MAGICAL THINKING
The Journey Begins
It is six days after Ron’s death and for the first time, Allen and I are alone in the house. I sit in my rocking chair, sorting through bills I cannot pay, and hear my adult autistic son in his bedroom upstairs, stomping his feet and banging furniture. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, reminding myself how difficult it is for Allen, who sees the world in concrete terms, to accept the finality of his father’s death. He thunders down the steps, shouting,
“They’ve taken it! They’ve taken it! They came and took Dad away and won’t bring him back and now they’ve taken away the measuring tape that Dad gave me! I hate those people from the ambulance! I HATE THEM!” His grief echoes in the hallway, wrapping him in sorrow. He collapses in a heap at the bottom of the steps, and his sobs pierce me.
My own grief is raw and open. How can I hope to help my son come to accept Ron’s sudden death when I am still trying to pick up the pieces of my own shattered heart?
In 2020, the Center for Disease Control conducted the first-ever study to ascertain how many American adults exist on the autism spectrum. Their estimates were 2.2%, which means 5.4 million adults over the age of 18 have some form of Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). But it’s really more of a “guess” than an “estimate”, since there are currently no validated tests designed to measure the presence of autism in adults (CDC, 2020). We know that children with autism become adults with autism, yet only 10% of resources for ASD go to help adults (Advancing Futures for Adults with Autism, 2017).
There is even less understanding of how a neuro-diverse brain processes grief. Allen’s early insistence that “dad’s not dead” continued to occupy his mind and meltdowns were almost daily. I searched to find literature to help me understand Allen’s reactions and offer him some comfort. Karla Fisher’s excellent insights into her own grief process as an autistic adult helped me make sense of the meltdowns and sensory processing failures Allen was experiencing (Thirty Days of Autism). An article in Psychology Today stated that “the death of a parent in the home–where safety and security are assumed–can easily throw someone on the spectrum into a meltdown” (Soraya, 2014). Ron had died at home, sitting in his easy chair, a baseball game on the television.
Frantic to help my son, I used my journal to scribble down and attempt to sort out Allen’s unique ideas:
The trees say Dad is alive
The squirrels can carry a message to Dad
Dad needs really fast skates so he can escape death
Dad needs a new body because his old one is worn out
We need to do something that will bring Dad back again.
Eventually, my research led me back to St James, Handelman, and Taylor’s (2011) statement that “magical thinking” was often a useful tool in helping someone cope with stressful circumstances. What could be more stressful, I asked myself, than having your father die while you were home alone with him?
Allen had been at his father’s funeral. He had seen Ron’s body in the coffin and was present when it was lowered into the grave at Lawncroft. None of those facts mattered to Allen’s belief that with the proper combination of words and actions, his father could return.
“Are you okay?” Allen asked me at least ten times a day after Ron died. I nodded my head, aware that my son needed this affirmation for his own peace of mind. “Dad can come back,” Allen told me. “I know he can. I just need some time to figure it all out.”
A few days later: “We need to find a really tall tree,” Allen told me. “I’m going to send a message up the tree to the squirrels and they’ll find Dad.”
At that moment, while my son looked at me with hope in his eyes, his atypical thought patterns struggling to comprehend his loss, I made a decision: I would “disregard no idea that helps” (Indiana University, 2014) and “find a way to share the sorrow” (Mental Health America, 2017).
I would join Allen on his magical journey to find his father.
“I know,” I told him, “where there’s a really tall tree.”
So poignant, Linda.