprinted in my brain.

In the early hours of today, November 13, the fourth of the 13's I've lived without Ron, I was given a gift. In the early morning hours, when I was poised between sleep and wake, huddled beneath my blankets in the knitted shawl I call my Widow's Wrap, the door to my bedroom opened. Ron walked it. Actually, he strode in. Not the Ron who 123 days ago fell asleep in his easy chair and woke up in Heaven. Not the Ron who suffered through 26 surgeries. But the Ron whose pictures sit on the shelf in the dining room, smiling at me as I wrote this blog. The well Ron, The whole Ron.

"Don't wake me up," I told him. "I don't need to get up until the alarm goes off."

He walked over to the bed and gently lowered himself to the mattress. "I didn't come to wake you up," he said. He laid down next to me and put his arms around me, warming me the way my Widow's Wrap had during the cold night. "I just came to tell you that I'm okay. I wanted you to know that."

I think he stayed for a while, until the alarm went off and I found my wrap pulled up around my shoulders.

Maybe I was dreaming. And maybe not. Perhaps it doesn't matter.

What matters is this: Ron, sick for so long, is now okay.

And I guess that means I can be okay, too.

FINDING DAD

1 Corinthians 2:9 But, as it is written, “What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him."

The grass is beginning to grow and cover the earth. Beneath it, a few feet down, is my husband's casket. Only a flag and its holder, placed there three weeks ago, marks the spot. It is time, I tell myself, to order the grave marker, another step on my widow's walk.

I've asked the kids their opinions. Dennis had none, just names and dates. Bonnie wants John 3:16, Ron's favorite verse, and an eagle for Ron's favorite team. Allen, whose presence on the autism spectrum has made his father's death a difficult concept to grasp, has refused to respond. 

But that was three weeks ago. Allen and I have had a good--but busy--day. With a school holiday courtesy of All Saints Day, we have managed to make our way through a long list of errands. Allen even got his hair cut, a task that was daunting back in June but which he now takes in stride. He even accepted a different barber, telling Rachel how he wanted his hair cut and politely shaking her hand
and thanking her when she was done. 

We are driving past Long Croft Cemetery, our trunk full of groceries, the last of our errands completed. Allen, who finds social interactions taxing, is already half-asleep in the passenger seat. But it's been a good day--such a good day--and I feel I can push him just a little more.

"I'm going to order Dad's grave marker on Monday," I say and motion to the cemetery.

"I'm not coming," he murmurs. There is a sigh and a pause. "Why do people do that."

"Do what?"

"Put--you know--markers on people's graves. What's the point?"

Those on the ASD spectrum tend to think in terms of absolutes. What would be a concrete reason I can give? "Well," I say, "I think it's so families can find where their loved one is buried. So they can bring flowers. So they know where they are." I push a little more. "So we'll know where Dad is."

"Dad's not there," Allen says quietly. "Just his old, broken body is there."

I feel a lump in my throat. The fine art of magical thinking has convinced Allen that his father would come back if only he found the right formula. For thirteen weeks after Ron's death, Allen and I spent every Saturday hunting for clues, looking for Ron. We visited Linvilla Orchards and found the strongest horse, sprinkling a few hairs from Ron's brush along the path. We located the tallest tree at Rosetree Park, wrapping a ribbon around its trunk. We explored the oldest bridge at Smedley Park, leaving one of his father's shirts behind. Marking spots where Ron might return. We waited at the station for a train that never came and for two weeks used Google Earth to track the route of a ship on the Delaware with a mysterious symbol that, said Allen, "meant something."

Allen didn't find his father, but he found a way to the other side of his grief. Two weeks ago, the magical journeys ceased. Allen said he was transferring his "sad memories" about his father's last, painful year into his newest and strongest sword. He was done, he said, looking for Dad.

And it seems to have worked. In the last two weeks, any conversation about Ron has been happy: the way he loved to play board games but always cheated, his booming laugh and warm hugs, his crazy dance movements known in the family as "doing the Ronnie."

Autism grief is not neuro-typical grief. Allen has needed time to figure it out. I have tried to be wise enough to let him. We seemed to have arrived at a good place. But it's been a good day, a really good day, so I venture one more question.

"If Dad's not at the cemetery and he's not on the boat and he's not on the train, where is he?"

Autism grief is not neuro-typical grief. But with enough time, enough magic, enough faith, and enough love, we can all find what we need.

