We are caught in a slow-down on the freeway. There’s a bottleneck up ahead.
My son is in the passenger seat, his lunchbox at his feet. We are heading home from his day program through the heat of the late afternoon.
I’m feeling the pressure of cars on all sides of us and watching for an uptick of anxiety from the boy on my right, due to this blip in our expected routine. This is a scenario ripe for agitation, for both of us.
Our lane has got to be the slowest. We are an island with everyone else skirting around us, getting ahead while we never seem to move.
I smile when I recognize the metaphor.
Oh, this is the special needs life – sitting side by side with the person you’re caring for, moving at a different pace, bracing yourself for the inevitable bumps in the road, trying to fit in … if others will let you.
Instead of this idea sending me into road rage, I am surprised to hear my thoughts – for the briefest of moments – go in a different direction:
I can be OK with this.
Inside our car, in our bubble, we’re fine.
He and I are sitting together. His hands are spinning beads. My hands are at 10 and 2 (because that’s what my co-pilot prefers).
We have air conditioning to stave off the heat. We have snacks to curb any pre-dinner munchies. And we have music playing on the radio.
Right now, it’s like this. And, we’re OK.
I guess this is what those mindfulness meditation teachers have been talking about – the benefits of living in the present moment, no matter what that moment looks like.
Even when we’re stuck in traffic.
Yes, it can suck to be in the lane that doesn’t seem to be moving.
But I could really make this traffic jam worse – by worrying over what we’re missing out on in this delay or blaming myself for not taking a different route or thinking about how much I just spent on gas or becoming convinced that, this is it, we are going to be stuck here forever.
The simple reality of right now – stripped of all the stress about getting to some future place where things might be different – is usually easier to handle.
This doesn’t mean denying the suckiness of the current situation, it just means not compounding it with over-thinking and over-worrying.
This, too, shall pass, and all that.
The traffic squeezes us. My son changes the channel on the radio to a better song. My grip on the steering wheel loosens a bit.
Wow. If I can find a hint of serenity in the middle of rush hour on the 101 North, anything is possible.
In moments like this, I catch a glimmer of a new kind of hope – it’s not entirely clear to me yet, it’s still a wavery mirage over the distant pavement.
It’s different from the fear-fueled hope of my son’s early days, when I thought maybe we could still maneuver around this autism thing and race onto some clearer path.
This is a more grounded hope. Not that everything is going to be OK, but that we will be OK.
Even if we never get out of this lane.
This is the road we’re on.
It’s always stop-and-go, it can be sketchy, with crappy signage and endless detours.
Sometimes an opening appears, and our pace increases…until, inevitably, we slow to a crawl again.
But we will be OK. With time and practice, and a caravan of supports, we can build our capacity to navigate around the potholes that are surely on the horizon.
Right now, we are at least inching forward in the right direction.
And, hey, there’s a good song playing on the radio.
Robin, I've been in this scene! Or something close. Your reaction is beautiful.
I hear you. I see you. So much resonance as a caregiver.