Sometimes it IS about a sandwich
A Story of Autism, Grief, and Giving Things Another Chance
“Many things can lead to an autism meltdown. Often, it’s not just one trigger. It’s a quiet buildup over time, like a snowball rolling downhill.”
—Alicia Trautwein, Autism Parenting
The Burger Was Green
“This isn’t what I ordered,” Allen said quietly. He’d removed the top of his burger bun and now peered suspiciously at the green sauce that covered the patty.
“I asked for a pizza burger,” he emphasized. “Not a green burger.”
His hands began to tap against the table. His knees bobbed up and down.
Uh oh.
We were on the verge of a meltdown.
I took a deep breath
.
What a Meltdown Really Is
Let’s pause for a moment here.
Meltdowns in people with autism are not tantrums.
Tantrums are goal-driven. They stop when a need is met or ignored. They’re deliberate.
Meltdowns, however, are involuntary. They happen when someone is overwhelmed by stress, by noise, by emotion. Or sometimes, all three.
As Emma Dalmayne says in It’s an Autism Thing,
“It’s seldom just about a sandwich.”
Except when the sandwich is, as my grandmother would say, “the straw that breaks the camel’s back.”
The Weight of What Came Before
Allen had been through a rough few weeks.
My father—his beloved PopPop—had passed away three weeks ago. Allen had bravely joined his brothers and cousins as a pallbearer.
Then came Father’s Day with no dad or granddad to celebrate.
And just ahead was the anniversary of Allen’s own father’s passing.
Still, I had been trying to maintain some kind of normal. Allen does well when things are kept in balance and life is predictable. Or as predictable as possible.
Like any Saturday since our washer gave out a year ago, we’d shoved a week’s worth of laundry into two machines at the laundromat and then walked across the street to Allen’s favorite diner.
Creamed beef on toast for me.
Pizza burger and fries for Allen.
(Yeah, I know that’s not traditional breakfast food. I’m not out to win awards for nutrition.)
The Tipping Point
Back to the burger issue.
“Alright,” I said in my calmest voice. “We’ll get the waitress to fix it.”
Allen’s fists clenched. He was trying so hard.
“I don’t think it can be fixed,” he muttered. “Everything is just all wrong.”
Quietly, he rose from the booth and walked out the door.
I waited a beat, then motioned to our waitress.
“I’m sorry, but my son is having some problems right now. This isn’t what he ordered. I’ll be back to pay, but I need to check on him first.”
“Oh,” she said. “I can make it again!”
“I think we’re past that. I’ll be back.”
Out on the Bench
Allen was sitting calmly on a bench near my car. Tears streamed down his face, but his hands were open, resting in his lap.
I sat beside him. He leaned his head against my shoulder.
“That wasn’t what I ordered,” he said sadly.
“I know.” I patted his hand. “It’s tough when we don’t get what we wanted.”
We sat there in the July sunshine for a while. I thought about all the things I hadn’t wanted.
To be a widow.
To lose my father.
To parent an autistic adult son—though Allen was, undeniably, a blessing.
A New Try
Allen lifted his head. “I can’t go back in there now.”
“I know.”
“Next week, though. I think I can do it next week. If they get my order right.”
I nodded, relieved and grateful.
“I’ll go in and pay. Then we’ll grab the laundry and go home.”
“Okay,” he said with a sniff. “I miss PopPop. I miss Dad.”
“Me, too. But we’re okay, you and me. We’ll never forget them. Ever.”
I handed him the car keys to unlock the door, and went back inside to pay.
A Little Bit of Grace
The waitress stopped me at the cash register.
“It’s taken care of,” she said. “See you next week?” Her voice was hopeful.
“Yes,” I said. “We’ll be back.”
Allen is learning something I’ve been learning, too:
Sometimes we don’t get what we ordered.
But sometimes… we come back anyway.
We try again.
We give things—and each other—another chance.
What have you had to give another chance?
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And a “like” or a comment would really make my day!