A detour to Holland

Holland

Although I cannot take credit for this myself, it was given to me by my daughter's speech therapist on an especially stressful day. My 4 year old daughter who has been diagnosed with autism, and is nonverbal, had not been making the progress I would liked to have seen. This dear young girl could see the pain and disappointment in my eyes as we discussed this lack of progress.

As we were sitting in her office, Madison proceeded to take her clothes off. This is something we are quite used to, however, this was one of a handful of times that she did this in public. As I gathered her clothes, red faced, my heart started to pound - (autism parents are very familiar with the slowly increasing blood pressure that accompanies most public outings). I tried to dress her, only to have her fight me with all her might, and she has superhuman power, I swear! 

Of course her therapist was trying to reassure me that this was alright, but I knew it wasn't. I knew that this was going to be an ongoing battle for many years to come. I knew that our lives were not going to be what I had hoped for, and that Madison was not going to be starting kindergarten with her peers as every child should. It took all i had not to break down. I gathered my daughter and her clothes and left feeling very deflated. We got to the car and i cried right there at the steering wheel. Madison started to fuss so off we went. Not 3 minutes later she was out of her carseat and nosediving into the front seat grabbing my hands as they were gripping the steering wheel. That did it, I was in full meltdown mode.

We finally made it home and this is what I found waiting for me in my email inbox. It came from that same young therapist that had tried so hard to reassure me that while things were not what I had planned,  it was not the end of the world.

Welcome to Holland
Written by Emily Perl Kingsley

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability – to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this…




When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip – to Italy. You buy a bunch of guidebooks and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum, the Michelangelo David, the gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting. 




After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland." 




"Holland?!" you say. "What do you mean, Holland?" I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy. 




But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay. 




The important thing is that they haven't taken you to some horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place. 




So you must go out and buy a new guidebook. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met. 




It's just a different place. It's slower paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around, and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills, Holland has tulips, Holland even has Rembrandts. 




But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy, and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life you will say, "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned." 




The pain of that will never, ever, go away, because the loss of that dream is a very significant loss. 




But if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things about Holland.