Through all the technical terms and unknown what ifs, I asked my friend, “Have you cried, I mean really, really cried about this because I know I have.” Boy, have I ever. I have five young children, one with special needs but his current needs are not to the degree that this baby has. “Yes, I’ve cried,” my friend told me but she also said she’s getting used to the shock of it.  I’m in awe of her inner calm because I easily could have filled a bucket or two with my own tears.

This same friend has witnessed Ronan being rushed to the emergency room. She’s heard about the very invasive tests, the poking, the prodding, the medical mysteries we’ve solved for Ronan and the neglect we’ve experienced by our own team of doctors. I have more of a sour taste in my mouth for certain medical departments because of what has and hasn’t happened to Ronan. I treaded lightly in a conversations about the baby’s doctors and nurses. The baby needs intensive and round-the-clock care and I prayed the hospital staff were not just helping the baby but also my friend and her husband through these very trying days.  My friend said, “Cat, we have a diagnosis for the baby. We know what is wrong with her and we know what can and what will hopefully happen to fix those problems. You didn’t know what was going on until you figured it out for Ronan.” Wow, she is so right. I sat back and let some of my worry fade as clearly the baby’s parents and medical team are working together.

While I ache to be there with my friend, to hold her and her brand new child, I sit hundreds of miles away waiting for the good news I’m praying is coming. No one knew who this little girl was before she was adopted just a few short days ago. No one knew she’d have the extensive medical problems she had. No one knew how powerful her presence was going to be until she arrived. Just like the children in our autism community, no one knew how powerful their needs would be or how close we’d all become because of those needs.

As I welcome what will hopefully be a most glorious Easter morning, may we all feel some sort of peace in the mission we are doing for our children.  May we continuously hope for them and as well as for ourselves.  May we share the joys as well as the sorrows so that other families know that with a lot of work and yes, even with some pain, success is possible. We might not feel that success instantly ourselves, but another person learning and living through our experience certainly can.

If Easter morning brings you chocolate bunnies, a church filled with praise or is just a regular day in the life of your child, may your hearts and mind be filled with everlasting hope.  In just a few short days, my friend is thankful for the chance to parent her very young child who came with major medical problems. I will draw upon her strength and be thankful for another day in the life of my child. I hope to find an inner peace and keep it close in my heart. For that chance to hope, I am truly grateful.

Cathy Jameson is a Contributing Editor for Age of Autism