You called me from your army base to tell me that your
friend was fighting for his life after being stabbed multiple times outside of
the Tel Aviv train station – five minutes from your father's office. You
delivered this troubling news in the way you would tell me that it might rain
today, in the same monotone that you used for everything.
My heart went into overdrive, praying for this boy I didn't
know, trying not to imagine his family's own terror as they kept vigil by his
bed.
I sat glued to local Israeli new sites as reports came in
describing the attack. Your friend tried valiantly to keep his weapon from
being taken by the terrorist. I pictured him walking to catch a train, the same
regulation duffle bag you carry slung over his shoulder. Was it filled with
homemade cookies his mother sent? Had she sent him off with a prayer like I
would do as you waved goodbye on those early mornings when you would head back
to your own base in the Negev?
A few hours later, the terrible news came. Your friend would
be laid to rest at Mt. Herzl. We spoke about attending the funeral, consumed
with the pragmatic side of things, like how you would get there. You didn't
know if you should go, since he had been in the unit which you had left.
You chalked it up to another failure in your life, unaware
that what brought you to that point was a natural ‘side effect’ of the
Asperger’s.
Your friend’s death was a reminder of your dream, which had
also suffered a death of sorts. You had always wanted to be in a combat unit,
gun slung over your shoulder. You managed to get through the demands of basic
training, only to realize that your fear far outweighed your desire to fight.
Your commanders extolled your virtues, telling us that you were one of the best
and most hardworking soldiers in your unit. This didn’t stop you from
requesting a transfer, something you regretted as soon as it was done. You
chalked it up to another failure in your life, unaware that what brought you to
that point was a natural ‘side effect’ of the Asperger’s. Your pain at walking
away from something you wanted so badly mingled with the pain of losing your
friend.
“He slept on the cot next to me,” you intoned, giving me a
glimpse of a relationship that was as close as was possible for you. You had
gone through the rigors of basic training together, something that turns
strangers into life- long friends. You would bump into him at times as each of
you made your way to your respective bases.
In the end, you ended up hitching a ride from your base and
stoically stood as you paid your last respects. After coming home and asking
how you were, all I got was, “I don't want to talk about it.”
But I needed to talk, I needed to help you during this
traumatic time. Instead, I was shut out of your world and you went to your room
to lose yourself in some technological pursuit to ignore the pain. I sighed and
cried. I cried for your friend, and I cried for you, my son, who seemed to feel
nothing – even now…
It wasn't until you finished the army that we continued to
pursue what we had been searching for since you began elementary school: some
type of diagnosis that would bring us a measure of clarity. We had done so many
evaluations, and had met with an equal number of dead ends full of dashed hopes
and misdiagnosis. At the suggestion of your therapist, we made one last attempt
to try to get to the bottom of your depressive symptoms, your withdrawn mood –
your fear of life. When it came, the diagnosis was like a life preserver thrown
in the stormy seas that we had been navigating ever since you were a child:
Asperger's…
I used to think that people with Asperger's had no feelings
and were devoid of emotion. I subsequently learned that the opposite is true.
If anything, people with Asperger's feel too much. That is why you shut down
the way you do. That is why even when your friend died you seemed more closed
than usual. You couldn't handle the internal tsunami that threatened to swallow
you in its wake.
I have begun to see your life through the prism of
Asperger's and my frustration is slowly transforming into understanding. Your
life long fussiness with food that even the army could not cure; all those
times I thought you were lacking empathy when really the opposite was true;
your lack of friends and self- worth – all of it – all of it is just the soot
that is hiding the diamond that is you beneath the surface…
In the last few months we've begun to take baby steps.
First, acceptance, followed by our incredible regret that we did not know about
this sooner. Yet we believe that God has His ways, and for some reason this was
the precise time that He wanted to reveal this information to us. Maybe you
needed to be older to take ownership of your Asperger's instead of having us do
the work for you. I really don't know. We must now focus on solutions instead
of wallowing in the past. God has sent us messengers in different forms, giving
us a compass for us to travel in the right direction.
There are times that I worry about the future, wondering if
we will be able to overpower the fear of the unknown. There is much I don't
know that I am hoping we will conquer, with God's help, with time and the right
guidance. What I do know is that you have so much potential waiting to be
revealed, and I hold on to the hope that one day you will see it too. And that
your father and I love to the very depths of our being.
http://www.aish.com/sp/so/My-Son-with-Aspergers.html?s=mm
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