My Mom died on Father's Day, three years ago.  She had been incredibly close to, and had the opportunity to enjoy four granddaughters for many years, as well as great grandchildren.  But, Charlie was her only grandson.  And, oh my, did she adore him.  I will always believe that every hour spent with him added a month onto her lifetime.  Near the very end of her life, she was under hospice care, and I spent the last week of her life with her.  Twenty four hours a day.  She could not communicate, but I talked to her, held her hand.  We talked about all the goofy things I had done in my lifetime, up to that point.  Trust me, these very long conversations.  And, of course, about "her Charlie."  The hospice staff told me for three days leading up to the day my mother died that, "today's the day."  Well, it was not.  In one of our last conversations, I basically, the day before Father's Day, asked her to "wait until tomorrow."  I knew how much she loved Charlie, and me, and my relationship with Charlie.  I also selfishly wanted to always remember my Mom on Father's Day.  Well, while at here bedside, on Father's Day 2013, she peacefully and quietly, took her last breath.  

My son.  Her Charlie.  And autism.  Yes. Autism.  Charlie is, for lack of a better term, "high functioning."  Not a big fan of this term.  I guess the reason is, while I am certainly grateful that he is able to attend regular school, and to have a friend or two, the children of other people I have come to know -- and love, admire and respect -- over the years have not been so fortunate. I hope Charlie is on the road to "recovery."  Only time will tell.  I just know that it truly breaks my heart to know about others who are not so fortunate.  I suppose a bit of "survivor's guilt" comes into play.  I am completely in awe of many people I have come to know of, and to have become Facebook friends with, who are SO very active in this cause.  Our cause.  People like Kim Rossi Stagliano, Julie Bailey Obradovic, Becky Peabody Estepp, and  Kristin Selby Gonzalez who work so tirelessly and with such passion for our cause.  Reading their writings very often provokes chills.  And, tears, of course.  

I watch Charlie closely every day I'm with him.  He's soon to be 11, but yet, I think he's in many ways more seven or eight.  One disadvantage of only having one child; no other to compare him to.  I see him at times struggle socially, and it breaks my heart.  I try not to immediately "jump in," to rescue him, and remove him from his frustration and incredible angst.  He does not understanding teasing very well.  I worry about bullying in the future.  My most dear, respected, and admired autism parent -- AND FRIEND -- [who just perhaps, maybe, oh alright does, have a little something to do with this website], recently told me that Charlie will deal with this social stress "organically."  I most certainly trust her opinion, and pray she is correct. 

I will never forget these words by the late Jim Valvano. He spoke at an ESPN awards ceremony in March 1993.  LAUGH.  THINK.  CRY.   He was then battling cancer, and died the following month.  While in NO WAY would I ever equate the "battle" of being an autism dad with the battle fought by Mr. Valvano, I just am so touch by these words.  And, for better or worse, I do these three things on many days.  

Father's Day.  My favorite day.  I truly know I was placed on this planet to be Charlie's dad.  And, my Mom's son.  

To all the Dads, only the best to you. Don't give up, don't ever give up.