Good news and bad. Successes and frustrations. We take steps forward and steps back. Sometimes we fly. Sometimes we fall.
I accompanied a client to the Get Air trampoline park a few times recently. They offer support people free admission with their clients. And one time, when my the client declined to go on after we had paid and entered, the staff gave us a voucher to come back and try another time. Which we did. And had fun. (In the meantime, my wrists got sore pushing him on the swing for a whole hour. It was worth it to see the smile that lights up his face when he feels comfortable.)
Unfortunately, Sea World here in San Diego has stopped issuing the disability passes that allow the escort/assistance person free entry. Which is a real pity. Fortunately, another one of my client families still has the old pass.
So that client and I went to Sea World, and more and more often I find myself thinking of him as my friend, rather than my client. A friend is someone you enjoy hanging out with, right? Someone whose intentions you trust (over-all, if not at every given moment). Someone you want to make happy, and who does nice things for you as well. So yes, by these criteria, this nonspeaking grade-school boy is my friend, even though our relationship is not one of equals, both because I am an adult and because I am his professional caregiver.
We’ve gone to Sea World before, with his family, but this time it was just the two of us. This was a very different experience. With just us, there is less talking, more flapping and bouncing. Less scheduling and more wandering. Less of me holding his hand (he’s older, now, too, and much more aware of his surroundings than he was even six months prior). More of me letting him lead (he knows the place much better than I do, after all). We got lost a few times (or maybe we went around the long and repetitive way on purpose. What do I know?), but we eventually ended up wherever he wanted to be. At least I think so. Sometimes I’d bring him over to a map and ask him to point to what he wanted. Sometimes this worked. Sometimes not. He was patient with the fact that I’m terrified of the Sky Ride. I know it’s one of his favorites, so we went on it anyway. But only once.
There were a few rough moments, including a minor meltdown/explosion on his part, for perfectly valid reasons. No one got hurt, and the only damage was to some food items. Then he opted to go into a quiet exhibit and watch the fish until he felt all better. I didn’t talk to him any more than necessary or make any demands on him while he was recovering. There were some awesome fish at the exhibit. Also turtles of various sizes. We were each excited about different fish, but shared a fascination with the electric eel. It was very big and ripply.
Throughout the day, we got some confused or surprised looks, but no disapproving ones, at least not that I saw. Both the staff and our fellow visitors seemed unsurprised by his buzzing hands, assorted vocalizations, and sudden detours. Sometimes we even got smiles. I guess increased autism awareness isn’t always a bad thing, at least not anymore. When he was jumping up and down blocking an exhibit and I said to the woman waiting to see, “Please excuse us, he needs a few minutes to calm down,” she simply said there was no need to hurry. It’s hard to imagine getting that response a number of years ago. I’m sure some places and/or people would still give us a hard time. But not that day.
There are the little moments of coded recognition, too. No one there ever used the words “autism,” or “nonverbal,” or “disability.” But there was the exhibit guide who mentioned that she enjoyed seeing such a wide variety of people every day. I have no idea if she was referring to my client in particular, but I wouldn’t be surprised. I was certain when the woman behind us in line for a ride, with an obviously highly distractable younger child, said sympathetically, “Waiting is hard, isn’t it?” that she had recognized something familiar. “Especially for this one,” I nodded, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “This one, too,” she said, smiling at the child by her side. And I knew that we were each accompanying a child who had a diagnosis that made them something of a square peg in a world full of round holes. We had adjacent cars for the ride, and both kids grinned ear-to-ear and shrieked with delight as we spun through the air. My legs were a bit wobbly as we dismounted, but we didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye– we were already racing off to the next adventure, and I suspect they were, too.
We both had to make some compromises. I vetoed the cotton candy, and he would have liked to stay longer and go on more rides. For my part, I would have liked to watch some of the animals for longer, and avoid some of the more crowded spots (not to mention the Sky Ride). But all the same, I can’t think of anyone else I would have rather gone with. I was strongly reminded of a blog post in which an autistic mother talks about her surprise when she realizes that not everyone envies her for her autistic children and the fun they have together. I almost felt sorry for the other visitors, who were obviously missing out on the great experience I had.
On our next outing, we’ll be going to the San Diego Zoo. I’m looking forward to it. And I just can’t understand why more people don’t enjoy the company of autistics.