My son looks at me with tears in his eyes. "Well," he says, "sometimes I like to pretend he's across the street at the firehouse, talking to the guys. Because that helps me. But," and he lets a few tears fall, "I know he's in heaven. And I know he's okay."

And Allen, too, will be okay.

THE MAGIC SWORD

“Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.”― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Allen lays three of his swords on the rug in front of me. Like others who function on the autism spectrum, he has many collections of many things, but swords are his favorite. One sword is heavy and broad, one is short with a curved blade, and one is thin but strong with a fancy handle. It is the last one that is the newest, purchased just hours ago at Booth Corner's Farmer's Market for Allen's birthday.

"I need to put my consciousness into one of these swords," he says. "Which one do you think will be best?'

A million questions circle through my head, but I look at each sword and ask the one I think matters the most. "All of your consciousness," I ask, "or just part of it?"

It is the right question. "Just the bad things," Allen says. He sighs. "I'm tired of feeling bad about Dad. I'm tired of trying to make him come back. I know..." he gulps "that he's gone. I did everything I could but--" he holds his hands out in front of him--"none of it worked."

I nod in sympathy. In the fifteen weeks since Ron passed away quite peacefully in his easy chair, Allen's magical thinking has kept alive the hope that his father will one day conquer death and return. Almost every Saturday has found us on another quest for clues. About three weeks ago, the journeys stopped as Allen processed the finality of his father's death and struggled with his loss.

Allen stands up and takes a deep breath. "I don't want to feel bad about it anymore. I don't want to remember the bad things. Like how sick Dad was. And how much pain he was in. It was really sad and I don't like thinking about it."

"Neither do I," I say and fight back tears. The nineteen years since the car accident injured Ron have been difficult, but the past two years were particularly grueling, not  only for Ron but for our family.

"So," Allen continues, "I'm going to take the bad thoughts and I'm going to transfer them to a sword. And then I will only have the good thoughts about Dad. The fun things. The happy things."

"I think, " I say, " that is an excellent idea." I get down on the floor to examine each of the swords carefully. I am not at all alarmed by my son's idea. As an adult with Asperger's Syndrome (HFA), Allen needs tangible items to help with intangible ideas. Many therapists posit writing down your worries on a piece of paper, folding the paper up, and letting the paper handle the worries (PsychCentral). 1 Peter 5:7 suggests that we, "Cast all your worries on Him, because He cares for you." Harvard Health concludes that many people with Asperger's suffer from anxiety but find it difficult to address. I've let Allen do what he needed to do to come to terms with the finality of his father's recent death.

And it seems we have arrived. I study each sword and comment on its good points. Then I touch the one in the middle, the one just recently purchased. A "Three Musketeer Sword" the seller called it because if its fancy red and gold grip. "This one," I say. "And I have two reasons."

"I agree that's a good choice," said Allen. "But why?"



So I tell him. "This sword was not here when Dad was here. So it has no...previous print from Dad. It has no...memories of him, you know?" Allen nods. "And it's long and strong and made of steel. It will hold even your unhappiest memories."

"Okay," says Allen and gathers up his swords. He takes a deep breath. "Good bye to the bad memories!" he says and carried the swords up to his room.

"Good-bye," I whisper and turn back to my knitting. Upstairs I hear the sounds of Allen's footsteps, his door opening, then silence. I do not know how long it will take to transfer all Allen's bad feelings about his dad.

But it does not take long at all. In a few minutes he is back. "I did it!" he says. "Now, I don't need to feel bad about Dad anymore. They're all there in the sword. I don't need to carry them."

"Great," I say.

"But," and he grins at me with the smile that has charmed since childhood, "I kept the good memories." He touches his chest." I kept them all right here."

I nod and look down at my knitting, letting my tears fall. "I kept my good ones, too," I say. 

Words from a Widow

God is close to those crushed in spirit; God will not leave you alone. Psalm 34:18

A few months ago, I joined a group of 700,000 American women without any intentional planning. I became a widow. And I am sorry to tell you, my sisters, that 75% of you will someday join the same club that does not discriminate due to race, creed, religion, socio-economic strata, or sexual preference (Kenen, 2018). It is a cold hard fact that women who lose a spouse outnumber men who lose a spouse by 7 to 1. And while there are logical reasons for that--women tend to live longer then men and marry someone a few years older than themselves--it doesn't help when you find yourself rudely thrust into a role for which you are not prepared and which is--sad to say--undervalued in today's culture.

Because, let's just face it, there are no longer any rules.

