Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. An American holiday if ever there was one. The day we count our blessings and give thanks for all we have. We all have our family traditions for this day, for better or worse. If we're lucky, we get to gather together with people we love and care about and share a meal and fellowship, have some laughs, make some memories, eat a little too much, and be thankful that we are where we are.
For the 8th consecutive year now, I will be sitting in the front row of the Thankful Section. This will be my 8th year post breast cancer, and believe me, I do not take these milestones lightly. It was perhaps the darkest time of my life, with the darkest thoughts and fears. And I'm still standing! You read about people who have survived cancer saying that it really changes your outlook on life, and by God, it does! Every day is a gift. I enjoy the simplest things - and I worry less about the stupid stuff that used to get me down.
I appreciate my family more -- even though they can still drive me crazy. I love spending time with my two dogs -- (we totally understand each other). I love always having a book in my hand, and regularly get lost for hours in a good one. My close circle of friends are the fuzzy, warm blanket in my crazy life. These are the things that I am really, truly, forever thankful for. Each day I get to spend with these wonderful gifts is truly a blessing. I hold them close to my heart and smile.
Happy Thanksgiving to one and all.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Friends of a Feather
When your child gets a diagnosis of autism, words just can't describe that kick-in-the-gut feeling that overtakes you. The denial, disbelief, terror and despair that take over your life. Nothing is the same. Your life as you knew it (and hoped that it would be) is forever changed.
And then, finally (and hopefully), you find yourself walking amidst the wreckage of your old life, picking up the pieces, looking for whatever good you can to help rebuild your family and its future. And the life preserver that I found was a wonderful early intervention nursery, and the people who worked there, and the mothers who came there -- like me -- looking for a way to reach our children.
We call ourselves the "Einstein Moms" -- and we and our kids attended the Albert Einstein Therapeutic Nursery, a part of the Albert Einstein Medical Center in the Bronx. You did not send your child off by himself to this program, he AND you were required to attend. Believe me, I know I was lucky to be able to do this -- working moms (or dads) could not. And this required attendance in the classroom was what helped me to understand my son's disability, and how to help him (and myself) navigate the world of autism.
Besides the wonderful connection to Albert Einstein (my autism idol), the program stressed a language-based therapy. Activities were geared towards communicating through words, sign language, signboards -- anything that made the child an active participant in the communication process. For three hours each day we sang songs, played games, made art projects, had free play and snack time -- all within a framework of getting our kids involved in the world through words and actions. We learned how to interact with our kids to keep them focused and engaged. How to structure things so that meltdowns were less frequent, and when they did occur, we learned effective strategies for dealing with the situation. We were all students. We were all learning.
I remember my first day at the nursery. My son, 3 at the time, did not take kindly to following a schedule. In the short span of an hour and a half, he had a series of outbursts which led to full-out, out-of-control meltdowns. Each time, one of the teachers would accompany us to the kitchen, where we worked to calm him, and helped him get himself under control. It was horrible. It was awful. I was shell-shocked and embarrassed and drained. After the worst was over, we rejoined the class at the table for snack. I remember so clearly, sitting down on one of those teeny tiny chairs, soaked through with sweat from wrestling with my kid, not wanting to look at anyone else in the group, feeling so sorry for myself and wanting to call it quits. Then, a hand reached over and patted me reassuringly on the knee. A mom, a fellow autism traveler, with the kindest face I've ever seen, smiled gently at me. She knew. Her smile and kind gesture meant the world to me. We were all in the same boat here. And there is great strength in numbers.
And we all became friends. 18 years after graduating from the nursery, there is a core group of 5 of us that are still close. We're spread out over New York, New Jersey and Connecticut, but we manage to get together for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner at least 5 or 6 times a year. We email each other all the time, and follow each other and our kids on Facebook. We have get-togethers at each other's houses, and celebrate birthdays and other important occasions. We have seen each other at our absolute worst. We have shared with each other our happiest times. I honestly don't think I would have gotten through my darkest days without these women by my side.
