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Weekend in Detroit
I had some misgiving about taking my 10-year-old autistic son to a funeral. Would he understand? Was I inflicting needless anxiety? Or would he rise to the occasion and make me proud, like he's done so many times before?
It was too late for reservations when I arrived at the funeral home Friday evening for visitation. The casket with my Aunt Maggie was open, but at the far end of a room, with rows of folding chairs between. Chris didn't notice the casket, and was trying to make sense of where his dad had dragged him. At one point he pointed at a woman sitting on a couch nearby, and said "Is that Aunt Maggie?"
No, I said, Aunt Maggie is over there, and I pointed to the other end of the room. The casket was bathed in soft light, with Aunt Maggie's white face just protruding over the top edge of the casket, her folded hands a counterpoint. Chris turned and looked, and I'm not sure what I saw on his face. Maybe a little mischief, maybe some mystery. I didn't see fear, or anxiety though. It took him a minute to decide his next move, when he asked me if he could see Aunt Maggie up close.
I took my time, and first introduced him around to some cousins. We walked to a room in the basement of the funeral home, where my cousin Ann from New York was camped out with her five year old. Ann's husband, Steve, teaches young adult autistics, ages 13 to 22 he told me. We chatted a bit about Chris, and Steve's work. Then we all
headed upstairs to see Aunt Maggie.
I told Chris it was important to be respectful, and to stay by my side. I told him how much Aunt Maggie meant to me, and how sad I was that she was gone. I tried not to use the words dead, or death. Maggie was gone, I said.
Chris had questions. Is she OK? Where is she now? Is she in heaven? I told Chris that the last time I saw my Aunt Maggie, I held her hand, and then I hugged her. I remember holding her close, and how our cheeks touched and I knew that would be the last time I would see her alive. As I told the story, I reached out and held Aunt Maggie's folded hands, and brushed her cheek. Chris asked if he could touch Aunt Maggie too. I said that would be fine. He reached for her hands, but then pulled back, like she was a hot stove. I told Chris not to do that, that it was disrespectful. He made a few more attempts, coming closer each time. I looked around, hoping no one was noticing. We were alone. Finally, he reached out and made contact. "Wow, she's so soft," he said. "She was much warmer when she was alive," I said.
I pulled Chris away from the casket, and we joined the small knot of relatives at the other end of the room. I tried to keep Chris under control, but he kept pulling away. When I next looked for him, he was back at the casket, holding Aunt Maggie's hand, and touching her hair. "This is fast turning into necromancy," I told my sister, and I pulled Chris back to the life force that animated the opposite side of the room. That happened several more times - Chris leaving my side, me pulling him away from the casket. I thought I had grown use to his unusual stims over the years: traffic signs, corporate logos, street lights. But now this?
The funeral was Saturday morning, and Chris was on his best behavior. The minister's eulogy was moving, and I learned a great deal about my Aunt Maggie. She contracted polio at age 18, the first summer out of high school. She had been at summer camp, Camp Westminster. During the bus ride home, she developed flu like symptoms. By the time the bus arrived in Detroit, she had to be carried off the bus. Life is full of those defining moments, the minister said. Maggie walked on to a bus, and had to be carried off. A bud opens, and becomes a flower. Life goes on.
I felt like Chris had his own defining moment this weekend, fortunately not as tragic as Aunt Maggie's bus ride, but a memorable one none the less. It will be interesting to see what he has to say about his brush with mortality in the next few weeks.
10.4.06 17:41
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KE / Website (18.5.06 03:16) I'm sorry I missed this before. |