Remember that scene in Gone With the Wind when Vivian Leigh, as the charming Scarlett O'Hara, is tapping her black-shod foot at the Bazaar for the Glorious Cause and Rhett Butler, played by the devilish Clark Gable, offers an enormous amount of money to dance with her? Dr. Mead, without hesitation, explained that "Mrs. Hamilton is in mourning," and encouraged Rhett to choose another lady of his  liking. And while Scarlett defied all social customs of widowdom and consented to the dance is besides my point; the thing is that everyone KNEW Scarlett was a widow. And they KNEW the proper etiquette required.

I'm not suggesting we return to the donning of long black dresses which cover our faces and hide ourselves inside our houses for a year or more. Heck, I didn't even wear black to my husband's funeral and I'm not about to start. But I do wish that, just as we teach employees in a workplace how to interact with each other, we'd pay a bit more attention to what we say to widows. Widowhood is uncharted territory for all of us. It ranks up there as the number 1 stress of all time. It's falling into a new dimension without a guidebook, plunging down the mountain with no safety net, and arriving in a foreign country without a translator.


Scarlett's black widow's weeds were at least public acknowledgement of her loss, a way of telling the world, "Look, I've been through something here so give me some space." For the most part, widowhood is invisible. I still go to work, pay my bills, care for my house, my autistic son, and my two older kids. While I'm missing Ron's SSI, I'm better off then some women who lose 75% of their income when a husband dies and who are often left with  no idea of how to handle the checkbook or when to take the car in for inspection. Ron was ill for 19 years so I've been doing all of those things anyway.

But I am still grieving and will continue to do so for a long time to come. I dreaded going back to my job as a teacher in September because those ,"What did you do over the summer?" conversations were bound to come up. "Me? Oh, my husband died," left people stunned into silence. Should I have avoided the truth?

Recently, I caused a bit of a stir on Facebook when I suggested that people think about what they say to a widow. Let me make this clear: I am always gracious and grateful for anyone who cares enough to ask me how I am doing and actually listens. I am not grateful to the ambulance company who sent me a bill for the night my  husband's body was taken to the morgue and noted that Medicare would pay "if the deceased signs for it." I am not grateful to Medicare who sent a letter addressed to my husband saying they would no longer approve claims on his number because, "on July 13, you died. Our condolences." I am not grateful to Ron's retirement fund assessor who suggested I cash the last check--sent the week after Ron died--by having him sign it when I had just told him Ron had died.

Widows have been with us a long time. We're not going anywhere. Maybe, once we get over our grief--often compounded if, like me, you've been a caregiver to a sick spouse--we can organize and march on Congress, demanding a decent bereavement period and financial aid. But in the meantime, I have a list of suggestions of what to say or do for a widow you know.

1. Pray for them. Widowhood is lonely. And scary.
2. Send a card. I have a box of sympathy cards sent the weeks after Ron died, but I do appreciate a simple, "Thinking of you" note that lets me know I have not been forgotten.
3. Make a call. My phone still works.
4. Make a meal. Truth is, I don't feel much like cooking. Allen and I are existing on hot pockets, pizza, and scrambled eggs.
5. Give a restaurant gift card. For when we get tired of the hot pockets, pizza, and scrambled eggs.
6. Extend an invitation. We live in a two-by-two world. But I'd still like to be invited over for dinner or a game night.
7. Offer to do a chore. Show up at the house and offer to rake the leaves or lend a hand at home repairs. Allen and I have become pretty handy, but there are things we cannot do.
8. Give a gift. A friend recently gave me a little basket of soaps and sachets. I treasure it because she remembered that I am still in need of some support.
9. Listen to them. Recently, several people have asked me how I am doing, but haven't stayed to hear the answer.
10. Hug them. If appropriate and in the proper place, offer a hug. Chances are good that we've been missing quite a few.

Okay, I am done my grumpy widow rant. Honestly, I do know people have their own lives to live, but I also know that, as a society, we have done a poor job of following James 1:27 to care for the widows and orphans. I've seen about a hundred commercials asking for donations to animal shelters and not one suggesting you take a widow to dinner.

Maybe the 700,000 of us should get a publicity agent.

Gone with the wind Atlanta Bazaar

FADING MAGIC

The magic thread of its huge haunting spell,
And that linked his life to magic kingdoms
And to lotus-land
--Tom Wolfe

He'd tried his best. For the last twelve weeks, he'd hung his father's shirts on the branches of a tree at Smedley Park, watched a horse race across the field at Linvilla, set his Dad's shoes out on the porch, waited for a train that never came, and watched a ship with a mysterious symbol on its hull float down the Delaware River. He'd kept hope alive in his heart, even as it grew fainter with each passing day, trying to read into the world around him clues about his father's return.

