I can see just fine
When we discover that Adam needs glasses, even his eye doctor has his doubts. “If he’ll wear them…” The doctor says, drawing out the ellipsis as he slowly extends the prescription in my direction.
Oh, he’ll wear them, I’m thinking, watching the doctor’s back as he walks away, but it’ll take work. I snap a picture of the prescription with my phone and send it to Kevin, who replies, “You’ve got to be kidding,” and then I look at my son and gesture toward the office door. Adam smiles, turning his lean frame, happy to be going home. We skip the dispensary next door, because I know that Adam will have no opinion about frames and no patience for lenses he doesn’t yet understand that he needs; I know he’ll spend the next hour trying to convince me and everyone else that the time has come to go.
“The doctor says you need glasses to see better,” I venture, watching the road as I drive us home.
“No,” Adam says softly, glancing out the window and away from me.
For now, I let it go. Riley will articulate–often through tears–that she doesn’t like change, that it’s hard for her; Adam will just politely say no. But while Autism makes my older children more resistant to change and sometimes more blunt regarding their feelings about it, I know none of us find it comfortable to consider a new perspective. We believe we can see just fine until forced to look at the world again through corrective lenses; only the ones who know they’re blind readily receive the gift of sight.
Kevin and I order a sampling of frames online, five different shapes and styles Adam can try at home. The day they arrive, we call Adam into the room, and he looks from the frames to me, gently, and quietly says, “No.”
I hold up my hand, my fingers spread wide, say, “Just 5, Adam. 1-2-3-4-5 and done.”
He inhales sharply and stands on one foot, which I think may be the only way he knows to force himself to stop wandering and stay in one place.
I slide the frames on his face one at a time while Kevin watches. Riley keeps saying, “Those look so good” about every pair; she is by nature an encourager, and she, more than all of us, knows how difficult this exercise is for Adam. What would it mean to me, I wonder, if as I take steps toward seeing more clearly, someone stood by cheering me on? That effort you’re making? It looks so good on you.
“3,” Adam says, extending three fingers toward me, wobbling in flamingo. In one of my favorite books, Bob Goff urges his readers to determine to love a difficult person for 30 seconds, then 30 seconds more, then 30 seconds more. I feel like that’s what Adam has determined to do for me now, standing there with three fingers extended toward me. It’s like he’s saying, I’m going to love you until I get to 5.
“Don’t you want to go look in the mirror, see what they look like?” I ask, sliding the fourth pair over Adam’s nose.
“No,” Adam says, then, “4.”
In the end, the only opinion Adam shares–when forced–is about the color. He likes clear frames, which he describes as “white,” his favorite. It always makes me smile to think that Adam’s favorite color is the absence of any pigment. He would choose less sensory information, instead of the the rush of it that batters him all the time–less color, less change. Sometimes I wonder if ordinary life for my son feels like living under a waterfall. After I put the last set of frames back in the tray and everyone else drifts away from us to other things, Adam flicks my ear with his fingers and quietly says, “No sunglasses.”
“Oh is that what you thought we were doing? But they’re not sunglasses, Adam,” I tell him, touching his strong cheek bones with my fingers, feeling the grit of him. “The doctor says these will help you see better.”
“No,” Adam says, still tenderly, in that voice he reserves for me. He doesn’t care to see better–I can see just fine his face says–but then, sometimes a person has no idea what they can’t see until finally they can see it.
I let it go again, let Adam walk away and back to his comfortable routine, knowing it will be this way for a while. In my own way, I’m lacing my fingers through his; I’m tenderly leading him toward something new. I can be patient; it’s one of the things I thank God for teaching me in just this way. There will be time to ease Adam into clarity, but it won’t happen because I suddenly find the right words to convince him the glasses will be worthwhile; it won’t be because I make a good case. Tomorrow, I’ll ask him to try on the frames again; I’ll smile when he says no; I’ll tell him how handsome he looks, how good he’s been to wear them for a moment. I’ll tell him more about who he is, less about what he needs to do. I’ll plant kisses on his prickly cheeks. And he will at last return my smile, gushing because he knows I love him. He’ll finally stop counting down until we’re done. He might not quite understand, but in the end, he’ll wear his glasses because I’ve asked it of him. And so it will be, because the first goal of mine, the only one really, is to love him.
