I Wanted to Hug You
I wanted to hug you tonight.
I saw you walk in the door and I tried my best to smile. But I just couldn’t bring myself to reach for you. I can’t explain why.
After all, we embraced this morning. It was light, and easy. It suggested a good day ahead.
The problem is, a lot happened since 7:00 am.
Adolescent arguments, remote learning at the kitchen table, long phone calls about an overdue prescription.
Then there were the snacks.
Crumbs on the counter, cups in the sink.
I wanted to hug you.
I wanted to feel your arms around me, and nestle my head into the space I have nestled for nearly twenty-five years.
But I didn’t.
I guess you could say life interfered, and the tedium chipped away at any goodwill I might have held close.
It’s not your fault.
It just is.
I thought about you at work, laughing with patients and solving problems and doing important things.
I know it’s not that simple.
It’s hard to feel as though my work is important.
It is the work of details, and sameness.
Laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, folder-sorting, space-making.
I know. It’s not that simple.
Every now and again, when I’m folding hooded sweatshirts and extra-long pants, I remember their sweet toddler faces. I think of their chubby cheeks, and wide smiles, and I am overcome with sadness.
I wanted to hug you when you walked in the door.
But autism got in the way.
Jack had a half day at school. He wanted to go out for lunch. He chose a small restaurant in town, the one that serves his favorite chicken tenders.
On the way there he fiddled with the radio, and I snapped at him.
Jack! Please, just find a song.
As soon as we got out of the car, I reminded him to stay with me in the parking lot.
We walked inside and I held his elbow so he wouldn’t move past the hostess stand to sit at the counter.
We always sit at the counter.
The server came to take our drink order, and I tried to catch her eye. I wanted to send an invisible signal to let her know why he was looking down, and hesitating before he spoke.
I’ve been doing these things for so long, I don’t even notice anymore.
Wait. Yes I do.
Yes, I do.
I notice.
I notice all the time.
And I hate it.
I hate that he checks with me before he orders another soda with his lunch.
But he would easily drink four at a time and I’m pretty sure all the sugar and caffeine interacts somehow with his medication because he doesn’t seem to sleep as well.
Our son takes medication.
I can hardly believe it myself.
I hate the look of recognition people get in their eyes when they realize—a ha!—he has special needs.
They usually can’t quite place it at first.
Why does he fidget like that?
Why does he take so long to order?
Why does he pause, and look down, and twitch his fingers?
Our son has special needs.
I can hardly believe it myself.
Our grief is separate, like bright buckets of paint we carry.
Mine overflows with scarlet red and searing yellow. It is messy, and loud. It fills the room.
Your grief, well, it’s contained. You hold it close. It is dark, and cloudy, like so many shades of grey and black.
We both hope for him, it’s true.
My hope feels like a bag of rocks strapped to my back. I shift it from my hip to my shoulders, always uncomfortable beneath the weight.
Your hope is more like a bolt of lightning. It keeps you moving. It propels you forward.
When it misses the mark, the burn is bright, and hot.
Desperately, we are trying to piece together what it takes to raise this boy into a man.
My work is day-to-day. I remind him to say please in the restaurant and to use his napkin. I make sure his medicine is refilled and watch carefully for any interactions. I make sure he has the right wipes to keep his glasses clean.
You tackle the bigger things—religion, budgeting money, how to hang lights on the Christmas tree.
I wanted to hug you tonight.
But so much happened since this morning.
I made a three-pound meatloaf for dinner. I don’t even like meatloaf.
I noticed a long scratch on my desk that wasn’t from me.
I drove to the pharmacy and showed my license so I could pick up his vial of small, white pills.
These tiny slights build up and they start to ring inside my mind, like loose change inside a ceramic bowl.
I am never alone.
And yet, I am lonely.
Now, more than ever, I need you to be my witness.
Yes, I yelled about the crumbs on the counter. But I also held them tight when they had nightmares. I bought the apples they liked.
I tried. Please, tell them how much I tried.
