Small Things
There isn’t too much to add to this
chapter except to state that I further wrote out my understanding that I may
have, as the DSM-IV called it, “an inappropriate attachment to objects.” What’s
amazing about what I wrote in this chapter, and all chapters really, is that at
this point in time my training on the autism spectrum was nil. Truly, the only
autism literature I had read was the initial website that told me to give up.
As I have progressed in this series I am truly amazed that my words do not
contradict the other literature out there.
A Friend Gone
If there’s been a chapter that I’ve
written that has required more tissues than “A Friend Gone” I’d like to hear
the nominations because I’ve been told time and time again that getting through
this chapter, whether you’re a cat person or not, without needing a tissue for
a tear or two is a daunting effort. I learned this the day I wrote it as I took
it to my bowling team on Monday night and the two older ladies on the team,
well, we had a chance at first place at the time and all that became lost as
they could not think straight the rest of the night with tears a plenty
happening.
Myself, reading this chapter, it was
hard; perhaps the hardest chapter I read thus far. I talk about the associative
memory system, and not remembering people, but I also do not remember my pets.
I mention Amsterdam, the cat that was put to sleep in this chapter, and I
mention Siam, whose story comes to an end in my 2nd book, and for
both of them I don’t remember them. I remember of them, I remember the antics
of their kittenhood, but of them, exactly, is just a blur. I have a picture of
them as little kittens alongside Missy the Maltese and that’s the extent of my
memories.
The other side of this comes at the
ending in my inability to walk her to the Humane Society for, well, I don’t
know how to put it. Truly, I don’t. How do I put it? Her demise? Her ending?
Her death? Just those words alone, just the thought of it, and I shudder.
Anyway, I was unable to take her and to this day I’m deeply saddened by this,
but at the same time I’m thankful someone else was able to because I don’t
know, at that point in time in my life, if I would’ve been able to have held
her as she drifted away. That moment would’ve lived on, and on, and on in my
brain and I don’t know if I ever would’ve been able to erase that memory. My final
memory of her is her tenacity to give me a final meow and go away without fear.
This coming from a cat that was afraid of everyone except me and in this moment
she showed no fear. That’s my lasting memory of her.
Why is this chapter in the book? For
one, and I didn’t know it at the time, this chapter blows away any misguided
expert who may claim, “people on the autism spectrum have no emotions and are
incapable of caring.” I didn’t know there were such people, but they’re out
there and I hope they read this chapter. Secondly, I wrote this as a way to
deal with the situation. Had I not written it all the emotions associated with
this would have stayed bottled up and I would have had a hard time dealing with
the emotions, but I wrote a magical chapter fitting for such a great friend and
ever sense tissue makers have seen an increase in business… Okay, I can’t make
that claim, but for anyone who has ever had a pet and anyone who has had to
make that decision that the quality of life just, well, isn’t life will
understand this chapter. I was almost cold in my understanding that it was her
time, but it was and emotions would have just made the logical choice more
difficult. You see, this chapter is in here because it’s an event anyone who
has ever had an aging pet has had to deal with and I give my story. My story,
and any other person’s story isn’t that far apart. If I can give a story that
others can relate to, and I can do a decent enough job to describe how I feel
and why I did what I did then that’s the fastest way, I thought, for others to
understand the autism spectrum because it’s something anyone can relate to.
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