In the Same Boat

A few weeks ago I was in the United States, the place where the CDC (Centers for Disease Control) says that autism affects 1 in 100 children. But whenever I looked around to search for others like Anton, I was left with a feeling of sadness. It seemed like there are no other kids like him in public.

Why did I need to see other families struggling with autism? Because, selfishly, it would make me feel better. I would know that I wasn't alone. I could compare my child with theirs and feel better that Anton is doing better. It was mean, yes, but I also needed that to strengthen my hope in recovery.

Then, one day it happened. I was sitting in Chuck E. Cheese's (an arcade-style play center) and saw a family walk in at around 8pm. Their 12-year old (or so) son had that classic autism gait- shoulders hunched, walking on demi-tiptoe. His face showed signs of mental retardation and he seemed to be mumbling as he walked. He was also carrying a rubber fish toy. It seemed like a classic case of autism.

Then I looked at his parents; so young yet so tired-looking. The mother had dark circles under her eyes and the father had that kind, patient look about him. They guided the boy to what seemed like his favorite game. It was a football game where you become like a quarterback and aim the football through the holes on the backdrop.

I watched the family play. The child did not hold the football at all. He seemed to derive immense joy from watching his father play. It seemed as if they intentionally came to the place late on a weekend night (when it was less crowded and busy) to play this football game.

Watching the boy made me very sad. It was then that I wished I did not see another child with autism. When I saw this family, I began to feel the parents' pain. I also hurt inside. I thought, "never mind, I will just believe the statistics."

Then I watched him again, this time with his father. His dad was playing an arcade game while he watched. Then he tried to block his dad from the screen so that the man lost his game. The man tickled the boy and they both laughed. Like my family, theirs was not all sadness and stress. There are happy moments, too; those that take the burden out of the daily grind; those that make things "worth it."

A few days later, I was out again at a huge public aquarium. In the children's play area, I saw another boy who struck me as "different." It was past noon but he was still in his pajamas; and he was clutching a worn-out stuffed bear. His mother looked tired, as well. This pair, however, didn't seem to be taking things as lightly as the other day's family. Mom seemed to have walls around the boy, protecting him fiercely and making sure that he was given a turn in one play area.

I looked at her and smiled. She looked at me blankly and then looked away. I realized I was not going to be friends with this mom. She seemed so drawn into the disorder to care about others, or herself. I hoped, then, that I did not seem the same way to others.

Yesterday, I proved I was not. Back in the Philippines, I went to Legaspi market, doing my usual vegetable juice shopping when I saw a familiar face, Amy. She was an acquaintance, and only recently did I find out that her own 6-year old daughter had autism. She looked back at me so I approached her. Without words, we hugged. Just like that.

I like being in Manila while this is all happening to our family. I have met many other moms who so easily share their stories and ask for advice. Amy was right. When two moms find out that both their kids have autism it is automatic- they are suddenly sisters. While standing in the market amidst the natural yogurt and siopao, Amy shared a condensed version of her life. But it was enough, her kindness (and her husband's kindness) was enough to make me believe that she is no longer just Amy, my sister's friend.

And, unlike the antagonism that I felt in the US, I looked at Amy's daughter, Patty, and did not want to compare. I wanted Patty and Anton to get better, no matter whose autism is "milder." Patty kissed me when her mom prodded her, the same way Anton kisses strangers. And, unlike that selfish feeling I had in the US, it seemed like Amy and I had become family. Our shared experiences and challenges (and maybe the openness and willingness to admit that autism is difficult) made us comrades against one enemy.

Forget statistics, forget comparisons, forget autism in America. My autism is real, Amy's autism is real. Because of my new "sister" and other sisters I have met and will still meet, I once again learn something new about autism. In mothers' efforts to help their children become better, we become better people as well. We learn to reach out, we are eager to help. We look beyond what we can take and instead try our best to give.

Autism has not dried up our hearts. Because we keep giving- to our children and to others, we keep growing.

(Thanks, Amy. I know you're reading this.)