Despite it all, despite his fervent wish, despite the magical thinking that kept him from grieving too deeply, his dad hadn't come back. And now, as more and more pieces of his father were packed up and put away and the sounds of his father's voice became fainter in his memory, he began to think that maybe the magic wouldn't work. Maybe, wherever his father had gone, he just wasn't coming back.

"Why wouldn't Dad want to come back?" Allen asks me one evening.

Inwardly, I sigh. It has been a common theme of our conversation the last three months. Patiently, I give him the same answer I have been giving him all along.  "I'm sure he wants to come back," I say in a level tone. "But I don't think he can. It's like he's in another dimension in heaven. He just can't take a train or a boat to get back to us."

"Sounds stupid to me," says my son who lives on the upper edges of the autism spectrum and understands the world in the most concrete of terms. "If he wants to come back, he should be allowed to."

Ever since Ron passed away in his sleep, quietly slipping from us while my daughter and I were visiting my father, I have struggled to help Allen accept the finality of death. It is a concept illogical to most on the autism spectrum who find comfort in the ability to control the world around them, a world they often find too loud, too colorful, too busy. I have tried to make Allen's life predictable again with routines for the two of us: who cooks dinner, who cleans up, who does the laundry. Every Friday night is market night and take-out supper; every Monday night is pasta and a movie. The routines help Allen whose emotions have been scrambled by his deep loss (Indiana University, 2019). 



And I have accepted the pieces of magical thinking that has found us spending most Saturdays searching for clues to Ron's return, seeing each of Allen's ideas as a step he needed to take in order to mourn his dad. I have put no time table on it, resolving to participate in the magical journeys as long as Allen needed them.

But the magic appears to be fading. It has been two weeks since we have waited at a train station or checked the shirt Allen hung on a tree. 

"The thing that really bothers me," and Allen pounds his fist on the table to make his point, "is that the night Dad...left"--his voice catches on the word--"he didn't say good-bye. " His voice drops to a whisper. "I wish he'd said good-bye. Then I could have said good-bye to him."

"I know," I tell my son. "I wish that, too. But I don't think Dad knew he was leaving, that God was going to call him to Heaven. I don't think he had time to say good-bye."

"I was just upstairs," says Allen. "If he'd called me, I would have come downstairs."

"I know," I assure him. "And Dad knew you loved him."

Allen nods his head sadly and is silent for a few moments. I wait, giving him time to process. Then he heaves a huge sigh--full of loss and pain--and closes his eyes. From experience, I know that he is putting his words together carefully. "I guess," he says after a while, "the only thing left to do is to find a way to honor him."

My heart soars. This is a huge step towards acceptance. I nod my head.

"What would you suggest?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Well, maybe like once a month we could cook his favorite foods and play his favorite game," he says.

"That would be good."

"And at Christmas we could still hang his stocking."

"Definitely."

"And once in a while we can go outside at night and look at the stars. And think that Dad is looking at them, too."

I hold back my tears and nod. "Sounds good. And when Bonnie and Dennis are here on Sunday for your birthday, we're going to go put the flag from the VA on Dad's grave."

He is thoughtful. "My first birthday without Dad."

"I know. It's sad, but we'll all be together."

"Okay. Maybe we can sing the birthday song in the off-key crazy way Dad had."

"Of course," I say. "It's a family tradition."

Allen smiles at me and walks into the kitchen to get a snack. "I'm making you tea!" he says.

"Nice," I say. Magical thinking may not bring his father back, but it has been helping Allen cope with his loss and move into a world without his father at his own pace and in his own time. I hear him in the kitchen now, talking to himself as he fills the tea kettle, takes a mug from the cabinet, gathers up the creamer and the sugar. Step by step, he reminds himself what needs to be done. He gets to the other side of the task.

He, like his brother and sister, is getting to the other side, beginning to imagine life without Ron.

I look at the family picture on the shelf next to my desk, a photo taken years ago when the kids were small and Ron was well. On some plane, on some level, Ron still exists. Then I feel a tear escape from my eye. I, too, am learning to move into a life without my husband. 

I think I am going to miss the Saturday journeys. Even though I knew Allen's magical thinking would not bring Ron back, it was nice to keep the magic alive just a while longer.