In a heart-warming letter to his late father, author John Williams muses over what it would have been like if his autistic son - someone who has taught him to view life in an entirely new way - had met his grandfather.
Dear Dad,
I often wonder what you’d make of the world nowadays, twenty-five years since you died. But most of all, I wonder what you’d make of your grandson. He’s a teenager now. He’s almost as tall as me, but if I comb my hair up and back like you used to do I can still get a few extra millimetres on him (sorry, about a quarter of an inch – is that better?).
Here’s the thing, Dad. Your grandson, he’s autistic. He was diagnosed years ago, together with the cerebral palsy that means it’s difficult for him to walk too far. He gets by though, leaping out of his wheelchair when the mood takes him to chase some pigeons or track down the latest Pokémon. It’s all relative, this life, isn’t it? Wasn’t it?
I can’t pretend it’s been easy over the years. Your grandson has been misunderstood by far too many. The judgmental stares at the young boy kicking off in Tesco’s, who was desperately trying to cope with the noise and smells and bright lights and crowds; he just couldn’t find the words to tell someone how painful it was so he communicated the only way he knew how.
We’ve been through so many schools – both mainstream and special – where for too long people have tried to make him conform to their way of seeing the world. As parents we’ve dealt with a fair bit of stick too – "you’re not strict enough" would soon be followed by "you’re too strict"; whatever we did it felt like we couldn’t win. That was the hard bit when all we were trying to do was our best for him. Would you have recognised that, Dad? I hope so.
The very best people aren't necessarily those with the widest knowledge; they're the people who just love and value him for who he is.
When your precious grandchild was diagnosed, I suppose in the commotion that followed, I didn’t appreciate how it might have impacted the wider family. Not sure how to react, never feeling like they said or did the right thing. All the finger-pointing from strangers meant I’d probably become over-sensitive too, feeling like we were being judged in it all. I can’t tell you how important the family has been to us over the years, Dad. The very best people aren’t necessarily those with the widest knowledge; they’re the people who just love and value him for who he is.
We’re much better at talking about disability nowadays, but actually the disabling bit in all this often hasn’t been his diagnosis, it’s been those reactions from other people; it’s been trying to get the right school or support, endlessly filling in forms listing everything he can’t do. For too long people didn’t seem interested in what he could do. Yet he’s much, much more than just a cost implication at the council offices. And that’s never been more apparent when he’s with his beloved family. He’s funny, Dad, really funny. He’d make you laugh more than anyone I know. He’s got your sense of humour. Whenever we all get together it feels like you’re never far away.
You taught me a lot in those years we shared together, but no one has ever taught me more than your grandson. I’ve learnt about the importance of seeing the world through the eyes of another; I’ve learnt that often in this life there is joy and happiness in the small things and I’ve learnt that pretty much every episode of the Power Rangers is exactly the same. Above all else, I’ve learnt about love and acceptance. A thirteen-year-old boy taught me that. You laid the foundations Dad, and he built the walls.
Your son,
John
My Son's Not Rainman by John Williams is published by Michael O'Mara Books and is available from Amazon.
I so miss my dad, he was only 55 when he died, my younger daughter and grandchildren never knew him apart from photos and stories. happy memories.