Conversations that Change Us

It was a few years ago. Five years to be exact.

Cooper had just been diagnosed. We now had a reason for the behaviors. A reason why he had no words.

Why he couldn’t sit still. Why he screamed. Why he refused to sleep and eat.

Why Jamie and I were so exhausted. And worried. And scared.

We knew why.

I had recently told you. Over the phone of course.

It was one of our weekly conversations.

We talked about the weather first. Then football. My job. And then Jamie. His job.

And then Cooper.

You asked if he was talking yet. So causally. Like you did every week.

You always said it with so much hope. I could even picture the sparkle in your eye when you said it.

‘Is he talking yet? I just know it’s going to happen. I just know it.’

I said no.

And then I told you.

I told you he was diagnosed with autism. And that it was severe.

I told you that he might never talk. And that no one will really tell us anything about his future.

I know you didn’t understand. You tried. You really, really did.

You asked a few questions. The right ones even.

You told me that you didn’t understand. You didn’t know anyone with autism.

Or anything about it. But you wanted too. You wanted to know more.

You invited us for a visit. Which I had been putting off. Traveling was impossible. But it was time.

Now here we are. Sitting across from each other. In a beached pontoon. Tied to a dock.

You are wearing your life jacket. On a boat. In 3 feet of water.

I find that to be hilarious and tease you in the way that only I can.

It is a beautiful day.

Fall is coming. I can smell it in the air.

Sawyer and his cousins are playing on the beach. Building sandcastles with moats, roads and even dragons.

Not Cooper. Cooper is in the boat with us.

He is running back and forth from the front to the back. And again. And again.

He is trying to find anything and everything he can throw over the edge.

He’s been successful twice already. A flip flop. And a net.

He is flapping his arms. And squealing.

He alternates between happiness, frustration and anxiousness.

At this moment, he is laughing.

He really, really loves the wind. I’ve often thought, by the way he acts, that he can hear things in the wind that we cannot.

He moves his head from side-to-side. Smiling.

He is loud. He can’t seem to stop moving.

He is oblivious to everything you say to him.

You are trying though. Good God are you trying. You are talking to him. Trying to engage with him.

He has no clue.

I am sweating. I haven’t sat down since we got here. He has destroyed your house. Lined up all your chairs. Broke a vase. Melted down over the WIFI.

He didn’t sleep at all last night. Not one second.

This is our last visit for a while. It’s obvious. Jamie and I are struggling to manage this. To be the best parents we can.

Autism hangs in the air between us.

You are seeing it. Finally.

You are seeing Cooper.

I am studying you but avoiding eye contact. You are watching him intently.

I don’t know what to say.

I can tell you all about severe autism but I know that you need to see it for yourself.

You need to see that he is still Cooper. And the cutest little boy in the world. But also that we have an uphill climb ahead of us.

And then I heard it. It was like a gasp. Like the air was leaving your chest.

And you bent over.

For a brief second I thought something was truly wrong. I thought maybe you were having a heart attack.

But you looked up.

Tears streaming down your face.

The pain on your face was real.

‘Dad, what’s wrong?’

‘I’m so scared Katie. Who is going to take care of him? What if he is in pain? What if we don’t know? What if he never talks?’

I didn’t know what to say to you.

Six feet tall. Bigger than life. Quiet. Stoic. Calm. Collected. Never, not ever, showing emotion.

And breaking down right in front of me.

A man of faith. A man who prays for his grandson daily. A man who felt lost.

I watched you collect yourself. And look me in the eye and smile.

‘When we get to heaven he’ll talk to me. I know it.’

I still didn’t know what to say.

‘Ready for dinner?’

And then you were gone. Up to the house.

We never talked about that day. Or that conversation.

I didn’t know how to help you. You were in pain. But so was I.

Sometimes conversations change us and stay with us forever. That was one of them.

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