Not long after my son Will was diagnosed with autism just shy of his second birthday, someone sent me this little bit of prose called “Welcome to Holland.” It basically equates having a special-needs child to having your travel plans messed up. Go ahead and read it. I’ll wait.
(Insert favorite muzak here.)
Done? Ok. So, when I first read “Welcome to Holland,” our whole household was in crisis. About to have Baby #2 (aka: Julia), we were grasping at straws, looking for any kind of comfort or hope or promise that there was some light at the end of this tunnel. No, not even that. I was just looking for someone to tell me we were truly in a tunnel and not, as I feared, in an inescapable abyss. In that desperate state, “Welcome to Holland” seemed like a really nice little anecdote. I thought it had been written by a parent of a child with autism (I was wrong), and I took her words to mean that things do get better with time and acceptance (I was right).
So, time passed, and my feelings on this changed. And by “time,” I mean about three weeks. And by “changed,” I mean that when I reread the Holland story, I thought something along the lines of, “Screw Holland. This story is a complete load of minimalizing crap.” From then on, whenever anybody started recommending I read this very lovely bit of Pollyanna-style, all-things-happen-for-a-reason, the-world-is-made-of-marshmallows, illogical bullshit, I simply declined. Pressed for my opinion on the essay, I said it reminded me of a religious answer to a scientific question: it sounds really nice and makes sense…if you don’t really think about it too hard.