Living in Fear, the Sequel

I wrote a blog the other day about living in fear. Here's is a perfect example of what I was talking about:

Bambam had practice tonight for Special Olympics golf. He LOVES golf. He would spend all day hitting golf balls, to the point of blisters on his hands. But I'm getting off topic.

Tonight as he was practicing on the driving range, he was hitting his driver. (quite well I might add) and in one swing, the head of his club flew off and landed about 100 feet out into the driving range. He glanced at me for maybe a nono-second before bolting out onto the driving range yelling "I need dat, I need dat! Dat mine!". And my heart about stopped.

Lined up across the driving range were about 20 other special olympians, all adults, hitting balls with various clubs right in the direction of my son. The coaches all started yelling "Stop! No one hit any balls! Stop hitting balls!" as I was sprinting towards Bambam. By the time I got to him, he had the club head firmly in his grib and was looking at me wondering why everyone was freaking out. That kid is fast.

As I dragged him off the range I tried to explain that he couldn't run out there, it was dangerous, he could get hit by golf balls and get hurt. But I'm not sure he understood. He did finally repeat "doan go out dere?" No son, don't go out there.

And people wonder why I have grey hair. I think I need a drink.

Living in Fear

The story of Mikaela Lynch grips my heart. It squeezes it until I feel like I can't breath. This is the story of my nightmares. Like so many parents of children with autism, I fear not being able to protect my child at all times.

Although Bambam is verbal, can tell you his name, Mr. Fixit's name, my name, the street he lives on (although not the house number for fear he'll share it with every stranger he meets), he still has no clear recognition of danger. He does not understand natural consequences. He is impulsive, bolts sometimes for no apparent reason. And like many, many autistic kids, he loves water. The combination of these things gives me nightmares. Literally. Many nights I've woken up in a cold sweat, and I tip toe into Bambam's room to touch his sweet face to reassure myself that he is fine. I stand there and listen to his even breathing.

It is an almost oppressive responsibility to keep someone safe that doesn't understand cause and effect, that is extremely impulsive. Who will bolt across a parking lot without looking. Who will jump into a pool without knowing how deep it is (and he can't yet swim, after 2 years of swimming lessons). Who will talk to any stranger in the store. When he looks over the railing of a bridge or a deck, someone always holds the back of him. He leans so far over... I cannot even finish the sentence.

It is frightening. It is overwhelming. I try not to think about it. And then I read a story like Mikaela's. And my heart breaks for her family. And I pray for their strength and peace. I pray that others will offer them support and understanding. I pray for all the other parents of autistic kids who's nightmares have been rekindled just like mine.