What is it about finding out that you are not alone? The circumstances may not change one iota, the hard part is still a kicker, but the awareness that you have company seems to soften all that.
When I try to imagine my life without Benjamin, or rather without his autism, it looks like a cake walk. There are still piles of laundry, and bills to address. There is hardship in the world at large, yet the distance between me and those travesties muffles my senses. I care, but only so far.
The heartbreak I feel around my son opens me up to a kind of empathy that does not slide into an envelope addressed to your favorite charity. I listen. And what is more, I hear.
About the child whose anxiety makes it difficult, sometimes impossible, to participate in school. Go to a friend's house. Try something new.
Or the couple who are the primary support for three aging adults with dementia. Their weekends are sucked up by visits, and trying not to argue, or clearing out someone else's clutter.
Or the young mother whose small boys think that sleep is optional. A diversion for those lacking better things to do. Like learning how to wink, or practicing being a tyrannosaurus.
Or the person who has had four joints replaced in two years, and whose physical therapy is a rugged path to healing.
Or the mother who has lost a son, before he had a chance to live. Before he fell in love. Before he held a baby in his arms.
Or the young woman whose heart's desire is to have a child. Several children, and yet that gift eludes her. And everywhere she walks she sees round bellies.
All of those people have their own variations of pain. Some are less obvious than a man/boy screaming at his supervisor. But the ramifications run deep.
And somehow, standing side by virtual side, the ache subsides.
