Excerpt for Your Zen Mama from Finding Kind by Kari A. Baker
“When an earthquake occurs, the tectonic plates shift far beneath the surface, and they never go back to where they started.”
After realizing that all signs pointed to Brady having autism, my world started to shake again, but this time, the quake was in my soul. I was shell-shocked. I was unsure of my footing, not trusting the very ground I was standing on.
I think my mom, using her ESP superpower, must have sensed I was in danger because she called me just minutes after I took the fateful quiz. It may surprise you to know I live three blocks away from my parents. Before you judge me for making my poor husband live so close to his in-laws, I’ll have you know it was his idea. When we found the house, I was pregnant with Brady, and John very rightly assumed that having grandparents/babysitters so close to us would be helpful. That was the understatement of the century.
When my mom heard my voice, she could tell something was wrong, and I think it was about 90 seconds from the time I choked out my suspicions until my Dad was at my door.
We didn’t make it out of the entryway before I collapsed in his arms, crying from the deepest place in my gut. He continued to hold me up and squeeze me tightly, but this time, not even the safety of my Dad’s embrace could make things stable again. All I could think about was Curtis, the boy in the trampoline park. Would Brady end up like him? Then, other doubts started flowing in like a waterfall. Could he go to school? Would he be able to have a job? Move out? Get married?
In a matter of minutes all the dreams I had for Brady’s future became as unstable as the ground in an earthquake. This was so much more than a failed plan. It felt like God picked up the box of my life and shook it so hard I couldn’t recognize it anymore.
I don’t know how long Dad and I stood there, but eventually, I pulled away and tried to wipe away the tears that hadn’t already soaked Dad’s shirt. We said our goodbyes, but not without Dad promising he and my mom would help however they could. I knew he meant it.
Alone once again, I realized I only had a little time before I had to pick Brady up at school. I had to resume normal mommy duties for the next seven hours until he went to bed and I could talk to John about my discoveries.
John. When I kissed him goodbye this morning, we were just parents with nagging worries. Over the next few hours, the earth made a tectonic shift under my feet, but John was still on a firm foundation. I wasn’t sure how John would take it. I thought there was a chance he would reject the idea that Brady had autism, say I was reading too much into it, say we just needed to give him time to grow out of it, or any other number of excuses to deny the truth of which I had become so certain.
It was one of those “we need to talk” moments everyone dreads in life. After Brady went to sleep, I settled into the couch, and John reclined in his chair and listened quietly as I recounted the events of the day. As I explained the questionnaire, the discussion with his teacher, and the small amount of research I had time to find before picking Brady up, I was like a lawyer delivering closing arguments. It all culminated in my conclusion: Brady has autism. John looked at me and didn’t object, and he didn’t fight. He just took it all in and responded, “OK. So what do we do now?”
***
John and I committed to each other we would do whatever it took to help Brady have the best chance at a fulfilling and productive life. Brady was priority one, and speed was of the essence. He would be four in a few months, and some studies we read concluded that after he turned five the efficacy of treatment would fall dramatically. The pressure was immense, and we encountered numerous wait lists when we tried to schedule appointments for intervention. When we finally got the formal medical diagnosis a couple of months later, we had already piecemealed a combination of various therapies.
We focused all our energy on trying to find the right blend that would have the most positive impact on his future. But autism is so different for each child that there was no formula I could follow. I didn’t have a roadmap that showed how to get from where we were to where we wanted to be. We were throwing lots of spaghetti at the wall, hoping some strands would stick.
The internet websites for parents of newly diagnosed children recommended speech, occupational, and physical therapy, as well as twenty to forty hours per week of Applied Behavioral Analysis, or ABA therapy. Brady’s preschool gave us access to a speech therapist right away, and the OT who helped us when he was a baby, for the torticollis, squeezed us into weekly sessions. It felt good that we were doing something, but it didn’t feel like nearly enough. And the clock was ticking.
Filling out intake forms became a full-time job. Each agency had thick stacks of documents that needed to be printed and completed by hand with the same information over and over again. Details about my pregnancy and Brady’s birth, dates of Brady’s firsts—rolling over, walking, talking, and sentences. Surveys about his behaviors, interests, sensory needs, and social interaction. Each one highlighted some seemingly innocuous trait that is apparently a giant red flag for autism.
John is a spreadsheet ninja, so he started keeping data of all the therapies Brady completed in a week. After we hit the thousand-hour mark, we stopped keeping track. Thankfully, most of the therapy sessions were play-based, and Brady enjoyed the focused attention from adults, especially the little rewards he could earn, like stickers, candy, and small plastic toys that slowly started to overtake our home. He never asked me why he had to go to so many appointments. He didn’t know any better. But I did.
I saw my friends with kids Brady’s age who were living Facebook-fabulous lives filled with activities and milestones I was missing. I knew I should be grateful for all the things my son could do, but I think deep down, I believed if we worked hard enough, we could put this whole autism thing behind us before he went to kindergarten. The further we got from the diagnosis, the further the imaginary finish line slipped away until it completely disappeared. I wanted a finish line. I needed a finish line.
I put on a good show for outsiders, but I became disengaged and irritable with those closest to me. I felt like a hamster in a wheel, running constantly in circles with no final destination in sight. My world got rocked with an online quiz, and my perfect plan tumbled into the abyss.
When an earthquake occurs, the tectonic plates shit far beneath the surface, and they never go back to where they started. They settle into their new location until the next shit comes. The same thing happens when your life gets shaken. You never land in the same place either. You can spend a lot of time and energy trying to get back to where you were, but the pieces won’t fit. The plans you made before aren’t possible or won’t make sense from your new position.
Most of the challenges we face don’t have clear-cut solutions, like a victory, a cure, or a reversal of fortune that can bring you back to the starting line. When the shaking stops, our plate will be on new ground. We need to find something so strong and steady that no matter what happens to the ground beneath us, we have something to hold onto. Without it, we will be stuck riding the shockwaves.
I was tired of riding the waves. I needed to find some solid rock, but I wasn’t sure where to look.
Kari A. Baker is the founder of KIND Families, a community of people who love Kids with Invisible Neurological Differences. She is also the host of The KIND Families Podcast and author of ‘Finding KIND: Discovering Hope and Purpose While Loving Kids with Invisible Neurological Differences’.
Kari became a KIND mom in 2014 when her son Brady was diagnosed with autism at age three.
To learn more, visit https://kariabaker.com/ or connect with Kari on Instagram, Facebook, and LinkedIn.
You can purchase Finding KIND here: https://findingkind.myshopify.com/