CHICKEN SOUP DAILY SERVING:


Sunshine
By Lauri Khodabandehloo

"How long has she been skating?" the woman asked, as she took a seat
next
to me on the bleachers surrounding the ice rink. "She's very good!"
In spite of the lump in my throat and the tears welling up in my eyes I
answered, "She just started."
I didn't tell her she was seeing a miracle in the making. My autistic
daughter had found a place she could shine - and my heart sang out, "Thank
you,
God. . . thank you."
I sat there with my eyes fixed on her as she skated around the icy rink,
gaining confidence and speed with each revolution. She didn't seem to notice
the obvious danger of falling, or even the overwhelming chill that numbed the
fingers and noses of the few who joined me watching from our bench seats.
And
my thoughts turned back to the early years as I remembered how we'd come - my
child and I - to this moment.
I was almost thirty-five and my teenage daughters were testing their
wings
of independence. The last thing I'd expected to be holding soon was a
newborn.
And certainly not my own. Yet, a thirty-second phone call to my doctor's
office
had confirmed the fact and I would find myself exactly that - expecting. And
on
a crisp, but sunny morning in February 1981, my fourth daughter, Farema, was
born. Her father, Cody, chose her name from his ancestral homeland of
ancient
Persia. I gave little thought to its rarity until one of the nurses asked,
"So
- you named her Farina? Like the cereal?"
"No," I answered, "it's pronounced Fa-ree-mah." I would hear that same
question, many times over. I'd even resigned myself to the fact that if in
her
life she were mistaken for a breakfast food, so be it.
Before my surprise pregnancy, I'd anxiously contemplated what freedoms
awaited me when my children were finally grown. Leisure lunches with a
friend,
no more rushing home to beat the school bus - maybe even trips to far off
places. Cody and I deserved time to ourselves after raising three daughters.
Now, a new baby meant that the smell of ocean beaches in faraway lands
must
succumb to the pungent odor of ammonia-laden diapers. Soothing sounds of
music
drifting overhead from eateries dotting the sandy strip where I lounge
watching
the orange sun set over the calm blue sea - a fading fantasy. I'd be well
into
middle age before this child was out on her own.
"My albatross," I'd thought to myself - only to be filled with shame for
thinking such a thing when I realized something was seriously wrong with my
youngest daughter.
I'd seen families burdened with a child who never left home. Now, it
was
my own life that would be forever rearranged. But what worried me far more
was
what the future held for Farema as she grew older.
I began to search for something that would offer my daughter a life with
some amount of joy. I didn't want her to be lonely and left behind, though
she
never seemed to care one way or the other. By keeping her around normal,
healthy children, I hoped she might imitate and become like them. That was
my
new dream. And though she lived in a secret world that we could not enter,
her
love for the outdoors and her ceaseless energy convinced me to look in the
direction of sports.
I jumped at the idea of signing her up for soccer when a friend offered
to
coach the grade school girl's soccer team.
"She doesn't talk much," I warned him. "But she understands everything
you
tell her."
Before her third practice, I knew soccer was not for her. Basketball,
softball and track were just as hopeless. She was the kid no one chose for
their side, leaving the coach the ultimate decision, as the little girls
whispered their dismay.
By the time Farema was twelve I had run out of ideas. I had come to the
end of my imagination. And by now she'd been diagnosed with autism, a
biological brain disorder with no known cure. My senses told me to accept
what
cannot be changed; yet my heart continued to hope for more. And one evening,
I
noticed a short preview of the coming Olympic Figure Skating competition on
television, and it sparked a memory for me.
As a very young child, Farema seemed to have some mysterious pact with
the
elements of nature, especially when it was cold. When other children were
driven indoors by the chilly weather, or bundled up against the winter wind,
no
amount of pleading would persuade her to keep a jacket on. And at night,
she'd
shed her warm covers to sleep under her bed on the hardwood floor - and never
would a shiver betray her.
Now I sat on the cold bench at the skating rink, with the other moms,
watching that familiar smile envelop her small face and sparkle from her eyes
to
the very air around her, and I knew God had heard me. He hadn't made her
normal, as I begged in prayers offered up to heaven on a sea of salty tears -
but I knew from the moment she stepped out onto the ice that this day was a
beginning for her. This was the beginning of her life, a life that would fit
her perfectly.
Farema and I returned to the skating rink again and again. As her
skills
progressed, her ability to speak improved as well.
"I like ice!" she said to me in the car on our way home from the rink.
I
was dumbfounded to hear a complete sentence from her. Months later, she was
talking incessantly.
The local ice skating rink is truly her place. The icy mist in the air
is
her shadow - the breeze that caresses her body as she skates in her solitary
world - her companion. With Farema's newfound happiness came friends who
joined
with her in a special camaraderie, as they too fulfilled personal goals and
reached for their Olympic dreams.
My uncommon daughter, Farema, is now indistinguishable from any other
young
girl as she glides over the ice with a smile that illuminates her face - and
my
heart.
Cody and I are now approaching the prime - and retirement - years of our
lives. I would never have asked for the heartache and disappointment that
raising a disabled child could bring. But I would not have traded the
lessons
I've learned, including perseverance, faith and enduring patience for all the
freedoms I've sacrificed. And those faraway shores and sunsets are getting
nearer every day.

By Cat on Wednesday, August 11, 2004 - 09:18 pm:

Wow, Marcia. Thanx for sharing.

By Tink on Saturday, August 14, 2004 - 12:35 am:

Thanks, Marcia. I have tears running down my cheeks as I type this word of thanks to you. So many people don't realize how much I mean it when I say that having Seth isn't a burden, raising him has made me a better person. I am more patient, more accepting and a MUCH better parent than I was before he came into my life. It can be so hard to raise a child with autism because so much of the time he was locked into his own world. As I've seen him develop into this amazing little boy, I can't believe that he is MINE! Finding his niche is a personal goal of mine and this just encouraging me to continue to look for it.