He marches in to Pomp and Circumstance, looking a bit confused but handsome in his cap and gown, and I receive a small smile as he sits down in a row of chairs facing me. I tell him “hello” while clutching my tissues, and soon the director of Search Day Program begins a beautiful speech about community, and autism, and family.
Every word of it is true, especially the latter.
Especially at Search.
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I’m clutching my tissues because my twenty-one-year-old son is graduating from his private autism high school today, a placement he has had the good fortune to have for the last fourteen years. As I look around the room almost all of his teachers and ancillary therapists are present, because staff stay here due to their deep commitment to helping children and adults with autism become their best selves.
I have forged relationships with many of them as well. Hence, the tissues.
It is a lovely ceremony, filled with inspirational videos, and lovely photo montages with pictures of Justin, which bring tears to my eyes.
But the moment of the day is the speech his teacher, Mary, who has taught him for six years, gives in his honor.
There are mentions of the things he loves; motion with a toy, virtually traveling on Google maps, the boardwalk, and his mom.
There is gratitude for his hard work, determined communication, patience and love.
But the crowning glory of the speech is her reference to how Justin often seems unto himself, but will sometimes lock eyes with you, and give you his full regard.
Sometimes, that individual is rewarded with a smile, or light laughter.
It is the essence of my son.
It is the beauty of him.
For fourteen years my son was challenged, comforted, and cherished by the staff at this school.
I had wanted to put it in his IEP when he began school there at seven, that they had to love him too.
I didn’t have to.
His father and I are forever indebted to the professionalism, devotion, and caring shown to our boy and his family over this last almost decade-and-a-half.
With all the worries associated with profound autism, and there are many, at least I knew for two hundred ten days a year, for six hours a day, he was safe, and happy.
My deep sadness at his leaving, is due to my fear that this was the best part of his life.
I will do everything in my power to see that this is not true.
But no matter what, he will always have the progress, the fun, and the memories he made at this extraordinary school, with this exemplary staff.
From the bottom of our hearts, the McCafferty family thanks you.
For more on my family visit my blog at autismmommytherapist.wordpress.com
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