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. 

VOICES FROM THE EDGE: MOM, MAKE IT STOP!

 “I wish it would stop,” says Allen.

 There are tears in the corners of his eyes as he leans against the door-frame of my office. The conversation has not been easy: two of his least favorite subjects are work and therapy. It has taken us 45 minutes to sift through denials, defenses, and deterrents, but I have been determined and patient.

 “I’m just angry a lot,” he says, and I nod. Just last month I needed to replace his bedroom door, which had taken abuse for years. “I’m angry that I was in school for all those years—ALL THOSE YEARS—and not one person said anything about autism! Not one! Yeah, they said I was different and quirky and stuff, but no one said autism. And I want to know why. Cause now I know I have it and I just don’t know what to do with it!”

I clench my fists. I, too, am angry about it. Allen was diagnosed at age 3 with learning disabilities caused by high blood ammonia. He spent his school years in the special education classrooms, struggling to keep up with his age-mates. Every year, I participated in the IEP conference to set his goals. And during the 12 years of his public schooling and the 4 years of college, no one mentioned autism. Not once. According to the Asperger’s/Autism Network, adults who receive the diagnosis often deny it or express anger that “no one ever told me.” The site did not mention how their parents feel.

But I am plowing ahead with my end goal; I figure I have enough good will chips with Allen to either convince him to see a therapist or continue to go to work. I talked with his sister yesterday and we agreed that, for the time being, helping Allen become more aware of his strengths and his needs for accommodations place therapy above work. For two years, he has been receiving disability benefits and they will be enough to keep up with his car and insurance payments for the time being.

I’ve made this confession to my daughter and my best friend: I want Allen to be normal. Having a job he goes to everyday makes him normal. I already have enough “not normal” in my life with a husband whose physical disabilities put him out of work 18 years ago. I crave some normalcy.

But God, in His infinite wisdom, has blessed me with a son who resides on the upper edges of the ASD spectrum, a place sometimes called High-Functioning Autism (HFA). It’s a different plane from the one that I live on. I spent Allen’s childhood helping him find ways to learn, not preparing him for life as an autistic adult.

“I just want it to stop,” says my son. “Mom, just make it stop.”

My heart breaks a little. I wish I could make it stop for my blue-eyed baby boy. I take a deep breath, whisper a prayer, and tell him how wonderful and creative he is.

“Unique,” he reminds me. “You always said I was unique.”

I smile a little. “We are all unique. We just need to learn how to use it.”

He nods, thinking. I let the wheels in his brain turn, praying that I am somehow getting through to him.

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, with the possibility of what is sometimes called “the autism Tsunami” in our near future. As in Allen’s case, employment and education is not really a matter of lack of ability or intelligence, it is a lack of available services and public understanding. The phrase, “If you know one person with autism, you know one person with autism,” is very true. As a spectrum disorder, it takes many forms. And communicating with someone on the spectrum is full of pitfalls such as perception deficits, abrupt transitions, and echolalia (Asperger Partner, 2016).

A few tears have fallen by now but Allen’s determination to avoid therapy is waning. We have agreed to refer to his new therapist, Dana, as a “career counselor” rather than a therapist. “Because you need someone to help you sift through all your wonderful ideas and see which one you should work on first.” And because, I think to myself, you need someone to talk to other than me. The role I play as Allen’s mother is exhausting.

Allen is quickly running out of steam, so I make one last plug. “If you need to quit your job,” I say, “It’s okay. You need to do what’s best for you.”

He cocks his head to the side. “I guess I don’t mind the job so much,” he says. “Not as long as there is work to do. I just don’t like doing nothing.”

 My brain is already turning with how we can address this situation.

 Then Allen, who often surprises me, says this: “Guess I can talk to Dana about it.”

Then he heads to his room for a nap and I, feeling as if I have run the gauntlet and come out the other side, go downstairs to make supper. And treat myself to a cup of tea and a cookie.