Somebody Else’s d-day

In the autism world we called it D-Day, meaning our Diagnosis Day.

We will never forget our D Day.  The day we got the diagnosis and word that would change our life forever.  The day that would break our lives into two chapters.  Before autism and after autism.

A good friend of mine from the church I served at had a son with developmental disabilities.  Honestly, she saw the signs in her son before I recognized the flags in our world.  She had been collected articles and research for years and really had done all the world on her own that she could do.  She now was experiencing challenges in her community school as teachers and staff weren’t always filled with the grace and patience they should be with a kid with autism.  They needed a diagnosis to give them the support and help they needed.

We sat in the now familiar office of the pediatric neurologist and waited for her son’s appointment.  She showed me her thick binder full of articles and information on autism.  She had collected it all carefully as she had no one advocating for her, no one else looking out for her son.  All this was on her, and she had a completely different experience than I had faced up till then.  We made small talk as her son methodically lined up and stacked blocks, one of the possible signs of an autistic.  Even though she knew the likely diagnosis that will come at the end of the appointment, anxiety and fear is palpable.

The doctors were so kind.  Other families walked in and out.  There were toys all over the floor.  Magazines to read. Resources to pick up.  But my mind was spinning.  I kept thinking that how could others possibly act like everything is okay when this families’ world is literally falling apart?  Life goes on unscathed but our hearts were in two pieces.

I couldn’t help but feel a little PSTD being in that office once again and so vividly remembering when it was my D-Day.  Just months previously I was the one punched in the gut by that one word, now I sat next to a dear friend who was about to hear the same thing.

But in that moment I realized two things.

One.  This place was sacred.  Being a special needs momma was now something that was inextricably linked to my identity and soul.  I was a part of a new sisterhood.  I was a special needs mom.  I knew the pain, I knew the lows, I knew the fear and I knew the questions.  BUT, I also knew the hope, I knew the possibilities, I knew the potential and I knew the sacred privilege it was to be a special needs momma.  I realized that I was a part of the most special group in the world, and I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

I secondly realized in that moment that after the diagnosis came hope.  After the diagnosis came strategy, after the diagnosis came possibility, after the diagnosis came new life.  We were beginning to find so much hope with our therapists and special needs community.  We were celebrating daily something special happening and it was miraculous and beautiful.

As I sat with that mother I realized SHE in time would recognize those two things.  The fierce motherhood of special needs and the beautiful hope of special needs strategy.  And I knew we would walk the road together.

The appointment finished and the mother and son came of out the room, her eyes puffy from the inevitable tears.  It was her diagnosis day and now the real work would begin.  I would be there to support her, but no one could ever TRULY support what had to happen in your own heart and home.  I knew that more than anyone.  It was the loneliest and cruelest road I had ever walked.  But I knew this family could do it.  They would do it.  They had no other choice, and neither did we.

See more in my new book Anguish to Awakening!