My adult daughter was diagnosed with autism. It changed everything.
Nothing could prepare me for the unplanned beauty and fear of having an adult child diagnosed with autism.
My daughter, Isabel, and I are out with friends. She is 17 and, unknown to us, a pandemic is barreling toward us from across the ocean. We’re having fun. She’s been accepted to several colleges and I’m looking forward to having an empty nest because society has taught me that’s the true measure of successful parenting.
Isabel and I are best friends. Gilmore Girls with double the age difference. People find that either endearing or weird. We don’t care.
A friend shares some exciting news. Isabel says she is excited for them but her facial expressions don’t match the words she is saying. No one notices except me. I’ve learned to pick up the small nuances.
On the drive home that night she’s exhausted beyond measure. I’m happy and jittery because I had so much fun. I could have stayed hours longer. She says she feels like she just ran a marathon. She puts on her headphones, leans back in her seat and closes her eyes.
“Rest,” I say, knowing this calms her. “When we get home you can go into your room and curl up, alone.”
I quietly, once again, worry about her stamina. Something is wrong, I’m just not sure…
