Dear Cole:

My mini me, in every facet from your glowing smile and contagious laughter to your headstrong, mischievous mannerisms often presented with hilarity, fervor and spunk. The language that only you and I share is not with verbal expressions, but rather with a coy smile or a wink of the eye kept between just the two of us. We prance through life like playground pals when quieted by a teacher, stifling shushed giggles and pent up parody–waiting to burst into the atmosphere like random, exploding stars. Only the two of us “get it”, or at least that was the case back when you were initially diagnosed: when a heartless, cold monster called Mood Disorder NOS tried to take you from us.

I cannot even fathom the oceans you’ve crossed emotionally, intellectually and psychologically since those days when the following journal excerpt was blogged:

 My oldest child is experiencing so much dark, emotional torment and is lacking of a full diagnosis at this point, with the exception of vague words uttered by one rather confused psychiatric hospital doctor: “Mood Disorder, NOS”. I miss the joy and frolic of his voice, his blissful chuckles and affectionate snuggles. He denies himself the pleasure of socializing with his friends anymore and he has alienated us, his worried parents. He outright refuses to leave the house except for school and seems to have no interest in friends, so they have retreated from him, understandably so (how could any 8 year old possibly understand such an abstract, yet torturing disease). My parental instinct is screaming that it is not ODD or depression, which has been suggested by his outpatient doctor, but I have no idea what else it could be.

My every waking moment is dedicated to him. I haven’t showered, eaten or slept in days–I’m not sure what day of the week it is, even. He cannot rest without being in my bed and often whimpers or cries during sleep. But when he’s next to me, somehow all his fears seem to clear, and in between the ominous outline of these unrelenting, calculated clouds of moods, I see glimpses of the sun’s rays peeking through, teasing me with just a hint of his smile. This alone holds my heart for days. No drug has fully helped him (yet), and I’m worried about their side effects. He’s losing weight, even though he eats like a mad man. The only treatment that seems to help him so far, is time with his little brother.

From the moment Aidan’s tiny blond head is observed from the tinted school bus windows, Cole is overjoyed and beside himself. He cannot wait to hear how Aidan’s day has transpired, if he has created any new ingenious works of art, if he has earned a new friend, what he consumed for lunch, et al. He simply is looking for any reason to say to Aidan, “I’m proud of you, brother!”-Jan 2010

Being a big brother has breathed new life into your heart, Cole. I watched you float like a falling autumn leaf, solemnly and carelessly through life, without a care if you landed on the stone cold ground or if I caught you. You wanted AIDAN–not to catch you, but rather, to be the express reason and reward in your life for whom you could regenerate your broken mind. You broke his fall. None of us knew quite how or why this was happening, this special, trusting bond between the two of you, exclusively. Suddenly the world Aidan would not share with us was now fathomed by you. The impenetrable castle none of us could breach was gently and cautiously pulled apart piece by piece, by you. The vast, timeless hypnosis of autism that had taken hold of our baby was broken, by a brother’s love.

Dear Aidan:

You were and always will be an enigma to me; you’re the sunshine behind my smile and simultaneously the mystery that I hold inside the curious corners of my mind. I observe you in awe, quite frankly, as a child would behold his first lunar eclipse, except I don’t bother to put on my sunglasses. I’m neither fearful, nor saddened by this wavering, shaky moment where life has brought us. To me, you’ll always be my butterfly who is emerging from his cocoon not gently, but unabashedly and with aplomb. You approach life these days with the sparkling naivety of a toddler who has never seen a mud puddle: with grandiose splashes of ecstatic, effervescent, purely unadulterated GLEE. Just to show you how far you you’ve come, my wee one, here is an excerpt from the beginning days of your diagnosis of Pervasive Developmental Disorder.

He’s doing so well now, but it takes such an unwavering, fixed routine to hold his fragile mindset together. Any little difference could make his entire day fall apart. He wears certain clothes (mainly anything silky or comforting, nothing too harsh in texture), awakens at a set time each morning, relies strictly upon an unchanging pictorial schedule and consumes only certain foods. He gets ups, eats, uses the restroom, does his homework, bathes, plays, attends church, has art and music lessons, etc., at the same times of the day and week. Any little thing that changes this safe routine could cause a complete breakdown, which normally involves screaming, crying, hitting his head repetitively with his fist, refusal to be touched, etc. He withdraws from life during these sensory meltdowns in the same way a frightened, horrified wild animal runs from oncoming traffic to cower in the ditch. This is a child that I could not comfort with breastfeeding- he ate only enough to thrive and then shoved me away with flailing, tiny, terrified hands. Musical toys, baby swings, bright lights were all lost to him. Nothing gained a hug, a smile or a cuddle: he was an inanimate, lost soul somewhere hidden in the abyss of his own mind’s secluding existence.

After the principal of his school refused to accept him into a special needs class (at the request of his doctor), I pleaded to her with this despondent email:

“As a mother, if your youngest, most delicate son came home crying, having soiled himself, then bolted through the front door of your home into an isolated corner and proceeded to hit himself over and over again in the head, not just a few times, but daily. If you knew you could not physically touch him, nor could you comfort him with a mother’s hugs or gentle kisses. If your best gift that he would actually accept could merely be a few soft words of consolation from afar and a secret, pleading prayer that his school helps him sooner rather than later, what would you do?”  

You were a planet floating far away in your own exclusive mental galaxy, Aidan. The mountains you’ve climbed since then have shocked your friends, family and an entire medical community of doctors, teachers and aides here in Houston. I cannot take the credit for the rewards of your astonishing, bewildering journey. There is one exceptionally patient little boy in our household, however, who can: your older brother, Cole. I remember the first time he reached out to you. You had cast yourself harshly once again into the lonely corner in your bedroom, refusing to come downstairs, even when we pleaded, offered treats, hugs, toys and soft blankets. He approached you with a dove-like grace and with the yielding, docile softness of a butterfly landing ever-so tenderly upon your heaving shoulders, in order not to break your sobs prior to your own relinquished willingness. He reached to you with great resolve, not with his entire hand, but with one stubby, pinky finger and quietly uttered one phrase, which won your heart immediately: “You can trust me. Here, I pinky promise.”

While you don’t know this secret (yet), you cannot even begin to imagine the mind-blowing difference in your big brother’s progress since he had to bravely step up to the plate to reach his small hand to you in support and friendship. I cannot WAIT to tell you how much you mean to him. A still, small voice inside of me says, “He already knows.”

Here are the two of you, continuing to pinky promise your way through your days, crossing the river of life one stepping stone at a time, hand in hand, heart in heart.