The Conversations Missed

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my son talking. Or not talking.

I want you to know that on the surface I’m okay with having a nonverbal son. And by okay I mean I can picture a future where my adult son does not speak to me. I don’t cry about it anymore. I haven’t for years.

It wasn’t fair to him or me. I had to move on.

I rarely dwell. I am even excited about his Speech Device and am hopeful that one day he will use it to have a conversation with me.

I shifted our reality. I call this realistic hope.

Realistically, my nonverbal, autistic seven year old might never speak a word to me. But hopefully, someday he will.

Truth time.

No matter how okay I am with my son being nonverbal, below the surface lives some sadness. And worry. I can’t shake it. I’ve accepted that it lives inside of me.

I have a lot of jealousy and maybe even some anger. It’s been hitting me hard lately.

Maybe it’s the holidays. Maybe it’s my other son turning into a little person. Maybe it’s Cooper growing up.

I want him to talk. It’s that simple. I feel like screaming it up to God sometimes. PLEASE JUST LET HIM TALK. I want it so badly.

There are certain times that are harder than others.

I’ve always found the car rides home from daycare to be sad. So much silence when the car should be filled with a little voice going on and on about trains and slides. And question after question.

I have memories of picking my toddler up from daycare when he was just a little guy. I’d walk up and hear kiddos babbling nonstop to their parents about their day. They’d be showing art projects and talking a mile a minute.

I can still vividly see Cooper sitting by himself in a corner or wandering around. I knew something was wrong. So did everyone else. But my love for him shielded all of that worry and doubt.

I’d scoop him up, put him in the car and drive home. I’d stare at him. I’d study him. I wanted to know about his day. I wanted to hear what he did. I wanted to know everything.

But there were no words. I’d ask questions and make silly sounds in hopes of earning a sweet giggle.

There would be nothing. We’d ride in silence until I turned the radio on.

But it was easier then.

It was easier because I knew he was going to start talking eventually. He was just a late talker. And a boy.

It was just going to take a little longer to get those words out and then he’d probably never stop talking. We’d look back on the countless hours we spent in Speech Therapy and smile at the struggle.

I waited patiently and excitedly for my son to talk. I waited for years.

Today, he is seven. He’s not so little anymore And yet, so much is different and so much is exactly the same.

I still pick him up from his day at therapy and peer at him in the rear view mirror. I still wonder about his day. I still ask questions. We still ride in silence.

And I still hope and pray that one day he will talk to me.

Looking back over the years, some days I was patient waiting for his words. I’d smile at him and trust the therapy. I knew it was going to work and I thought if I just worked a little harder the words would eventually come.

Some days, during those drives I’d talk to him the whole way. I’d fill up every second with questions and prompting.

I’d say ma, ma, ma, ma, so many times I’d exhaust myself. I’d tell him about my day. I’d tell him about our evening. I kept talking because I believed that if I just kept talking he’d eventually talk back.

Some days tears would stream down my face while I drove. I never let him see though. I became an expert at crying silently. And I’d always have my face dry when I pulled in the driveway.

Some days I wasn’t so patient with him or myself or even my feelings. I’d pick him up from daycare and feel like the silence was eating me up.

I’d look in the rear view mirror and study his beautiful, angelic face. I’d look for any sign that he had something to say. I’d look for any acknowledgement of my words.

Some days I’d see a flicker in his eye. Some days I wouldn’t.

Some days I’d will him to speak. I’d ask him if he wanted to talk.

On particularly low days I’d ask God to make him talk. Some days I’d even bargain with God. I’d offer up different things if he’d just let him talk.

Birthdays came and birthdays went.

Suddenly, I wasn’t looking at the same little boy in the rear view mirror anymore. He was growing up.

And in the blink of an eye my other son was filling up every moment with countless, nonstop words and questions.

Our car was never was quiet. We’d talk about Power Rangers and Santa. My heart would melt at his curiosity. We’d play ‘Eye Spy With My Little Eye’ and sing songs. We’d talk about fishing and babies.

There were times when I’d study Cooper’s face while his brother jabbered away.

I’d once again look for glimpses of hope. I’d wonder if he was listening. I’d hope that he was. I’d imagine what it would be like to have both my boys speak to me. Or to each other.

Sometimes I’d let myself imagine that Cooper was just waiting his turn to jump in and tell us about his trains.

Some days I let myself think about all that I’ve missed with Cooper.

Years of questions and silly conversations.

I think of the moments we’ve missed lying in bed together talking about nothing.

I think about all the millions of stories that he should’ve told me by now.

I think about all the things I don’t know about him. I wonder how my own son can be a mystery to me.

Some days I let myself believe that Cooper is going to eventually speak. When he’s ready. I’ll even let myself picture it.

I’m going to have the kid that starts talking at eight or ten. I’ll be the one on Facebook telling other moms how my son won’t stop talking. I’ll be the one telling them to never give up.

Some nights I dream of my son’s sweet voice. I’ve heard it in my dreams a few times. One time he spoke so vividly to me while I slept that I sobbed when I woke up. I wanted to go back. It was so real and so natural.

Some days I let myself sink into the depression of my son not talking. And if it’s a particularly hard day, I’ll let myself wonder if I’ll hear his voice before I die. On those days the silence is deafening. It eats me up.

On those days we listen to music. We listen to music in the car and at home. We have the television on and movies playing. I’ll tickle Cooper as much as I can on those days because I need to know that he can make sound. I need to hear his beautiful laugh. I let his smile eat up my grief.

Some days I dwell on what we’ve missed. Some days I don’t. Some days I’m angry. Sad. Frustrated. Heart broken.

Some days I wonder if the silence makes Cooper as lonely as it makes me.

Some days I wonder how we got here. Age seven. No words.

I watched my four-year-old sing in his Christmas pageant tonight. That’s probably why I am struggling right now. I watched him stand, smile, sing, and participate. And my heart burst with joy. And deep inside, my heart cried for my nonverbal little boy and all the countless conversations we’ve missed. It’s not fair.

People say I’m not supposed to be sad. I have a healthy son. He is alive.

I know that.

They say I should be thankful and happy. And I am. That’s the part that no one tells you. You can be sad and happy at the same time. You can thank God every day for a healthy son and still be heartbroken over autism. It’s not an ‘either’ ‘or’ situation. It’s an ‘and.

I love my son more than I can put into words AND I am heartbroken that I’ve never laid in bed with him and had a conversation.

Some days I know I will never get over it.

Some days I wonder if the people who scold parents like me have kids that are disabled. I wonder if they’ve ever felt the dull pain of never hearing their child’s voice.

I have to believe they don’t live in my world. Because if they did, they’d never shame parents like me.

Parents who love their children more than life. Parents who silently cry as they drive their children home from therapy. Parents who would give anything to just hear their child’s voice.

Finding Cooper’s Voice is a safe, humorous, caring and honest place where you can celebrate the unique challenges of parenting a special needs child. Because you’re never alone in the struggles you face. And once you find your people, your allies, your village….all the challenges and struggles will seem just a little bit easier. Welcome to our journey. You can also follow us on Facebook and subscribe to our newsletter.