Two hours this morning, at the center we’re on the waitlist for, another four months maybe before we can get Kid A in. What I noticed, in that room full of people staring awkwardly at their hands or paper cups filled with weak coffee, was that The Mister was the only other partner in the room. It’s terrifying enough to walk down this road, and I can’t imagine having to do it alone.
It was good. I mean, the psychiatrist who presented was engaging. It was not really anything we didn’t already know though I scratched out a few notes about resources or strategies that were approached from a different angle than I’d considered.
At the end of our row, a woman cried through the entire two hours. She was the only one who had questions, really, or was either comfortable or desperate enough to ask them. Fourteen years old, her son, and just diagnosed though the issues were always there. She was a woman at her end, that much was clear. I wanted to hug her, I wanted to hold her hand. I wondered how strongly you had to be in denial to go that long with a kid on the spectrum without searching for answers.
I bumped shoulders with The Mister as we walked out to the truck. “We’re really pretty lucky, huh?”
Yeah, we are.
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