 Point to Happy © 2011 by Miriam Smith, Afton Fraser, and Margo Smithwick |
Miriam Smith is a retired magazine writer and designer, and the grandmother of seven. She is also the co-author, with her daughters, Afton Fraser and Margo Smithwick, of Point to Happy (Workman, 2011), a workbook that helps children on the autism spectrum learn communication skills. Her grandson, Fraser's son, has autism.
It was late February and a radiant light glttered off the snow-covered Connecticut landscape. My grandson Griffin and I were on our favorite nature trail, walking down the cleared paths. Both of us were excited – we were almost skipping. Though able to express himself with only a few words, Griffin was smiling broadly and laughing out loud. It made me joyful to see him like this, so engaged in the shimmering winter day.
Other than two men who passed us on the path, the woods were empty and quiet, making it all the more magical. Each man said a quick "good morning." They wore Wellies. I felt like an amateur in my sneakers.
As we got deeper into the woods, Griffin, an energetic 8-year-old, walked a few steps ahead.
"Stay with Grandma, Griff," I said.
But he walked faster.
I strained to keep up and track him between the shafts of light streaming through the pine trees, but suddenly he was off the path. Griffin pushed through the deep, hard snow and skimmed along the top layer of ice. The woods were littered with big rocks, fallen trees, jutting twigs, and steep embankments.
"Wait for me!"
But he didn't.
Without a Trace
He was fast and agile. I was hesitant and old. I made my way off the path, sliding and slipping, holding onto twigs, falling forward more than walking, my feet punching holes in the frozen floor. There were footprints, but no Griffin. Scanning the horizon, there was no blue jacket. I howled for him. "Griffin, come back! Griffin!" Silence, aching silence.
He was gone.
Praying that my phone would work, I dialed 911. Yes!
"My grandson is lost! I'm in the woods behind the Audubon Society! Help me! Please find him!"
"Does your grandson have a cell phone?"
"He's autistic! He can't speak! No, he doesn't have a cell phone!"
I stood in the snow, sobbing, unable to move.
The two hikers reappeared, returning from their walk. They had heard me yelling. One was actually a high school boy, a neighbor who knew Griffin. The teen talked to the 911 operator, describing where we were. He stayed with me, leading me out of the woods and back up to the path. I couldn't catch my breath, apologizing and cursing the whole way. The other man was the boy's uncle. He took off to look for Griffin.
The 911 operator stayed with me on the line, and within minutes I was told the police had found him and would meet me at the lodge. The boy called his uncle and he met us on the path.
"You won't be mad at him, will you?" the uncle asked.
"How can I be mad? He's in his own world, and the woods were enticing today. He wouldn't understand my anger."
Life as We Know It
We met a policewoman at the lodge and I tried to stay calm while we waited together for another officer to walk Griffin back from the woods. The police had found him playing on a bridge, throwing stones into the water, a favorite pastime. His pants were soaked to the knees. I was numb, but relieved, and eager to be safe at home.
Griffin was calm as drove away from the hiking trail, having enjoyed a lovely morning. Then he started silently crying when he saw that we were going home. He didn't know why we were going back inside, why his day was cut short. I felt weary, wrung out, and embarrassed. I didn't want to tell my daughter or anyone what had happened.
My thoughts drifted back to the day six years ago when I first noticed that something wasn't quite right with my grandson. We were on a family vacation and Griffin was running down the hall of our hotel, me following right behind. He ran a little too far away from me. I called to him, tried to attract his attention. "Look Griffin, look at this toy!"
Nothing.
No reaction. He didn't turn around or stop.
My suspicions were confirmed a few months later, when a doctor gave it a name. I didn't know what autism was, but fear, anger and loss took seats on my shoulders that day.
Staying in the Moment
We pulled into the driveway, home at last. We were both happy to see my daughter, who herself has often felt the panic and confusion of dealing with this baffling disease. It is the caregiver of an autistic child with autism who at times finds herself lost in the woods. Whether it's a hike, a trip to the beach, or a mundane errand, there's always the underlying fear that something bad will happen to your child, who can't understand the world around him.
I picture looking at Griffin's back as he runs through the woods or into the ocean or down an aisle. I picture him lost in his own world. Lost, with us screaming from the path or the shore, trying to get his attention.
Then I imagine him turning around, giving me his big toothy smile, looking me right in the eye, giving me a big hug, and telling me about his life. I picture him watching TV with his brothers and arguing about which show to see, ordering food in a restaurant, starring in the school play, applying to college, leading nature walks, having a girlfriend, and maybe being good enough at Scrabble to beat his grandma.
But then again, what good is it to muse about what might have been? What good is trying to make Griffin over? Thanks to the early diagnosis and intervention, Griffin has come far. He's learning to read and says some words. I could learn a thing or two from my grandson: He stays in the day. He's not lost; he's where he is. He doesn't really run away, he just wanders off, deep in his own adventure. Griffin experiences his life intensely. He lives in the moment, happy.
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