Thank you, dear ladies, wonderful friends, for your love and support and friendship all these years.
In fond memory of Dr. Doris Allen, Director of the Albert Einstein Therapeutic Nursery, the smartest, bravest, most dedicated and straightforward person ever. Thank you, Dr. Allen, for all your help. Your memory lives on in the lives of all those families whom you've touched.
And then, finally (and hopefully), you find yourself walking amidst the wreckage of your old life, picking up the pieces, looking for whatever good you can to help rebuild your family and its future. And the life preserver that I found was a wonderful early intervention nursery, and the people who worked there, and the mothers who came there -- like me -- looking for a way to reach our children.
We call ourselves the "Einstein Moms" -- and we and our kids attended the Albert Einstein Therapeutic Nursery, a part of the Albert Einstein Medical Center in the Bronx. You did not send your child off by himself to this program, he AND you were required to attend. Believe me, I know I was lucky to be able to do this -- working moms (or dads) could not. And this required attendance in the classroom was what helped me to understand my son's disability, and how to help him (and myself) navigate the world of autism.
Besides the wonderful connection to Albert Einstein (my autism idol), the program stressed a language-based therapy. Activities were geared towards communicating through words, sign language, signboards -- anything that made the child an active participant in the communication process. For three hours each day we sang songs, played games, made art projects, had free play and snack time -- all within a framework of getting our kids involved in the world through words and actions. We learned how to interact with our kids to keep them focused and engaged. How to structure things so that meltdowns were less frequent, and when they did occur, we learned effective strategies for dealing with the situation. We were all students. We were all learning.
I remember my first day at the nursery. My son, 3 at the time, did not take kindly to following a schedule. In the short span of an hour and a half, he had a series of outbursts which led to full-out, out-of-control meltdowns. Each time, one of the teachers would accompany us to the kitchen, where we worked to calm him, and helped him get himself under control. It was horrible. It was awful. I was shell-shocked and embarrassed and drained. After the worst was over, we rejoined the class at the table for snack. I remember so clearly, sitting down on one of those teeny tiny chairs, soaked through with sweat from wrestling with my kid, not wanting to look at anyone else in the group, feeling so sorry for myself and wanting to call it quits. Then, a hand reached over and patted me reassuringly on the knee. A mom, a fellow autism traveler, with the kindest face I've ever seen, smiled gently at me. She knew. Her smile and kind gesture meant the world to me. We were all in the same boat here. And there is great strength in numbers.
And we all became friends. 18 years after graduating from the nursery, there is a core group of 5 of us that are still close. We're spread out over New York, New Jersey and Connecticut, but we manage to get together for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner at least 5 or 6 times a year. We email each other all the time, and follow each other and our kids on Facebook. We have get-togethers at each other's houses, and celebrate birthdays and other important occasions. We have seen each other at our absolute worst. We have shared with each other our happiest times. I honestly don't think I would have gotten through my darkest days without these women by my side.
Thank you, dear ladies, wonderful friends, for your love and support and friendship all these years.
In fond memory of Dr. Doris Allen, Director of the Albert Einstein Therapeutic Nursery, the smartest, bravest, most dedicated and straightforward person ever. Thank you, Dr. Allen, for all your help. Your memory lives on in the lives of all those families whom you've touched.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Can't Complain
November 5th: A week ago Hurricane Sandy struck the East Coast, and thousands of people's lives were changed forever. Homes were destroyed, lives were lost, and towns all along the coast were forever altered. The pictures of devastation were everywhere -- showing tragedy, despair, hopelessness. But there were also photos of survivors, of hope and determination, of people pitching in and helping each other. Things will get better. They must.
And so on this day, I look at my life, my family, my day-to-day concerns, and I acknowledge that I am very fortunate, and have no reason to think otherwise.
And so on this day, I look at my life, my family, my day-to-day concerns, and I acknowledge that I am very fortunate, and have no reason to think otherwise.
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