On a Monday just past four in the afternoon, Mother, dressed in her secondhand dress and faux-leather heels, drove a little faster than normal—which was still relatively slow. I was seated in the front seat of Ben’s battered sedan. Every few minutes a piercing pain drove up my left side causing me to let out a muffled moan, which gave Mother a reason to pat her hand on my shoulder and offer out a sympathetic smile.
This was an unusual ride, given the fact I was headed for the hospital, and Mother’s live in lover, Ben, who was habitually attached to the front seat, was dutifully sulking in the back. I was so accustomed to seeing Ben’s broad back hunched over in the front that upon spotting him there, behind me, sprawled out in excess of half the seat with his socked feet propped up on Mother’s weather-beaten briefcase, I swore to myself I was dreaming. But if I was dreaming I thought, then surely when I had shut my eyes and then peered out again, Ben would have vanished…
This story can be found in the book Everyday Aspergers
If I was to turn back the pages of my life, to the first calm months at my stepfather’s house, my days would appear wonderfully simple and sweet, and in truth they were. It was a time when a gentle thread of calm and security weaved through my days. A brief moment I fondly remember and continually reflect back upon, perhaps in an attempt to regain some semblance of normalcy or to remind myself there was some good.
There weren’t any worries about money. My stepfather Drake was an attorney and helped the city officials acquire land for approved projects, which sometimes meant property owners had to give up their homes. It was rumored much later, when I was an adult, that Drake’s firm was actually responsible for my great-grandmother having to abandon her house in Monterey, California for demolition, to make way for a multi-level parking garage for tourists…
The rest of this story is in the book Everyday Aspergers
I returned to the lab this morning to get my blood work done. Yesterday, I was turned away, because I’d not realized I needed to fast. Yesterday the lab’s waiting room had been crowded.
Today when I entered the room, there was no person in the waiting area but me.
Shortly after I sat down, a young lady escorted an elderly Chinese woman inside. I immediately noticed the elderly woman’s eyes. They were shut closed. The young woman led the blind woman to a chair, before she quickly exited to park the car.
For the time, it was only me and the blind woman. The woman was seated across from me about six-feet away. As I smiled out at her, I realized she did not know I was in the room.
I hesitated to speak. But I was compelled to make my presence known. Leaning forward in my chair, I offered the woman a gentle good morning. Then I wondered what had caused her blindness. Wondered why she had to have blood work done. And wondered, too, why her lids were so tightly sealed together.
There was only seconds between the time I said good morning and the time the woman took to respond. Upon hearing my words, she searched for me, her head slightly turning my direction. Again, I wondered.
“Good morning,” the old woman answered, with an inflection and spirit liken to a young person. And then, without pause, she continued. “I so, so, scared,” she said in broken English. “I so, so, scared,” she said again.
She placed her aged hand over her chest and flapped her hand repeatedly. “I no like when they put the point in me,” she confessed. She attempted a smile. Without the use of her eyes for expression, the rest of her—arms, mouth, head, wrinkles, shoulders—they all played their part.
She curled into herself and then used her hand to demonstrate a beating heart again. “I been here many times. No make difference. I still get so scared. I can’t help. I don’t like be here. So, so scared.”
I tried my best to offer her some comfort through my words. I don’t think she understood anything I said. But she smiled just the same. To be heard—she only needed to be heard.
Soon the young escort returned, and I was called in for my blood draw.
This blind woman was a wonderful gift.
In the few moments this woman had shared her truth, I had stood beside her in spirit. And as I stood by, I had recognized my own self in her. With my recognition, my own fears were temporarily lessened. In viewing our likeness, my own misgivings were decreased.
In being there, hearing her voice, and recognizing our shared humanity, I understood this:
In an often obscured world we are each, in our own way, waiting for our voice to be heard.
“I pray for a time when we each shine in our own uniqueness and authenticity. When the idleness of conforming has transformed into an active celebration of the masses’ manifestation of love, acceptance, and peace. “ ~ Sam Craft
The Land of Grand:
There once was a kingdom in a make-believe land, so beautiful and lovely it was named: The Land of Grand. Until one day, when the King fell ill, from a terrible fall on a terrible spill. From that day forward, he rest in bed, with a gigantic lump upon his head. And as much as they tried, the people of the court, all of their remedies and cures fell short.
Thus the poor king remained dormant and sad, in his chamber all day, while the kingdom grew mad. The fields started to whither, the people the same, as they stuck to their homes, and played no more games. The laughter it ceased, the echoes grew dim, where once there was joy, a gloom had moved in.
This is to be turned into a children’s story: 2021 update
Everyday Asperger's 