A mother is struggling to accept that her son, who has autism, won't be able to go to college like the other kids he graduated with.
Courtesy of Jenny Bordelove
If ever there was a time for me to stay off social media, it's now. Over the last several months, posts about college acceptances, prom, and year-end celebrations have left me feeling heartbroken — followed by guilt for being upset.
But the truth is, I'm crushed that Evan, my high school senior, didn't participate in most senior-year rites of passage. My son — who was diagnosed with autism as a kid — didn't go away for spring break. He didn't attend prom, and college is definitely not in his future.
While he did participate in his school's graduation ceremony, he received a "certificate of participation." This designation is granted to students with an Individualized Education Plan (IEP) who do not meet the state's graduation requirements, setting him up for a different adulthood than his classmates.
I am continuously asking myself: "What are you lamenting about? Many kids don't go to prom or college, and not everyone graduates with honors or accolades. These so-called markers are not the gold standards of success."
I remind myself that it is a big deal that Evan, who was diagnosed with autism at the age of two, accomplished a lot during his school years. I try to focus on my gratitude and pride that despite his challenges, he's leaving school with basic reading and math skills and has learned many life and social skills along the way.
Still, I can't and won't deny my sadness, but it does feel a little selfish to mourn things that don't bother my son. He's happy to be done with high school. He had no interest in going to prom or traveling to Mexico for spring break. Yet he wanted to attend graduation, and for that, I am thankful.
My conflicting emotions resurfaced for the thousandth time when he walked across the stage. On the one hand, I was happy because I knew he was excited to be done with high school. But, as I looked around the audience, I knew other parents had a different mindset. They weren't, for example, considering an exit strategy for their graduate if the ceremony became too much for their child to handle.
A local paper publishes a Cap & Gown issue, and parents send photos of their graduates, a list of achievements, and college plans. I submitted my son's picture and mentioned his participation in Special Olympics basketball and his plans to attend our school district's adult transition program. I wanted to recognize him and show others that not every graduate has to look good on paper.
Flipping through this section wasn't easy because it reminded me of the hopes and dreams I've had for my child since before he was born. Many aspects of his senior year have been as emotionally challenging as when he was first diagnosed with autism, and my husband and I learned our roles as parents would be different than what we imagined.
When his peers filled out college applications, I worked on gathering the required documentation so that when he turned 18, he could apply for Supplemental Security Income (SSI). Because my son's disability limits him in many ways, as an adult, he is eligible for benefits.
In the days leading up to graduation, I filled out more paperwork, ironed his graduation gown, and tried my best to stay off social media. I failed at the last one and suffered the consequences.
One Facebook post hit me hard. It was from the mom of my son's first friends. The boys spent a good amount of time together but drifted apart as their cognitive differences became more apparent. The offending post showed two photos of her son — one from elementary school and the other from high school. In both pictures, he is standing next to the same friend. The caption reads, "These two…friends through it all! Everybody needs a friend like Jonny."
I couldn't help but think, if my son were a neurotypical kid, would her post instead conclude, "Everybody needs a friend like Evan?"
Still, I strive to look at the positives and not focus on the negatives, and it occurs to me that everyone could benefit from a friend like Evan. Evan is fun, funny, non-judgmental, and so much more.
As I try to unpack my mixed bag of emotions surrounding my son's completion of high school and his nontraditional path moving forward, I'm working toward embracing the idea that it's OK to experience the joys and the pains of parenting a child with autism, especially when the traditional milestones end up being unconventional.
