Loss

Loss. It's such a small word but has so much meaning and emotion behind it. I'm not even really sure how to describe it. I do know it comes in all shapes and sizes. For example, you can lose a loved one, you can lose your keys, or when you're beloved car just won't start anymore. All different kinds of loss. All with completely different feelings.
Today, we lost our cat. It is quite a different feeling that when I lost my father some 18 years ago. Perhaps it was because I was much younger then. Or maybe because the loss of a human is different than the loss of one's furry friend.
Our crazy, nearly 12 year old cat, who was our beloved first pet. It was to be our first "baby" we adopted as newlyweds who now had cancer. A rapidly developing and aggressive form that completely took over her body in just a few short months. We never had to put a pet down before. It was a first for us. As adults, I don't think it was really any easier to handle. The inevitable is really all the same. She goes to the doctor and never comes back. Her food bowl gets put away. Pictures go up on a shelf.
It's the little things we'll remember now; like how she got her name, Vader. We were supposed to be getting a all black, male cat. Convincing my husband we should get a cat was pretty easy after we agreed he could name him. Imagine our surprise when we arrived to pick him up and HE turned out to be a tan and brown FEMALE cat. But the name stuck. So she became our "Vader."
There was also the time we thought she broke her leg as a kitten and walked around with a hot pink cast on that was bigger than she was. I lost count of how many times she chased our other animals away with a hiss or a growl if they so much as breathed her air. There were the times she would let my husband cradle her in his arms like a baby (only her daddy could do that!). We'll forever remember the way we taught her to say "Mama" when she wanted food. And I will forever tease my husband about how he was the only one who could make her purr so loudly from across a room and without ever touching her. Oh, and the way she would climb into the sink to drink water from the faucet...she was a unique cat, that's for sure!

Towards the end, she was a completely different cat. No spunk left in her to do anything. It was sad and hard to watch. We had a tough decision that had to be made. But it was time to let her go.
The only thing that could made this tough decision even worse was when we had to explain it to our 7 year old daughter and our empathetic 8 year old son who has autism. You think of things like death and as more of a human thing. People die and they go to heaven. Where does kitty go? (I for one am a firm believer that All Cats Go to Heaven, too; even this one.)

"Where is heaven?"

"How do we get there?"

"Can we visit?"

"When will she be back?"

So many unprepared questions. So hard to explain. For my daughter, it was just a matter of "When can we get another cat?" Not that she didn't care about this one, I think it was her way of coping with the loss; replace her and it would take her mind off it. But my son; my sweet, sensitive boy, only wanted his cat. He didn't want her to leave. If she has to go, he wants to go with her. So we talked about death, mourning, and grieving. And it started to sink in. I will never forget how just that afternoon, as he pet her at the doctor's office, he lovingly whispered that he was sorry she was sick and that she would be better soon. And now, he's petting her goodbye and his face just crumples. He runs to my lap and starts crying, telling me that he doesn't want her to die. There he sits for 5 minutes crying his eyes out. And there was nothing I could do.

Death is permanent. For some reason, we find that sad. Shouldn't we rejoice that we can move on from this world to somewhere better? Vader, or beloved cat, is now in heaven. Free of pain; not struggling for breath. She's running around with lost parents, friends, and other beloved animals just like when she was a kitten.

We'll miss you, kitty.

You will be remembered.

But most of all, you will always be loved.

RIP Kitty

Autism is Hard; Love is Easy

This week has been a whirlwind of emotion for my son who has Autism. That in turn, means it's been an equally stressful week for me. I follow the vlog of a fellow autism mom to a severely autistic little boy. In one of her most recent posts, she talks about how autism is forever; that she hates autism and what it is taking from her son and family. We let ourselves forget that sometimes. I know I do.
As special needs parents, we do see progress; some things get better over long periods of time. Sometimes it's little things. Sometimes we even start to forget how hard the struggle was to get where we are now. Sometimes we do forget that autism is hard. While my son's disability is nowhere near the severity of this woman's child, I too, can forget that autism is forever; it is a member of our family in every day of our lives. He has trouble at school, at home, at the grocery store, at the park, and the list goes on and on. Some days are better than others but it is always there. It's in the scuffle at school, the meltdown during a meeting, at the park when people stare, or when kids walk far enough around him so they won't be forced to interact with him.
This week, I have been reflecting on the milestones Ethan has hit in the four years since his diagnosis. He has overcome so much, by leaps and bounds, in such a short span of time. But as he ages, I forget that new problems will arise. Autism never goes away; it just brings new challenges in all shapes and sizes. And it makes me hurt for him. I can't imagine what must go on in his head most days. I honestly don't think I would want to know. How could I? I wouldn't want to know all of the struggles, fears, anxiety, frustrations, and emotions that affect him every second of the day. I wouldn't want to be in his head when he is having trouble finishing a task or answering a simple question. I wouldn't want to be in his head when he's treated badly by people that don't understand or care about him. He's so brave to be able to do all of those things. And he doesn't even know it.
Autism has taken a lot from him: Developmental skills, life skills, abilities, emotional and social skills. He has to learn things and even relearn things that he should have been able to learn with age. He works every day to keep up with his peers, teachers, classroom, and grade level expectations. All while simultaneously repeating words and phrases, stimming so much he can't focus, getting so frustrated he lashes out, dealing with people who don't understand him, getting anxious about what's next in the routine, and not having relationships with other kids his age. But yet, when I hear the "These are the things he needs to work on.." speech, it knocks the wind out of me. I forgot. I forgot that it is my job to help him stay on track; to give him the encouragement he needs to keep working, and the praise he needs to hear when he's doing a great job. Because autism never stops for him. Why should it stop for me?
The same woman posted another blog about being her son's "person." That even with a great relationship between her husband and son; her son always prefers her. She goes on to say that it can be physically and emotionally exhausting a lot of the time. It mostly certainly can be. But that's why God put me here; To be his person. To be his sisters' person, too. I'm their MOM. Who else should do it? I am so blessed and I try really hard not to take my family for granted. So I devote my life to him and his autism. Not because I have to. Because I am his mom. I should want to do that for my son. I'm his person.
My son is so compassionate. He's smart, sensitive, and sweet. He also has a temper on him that could make a grown man cry. But he's such a special person. I can't hate autism because autism makes him who he is; the good and the bad parts. I can get mad at autism, as I have been this past week. But I could never hate it. Without it, he wouldn't be the quirky little man I'm so proud to call my son. He's proud to tell people he has autism. Like when he introduced himself to a new kid in class, all he said was "I'm Ethan and I have autism!" Or when we wrote a note to his two best "bros" asking them for a playdate with my phone number at the bottom.
I wouldn't want to take away his beautiful blue eyes any more than I would want to take away his autism. It is part of who he is on the inside. Yes, autism is forever. And yes, autism is hard. But loving him? Loving him is the easy part.