47. Sweet Talk
A satisfactory exchanging of words
Click here for the “read aloud” version:
My son came into my office early one morning and stood behind me at my desk, spinning his beads over my head. I swiveled around in my desk chair, placed my hand on his belly and scanned his face for his mood. He seemed content. His bed-head indicated a solid sleep.
“Good morning, buddy,” I said. “How are you?” Not expecting a response, I was in mid-swivel back to my computer to close out what I was doing when he volleyed a casual, “I’m good.”
I laughed in shock, hit with this splash of normalcy that means nothing to most people – a mundane piece of social nicety we typically gloss over.
I know that he’s most likely tossing out a learned script someone’s been practicing with him, and in the grand scheme of how he’s going to get along in life, a rote response may not seem to matter.
But this rare reciprocal gesture brightened my morning, at least.
I’m good, too, buddy. I’m great now, in fact.
My son is almost 25 years old. I’ve never had a conversation with him, not really. I can’t say that he’s non-verbal, because he does speak a few words and short phrases (repeatedly). But we don’t have discussions.
I can ask him what he wants to eat, and he’ll answer (usually with the help of a written choice board). He can’t tell me directly if he likes it, if it’s too spicy, if it’s burned his tongue.
I can ask him how his day was, but he can’t respond, except sometimes with the help a photo or a text cue.
I know his comfort foods, his comfort shirts, his comfort routines. But I don’t know his thoughts behind them.
Sometimes a point of discussion is too far removed from what is happening at this moment. In this way, my son is the epitome of mindfulness: he is paying attention to the here and now. He has difficulty expressing what happened earlier or speculating about the future.
He doesn’t ask why (or why not) so we try to give him the because anyway.
He doesn’t ask me anything about myself or our life or our plans, beyond what’s for dinner or where’s dad.
Even with visual supports, repetition, patience and a lot of belief, our conversations are usually short, one-way streets.
A number of years ago, outside a store as I was loading purchases into the back of my car, I heard a little voice behind me say something in earnest. I glanced up to see a mother with a young child by the hand walking past. I couldn’t hear what the child said, she was maybe four years old, but the mom responded to her, “Really? Why?”
The girl gave her answer in her sweet, tiny voice as they continued on their way and I stood there astonished like I’d just seen an alien spacecraft fly by the Safeway parking lot. That just doesn’t happen here, to me. Not when he was that little, and not now.
When my boy as a toddler was being assessed for speech delays, well-intentioned therapists reminded me to talk to my child, implying that perhaps his difficulty speaking was due to my inability to engage him or model language.
I think it’s hard for anyone, even doctors and therapists, to understand what it’s like, day after day, to have one-sided conversations with a person you love in the deepest way.
In reality, I talk to him too much, feeling the need to “use my words” to connect with him, to explain and reassure. This is ironic, considering that this is the one person who would be most OK to sit together in silence.
I’ve gotten used to talking to myself. Despite knowing that my son needs more processing time to answer a question, I often speed ahead without waiting long enough for his response, assuming it’s probably not coming.
When he does respond, I’m reminded to slow down, give him time. Pay attention.
The other day, I learned from my son’s day program staff that they took the local express bus on an outing to Target, so I asked him about it on our drive home. It started out as one of our typical “conversations”:
Me: I heard you went to Target today.
Him: …
Me: Did you have fun at Target?
Him: Target.
Me: I bet it was fun. I heard you rode the bus!
Him: Bus.
Me: I’m glad you got to ride the bus, very cool. Did you buy something at Target?
Him: …
Me: Did you buy a treat at Target today? What did you get?
Him: …
As I was reminding myself to check for a receipt in his wallet or a photo on his phone, moving on in my head to other things, I heard his low whisper.
Him: Snickers.
My excited response may have been over-dramatic for the content of that exchange.
But, man, that really satisfies.
Thanks, as always, for reading or listening!
I love your writing so much!! And I love even more the reminders from your son and how you gently pass them along to us. Stop rushing to question two, question one’s answers are still formulating — I’ll keep saying this to myself 🤍
Love this! I was going to say 'a happy ending' but actually it's a 'happy middle of the story'!