Remind me of the days when I thought I had nothing more to give—when I was completely tapped out and I had no energy and could not soothe another angry teenager or sign another form—remind me that I dug as deep as I could for them.
I am digging as deep as I can.
I take nothing for granted.
Building a family is important work.
It is fast, and fiery, and special, and ordinary.
I ache for what was.
I’m often dissatisfied with what is.
And I am scared of what may become.
I wanted to hug you tonight.
Together, we root for him. We stand side-by-side and with all of our might, we root for this boy.
Maybe that’s enough.
It has to be enough.
You taught him how to pray.
I love you, fiercely and forever.
Jodi
February 15, 2021 @ 9:36 am
Too burnt out to cry. But yes, teary with recognition. Thank you. Wishing you — wishing all of us — continued strength.
Bobbi
February 15, 2021 @ 10:24 am
Yes, all of this. Thank you Carrie for your beautiful and relatable words. It has already been a morning and my head pounds with all of the reminders that this insidious beast of Autism has changed me, changed us and is so relentless. I find reprieve when I read your words and I feel less lonely. Thank you.
Bobbi
SCOTT WILCOX
February 15, 2021 @ 1:40 pm
Me too, most of her almost 36 years alone. It should get easier. But when does it? The worries should go away. Did I do it right? What if I had ………? Trust in the Almighty that He has led us all through this so that each of our children can become the best they were meant to be! Scott
Betsy Lussier
February 15, 2021 @ 6:07 pm
So much of this hit home. My God, you have such a gift of putting difficult feelings into words. Always poignant. Beautiful
Kathy Janessa
February 16, 2021 @ 9:36 am
It is like your are my daughter the way tell your family story. My daughter and her family live your same life. I am always amazed at her (and your) resilience. I wish I didn’t live 300 miles from them and could give a hand more often. She and I read your message every week. Some tears, some smiles. You are a gifted writer for sure. Thank you.
Lynne Kinghorn
February 16, 2021 @ 11:51 am
Yes, every comment is true: you are splendid, and a great mom and gifted writer, and my heart goes out to you. But I am 70 years old, and a retired psychologist, and I want, no, NEED to tell you something: That hug you couldn’t find for your husband may have been your one chance to receive what you needed this day, from the one person who (I trust) will give it to you. If I were in your shoes, I’d want to bash my husband’s brains out because I’m so frustrated and worn out and he’s the only person in the family who isn’t one of your beloved babies. He can take it, right? But he sounds like a regular,. normal husband (with all that means!)
But I hope you will recover your hugging ability. Not for your husband, but for you. YOU need it.
SCOTT WILCOX
February 17, 2021 @ 10:45 am
Wow, let’s not bash the men here, please. As a general rule most of us do not spend as much time with the children as our wives, but the hair on the back of my neck stands up when I am scorned. I happened to get a different slant on this particular blog from Carrie anyway, in that I was thinking she wanted and needed a hug from Jack, which don’t come as frequently as she would like. My feeling is that she has a pretty supportive hubby because I’ve been following every week for many years, they communicate well, even without words, but if she wanted a hug and asked for one would have had a long caring one to soothe her day. In my case, the wife/birth-mother abandoned us when our disabled (only) child was 7, now 36, because she had her own psychological problems that I discovered from our girl’s neuro-psychiatrist after she left, and she never even came back to visit her. I found out later it wasn’t autism anyway, but a syndrome from an undetectable faulty gene from the mother, with many similar external characteristics.Turns out God had His hand in all of it as the wife was creating problems with services, and I was able to find external aids along the way, plus public schools (which were mostly baby-sitting) and although single parenting is difficult in itself, with a severely disabled child the obstacles go up exponentially. Mentally she tests at 24-30 months and is totally non-verbal, and unable to use computers or any communication forms, but adapted to her group home life within a week when I could no longer take care of her due to my aging body. Covid has kept me away from her for almost a year. Thank you Governor Newsom.