Choosing What Is Real

By William KENOWER

My son Jack is twenty-three, lives with my wife and me, and will probably be doing so for some time yet. He’s on the Autism spectrum, and while very high functioning, can struggle mightily in social situations. I’ve become accustomed to his bouts of anxiety when he orders a mocha at Starbucks or greets a stranger at our door. Conversation with him can also be pretty one-way. While he’s capable of delivering a ten-minute lecture on the futility of the Viet Nam War, his attention can disappear 30 seconds into a story he's being told, even from a reasonably capable storyteller like his father.

It would be easy to attribute these quirks entirely to Autism the way a limp is a direct consequence of a sprained ankle, but it’s more complicated than that. A few years ago, he explained that since he was a kid, he’s worried about being too influenced by other people. He wanted to live for himself, not just to please or get along with others. Once you start caring too much about someone else, looking out for their needs and their desires, when would it stop? Better, he reasoned, to go into that Autistic bubble where he knows he can be free.

I learned recently I would be needing some surgery to determine if the cancer discovered in a mole I’d had removed from my right wrist had spread. When we told Jack about both the reason for the procedure as well as the nature of my recovery (I would be essentially without the use of my right hand for a month or more), he said, “I’ll be there for you however I can, Dad.” This was touching, but I wasn’t sure what that would look like in practice. I was hoping he’d be willing to help me make a sandwich for lunch.

When I returned home after the surgery, I sat on the couch, still in a pleasant fog from the pain medication. Jack came out of his room, sat across from me, and asked how I was feeling. I said fine, and began talking about the strangeness of hospitals, about how bizarre it is to disappear into anesthesia’s dreamless, timeless sleep, and how I had found myself telling the recovery nurse about Martha Beck’s and Richard Bach’s near-death experiences. It wasn’t until I was done with my hospital tale that I noticed how he had sat attentively through it all. The next morning, when he stumbled bleary-eyed out of his bedroom, his first words to me were, “How did you sleep last night?” 

A couple days later he was helping me post my latest podcast, during which I complained a bit about how few downloads some had received.  He put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay if you feel small, Dad. I feel small too.” I shared all this with my wife, who later told Jack how proud she was of how kind and thoughtful he’d been. “Well,” he replied, “Dad needs our emotional support now.”

There is no doubt that my circumstances, rather unprecedented in our little family, got Jack’s attention. I know that a couple months from now I might try to tell him another story, only to be met with the inward-looking eyes of a young man lost in his own thoughts. Yet that familiar experience does not mean more than what I experienced immediately after the operation. In fact, I think it means less. One shows his potential; the other a habit.

When he was very young, his teachers would say Jack couldn’t pay attention. I never believed this, but I understood why they would. I knew how deeply into that bubble he could go. But I’d also seen him pour over complex LEGO instructions, as focused on them as a person could be. There is a big difference between “can’t” and “isn’t.” It’s the difference between the despair of failure, and the patience of learning. I have known both, and must always remind myself I get to choose which is real, just as I get to choose which words go on the page.

Check out Fearless Writing with Bill Kenower on YouTube or your favorite podcast app. 

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com