The Impossible Dream

I know the post I want to write.  I’ve mentally written it a hundred times over.  I start by calling out all of our original challenges, reminding you and me of all the pain and all the suffering that Coleman has endured.  And then I highlight how hard Coleman has worked, how hard we all have worked, never giving up on a recovery.  And finally, spectacularly, I exclaim our joyous triumph, our victory over the beast known as autism!  “Coleman is recovered!” I would pull together an impressive list of achievements, a dazzling record of how we tried and tried and finally succeeded.  You’d be all “OMG” and “That’s amazing” and I’d be all “I Know! I just knew it would happen.”  It would be an outstanding post, and the news so miraculous it would be shared over and over.  And I’d probably end up on The Ellen Show, which would be the second best part of Coleman recovering. 

But much to my great dismay, I’ll never go on Ellen and Coleman is never going to recover. 

I hurts to write that out.  The reality of the words is like a punch in the stomach.

“I just really want any improvement” is what I’ve always said, but truth be told, I really believed it could be more.  I wanted it to be more.  Recovery felt possible.  It had happened for others, why not Coleman?   And each year as I sit to write this blog, I look back and see what we have done and where we are.  I try to think what are we missing?  What can we do?  I make lists of things to try, doctors to call, articles to read.  But I am forced again to re-set my timeline, giving Coleman and me more time.  And I am forced again to measure how far we are from that distant, unattainable goal.  And it crushes me every time.  Coleman is never going to recover.  

  

In my sorrow I become a person I dislike.  I am irrationally jealous and angry at families who have children that are higher functioning than Coleman.  I forget momentarily that there are kids far worse off than him.  I am bitter at kids playing baseball in the field as we make our way to the park for Coleman to play alone.  I feel resentment as I approach the bus stop each morning near our house, seeing the kids piling on and laughing.  I glance at Coleman in the rear-view mirror to see him staring at the kids from his window as we begin our daily hour and a half ride to school.  Hatred boils up in me unexpectedly at places like Kidzone as we make our way past a birthday party full of happy children to a bouncy house where Coleman will jump alone.  I even lose the ability to enjoy watching my own daughters at their sporting events, so overcome am I by the swarm of kids running around the bleachers, laughing with each other, joking and running, and I look to Coleman and see him talking to himself, quietly repeating the words the boys are saying.

Ugh, being in that place of sorrow is not good for the soul, I tell you.  I cannot continue to focus on what Coleman is not.  So, this year, instead of focusing on and believing in recovery, I am going to just simply hope things get better.  And it will not be just lip service.  I promise to keep my expectations in line.  I will strive to be happy with each day, and remember that if Coleman is happy, I should be happy.  Of course, I’ll still work to improve things – if I can make something easier or better for Coleman, I will do it.  I will never give up on my boy.  But I will try hard to give us both a break from the Impossible Dream.  It won’t be easy, though, because that also means I have to find another way to get on The Ellen Show.  Anyone got any contacts?