Good-bye: A milestone for Henry

In the middle of an insurance debacle over Henry's therapy, while speaking to his occupational therapist about the issue, we got some amazing news.

"I'm actually thinking we need to form a discharge plan for Henry."

Record screech. What's that again?

A hundred thoughts ran through my brain. First, "Yes, I agree." I've realized recently that he's achieved the goals we set for this particular time in his life - kindergarten. I've seen him in the classroom, noticed his writing, drawing and cutting are age appropriate. I've watched him improve his fine motor skills, his flexibility in routine, his acceptance of other's ideas. I've watched him self-regulate and cope with sensory problems. I've seen him initiate play, have grand conversations, and make true friends. The only outlier in behavior that I see is his hardcore problem with sharing trains.

Second, "This must be a dream." The little boy I imagined would always be in occupational therapy? The one who would only write an H over and over? Who tore paper or threw pencils when asked to write? Whose body simply had to crash into the pillows or ball pit over and over again to feel in sync? The one who could not - could not - tolerate a change in expectations? The tiny little fellow who threw trains with great force when he could not make himself understood with words? No, certainly that boy couldn't be done, even temporarily, with OT.

Third, "But that boy is gone." That boy grew up and learned and practiced and worked so freakin' hard. That boy endured people who thought they understood but probably never will, because - really - how could we? That boy became this one.

Henry at 6 is a Henry I couldn't have conceived in my head back then. 3.5 years ago our world was so different. Beautiful, yes, but very different.

Of course, Henry was as affectionate and funny and precious then as he is now. His laugh was infectious and eccentricities charming. His affinity for books and trains was clear.  In all those ways, he is the same and even more so. More hilarious. More of a reader. More of a train fanatic. More intelligent. But he's also wonderful at communicating, skilled at self-reflection, and observant in ways we couldn't know back then (because he couldn't describe his observations).

I couldn't have conceived it, yet God always could. My mind races at the possibilities of age 9, age 12, age 15. A few people have told us we're "doing such a great job with him," but Keith and I take little to no credit for these accomplishments. We pay the bills and drive him to therapy, sure, but he does the hard work day in and day out of adapting to a decidedly not autistic world. And his therapists are the experts who teach us how to help him do that.

I've decided "thank you" is the most inadequate English phrase ever. Trying to express our gratitude to Henry's team at Emerge has been like trying to count grains of sand. Impossible. I hope somehow, some way, they know what they mean to us. Good-bye for now, Emerge friends.