The Silent Moments And The Loudest Thoughts

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In horror movies, the silence often lets us know something bad is about to happen. We tense our bodies, pull the covers up in preparation, and anticipate the worst.

We do the same in special needs parenting, or in my case, being the mother of a nonverbal autistic son. 

Sometimes I feel like there is so much silence that it could consume me whole.

It’s not just the moments when I look into my beautiful son’s eyes and try with every cell in my body to will him to say something, anything.

It’s also first thing in the morning when I know he’s awake- and he always is…his little sister opens her eyes and starts shouting loud enough for the heavens to hear, but he can be awake at 4 am and just live in that silent space until I come to get him up for the day, not hearing a peep until I am just outside his door. And even then, all I hear are the murmurs of him stimming.

No, the silence also attacks me when I kiss him goodbye at school, and lean in to whisper how much I love him, at the end of the school day when I tell him how proud of him I am, even when I catch him looking at me.

When I sit across from him at the dinner table and just watch him. Usually in these moments I don’t let the thoughts creep in. You know the thoughts, the ones that make you wonder about it ALL.

Will he ever talk, and if so, when? Will he ever be able to tell me his favorite color or animal? I know it can’t be silent in there, he has thoughts, right? Is he afraid? What makes him afraid?

Does he know his sissy adores him? Will he ever meet someone that loves him the way I love his father? Am I rubbing his back the way he likes, or squeezing his ears the right way? If someone causes him physical or emotional pain, how will I know?

I am his mother and I am not 100% sure that I will know if someone hurts him. I was hurt as a child in ways no child should be hurt, but I had the voice to tell someone.

I never have to wonder these things about my daughter, and that stings like a quick touch to a scolding iron.

Having those questions is natural, I understand that. But they aren’t even the worst of the silence. Because on the rare occasion that he is still asleep at 7 am when it’s time to get going, I enter his room and just see a child.

You can’t tell anything about him while he lays there, other than he has God given lashes. And in those moments, the roughly 30 seconds, the entire world stops. I look down at him and want so badly to know what he’s dreaming.

I want him to roll over, flutter those beautiful blue eyes open, realize I’m there and go on to tell me about his adventures with Lightning McQueen. I imagine it all the time.

I let the walls and statistics of autism down and I let myself dream about a future where he can work in a grocery store. Or get a college degree, because before he regressed, he was beyond smart, he would love college.

I know how perfect he is, and I still find my mama heart full of curiosity about now and forever. The worst part is the inescapable, endless, unknown; but isn’t that the part we never get to know?

I look down at him and all I see is peace. He isn’t in pain, scared, or cold. And as soon as he does realize that I’m there beside him, he instinctively wraps his arms around my neck and pulls me in. My baby orangutan.

That’s the best part, his very first instinct is to be close to me, he knows what love is.

The term “Silence is Golden” had to have been said by someone with more than one verbal child. They likely never knew silence again; I can sympathize with that. But my silence, it’s deafening and always there. Like a shadow.

I also wonder sometimes what this silence will be like 5, 10, 15 years from now. Not my son’s silence, not the part of him that is nonverbal. The part that keeps me awake, the part that takes my breath away even now.

Will it grow to be a quiet buzz? Will it change from a stalking shadow to a dark closet, which only remains dark when the light isn’t shining?

I don’t know. I don’t know any of it unfortunately.

All I know undoubtedly is that I have my son. He isn’t the son I thought I would be raising, but he is absolutely the son I needed.

I will let the silence in, I will console its fears, and rejoice in the quiet (not silent) moments, where the opportunities are limitless.

Mostly though, I will look forward to greeting that baby orangutan of mine every morning.

Don’t let the silence consume you. Remind it that it’s a guest in your joy.

Love your child, and if they have silence, love theirs enough for both of you.

Written by, Jessica Dinkins

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Kate Swenson

Kate Swenson lives in Minnesota with her husband Jamie, and four children, Cooper, Sawyer, Harbor and Wynnie. Kate launched Finding Cooper's Voice from her couch while her now 11-year-old son Cooper was being diagnosed with autism. Back then it was a place to write. Today it is a living, thriving community of people who want to not only advocate for autism, but also make the world a better place for individuals with disabilities and their families. Her first book, Forever Boy, will be released, April 5, 2022.

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