“They like to find quiet places to lay in the dirt where nobody will bother them,” he said, reading by rote the words his teacher had typed for him.
How had my son made these connections? I reached for Jon’s hand and squeezed, the heat in my face spreading to the rest of my body. I heard my mom rip a few Kleenex from the box and pass it back to Connie. The audience sat silently, enthralled.
“My chicken, Frightful, is most like me because she likes to be near other chickens, but nobody forces her to talk or play. She just likes to hang out.”
An unfamiliar picture flashed on the screen—a grainy shot of Andrew and Frightful on the porch, presumably deep in conversation. I wondered if his teacher took it when he visited our house earlier in the year.
“But most of all, chickens are smart, even if the world thinks their brain is too small to understand things.”
The snickers from moments before turned to sniffles as parents and friends of other autistic and special needs kids realized that my son had honed in on the truth. He was smart. He felt deeply, and he knew himself, perhaps more than most of us did.
The last photo appeared. “This is Frightful,” Andrew said. “She is my secret-keeper.”
I held my breath as I studied the photo he had chosen. It was my favorite. Taken when he was thirteen, while cradling Frightful in his arms, the photo showed a look of immense joy on his face. I remembered dressing him that day in a crisp white shirt and combing his hair back with Jon’s hair gel. I had been determined to get the perfect family photo of the four of us. But after two hours, with little success by our hired photographer, Andrew had run to the coop in search of Frightful. On the way to her car, the photographer took a few quick shots of my son and his bird. That photo is still my favorite today.
The screen went black and Andrew quietly joined his classmates in the front row. The audience breathed—an almost imperceptible pause. Then they stood to applaud the autistic boy who had somehow articulated the truth.
Chapter 33
Of all the stories I have read about heroes, for one thing I am certain: We can all be heroes in our own lives, even with all our flaws, baggage, fears, and uniqueness. Not one of us is perfect. If I were to continue to strive for the perfect ‘normal’ life, I would be sadly disappointed. It doesn’t exist. The grass is not greener on the other side. The next-door neighbor doesn’t have a better life than I do. It’s just different, with a different set of problems. Even Andrew’s heroes have their own Kryptonite. And just like us, their story never really ends. There is always another chapter, a sequel, another movie. A hero goes through the same trials as us mere mortals, and the story still goes on.
When I ask myself when our story will be finished, I find I cannot answer. Will it be the day Andrew is set free from all the medications, infusions, and appointments? Will there come a day when I get a call saying, “Your son is well now, he has no sign of GVHD, no Trisomy 8 in his body?” Will I believe it? Will I lay my head down that night, allowing the fears and anxieties of the last two decades to melt away into the earth? Or do I sweep the nightmare under the carpet and pretend it never happened? Is it possible to feel whole again? Do I really want to be the person I once was? The truth is, I don’t think I would fit in her skin.
All these questions were bombarding me as I set the table for dinner. I was adapting a favorite soup recipe to Andrew’s dietary restrictions. ‘Mommy Minestrone’, my children called it when they were little, and they had asked for it by name today. As I pulled ingredients from the pantry, I heard Hannah and Andrew in the playroom down the hall, bickering over an X-Box game.
“Just play this one with me, then I will play HALO with you,” Hannah pleaded.
“Noooo, Hannah!” he grumped, followed by the sound of video games being knocked over. I sucked in my breath, knowing how long Hannah had worked to stack and organize them. I peered around the corner to catch a shock of red hair exiting through the garage door. Hannah called out to her brother. Silence. A minute passed before the sound of the television floated into the kitchen, and the faint glow of the screen seeped into the dark at the end of the hall.
Gathering my stack of carrots, celery, onions, and a zucchini from the garden, I set about dicing them for my soup. Finn was at my feet, hoping for scraps to fall off the table and into his mouth. “It’s not gonna happen,” I told him, nudging a furry rump with my toe.
Dropping the veggies into a soup kettle hot with olive oil and freshly minced garlic, I slowly begin to stir. Just until the onions become glassy, I told myself.
Hannah’s heated words drowned out the TV as she began arguing with Andrew again. When did they start arguing so much? What was the problem this time? I couldn’t tell. As long as nobody was mortally wounded, I figured they could settle it on their own.
Without thinking, my hands chopped a bunch of fresh basil, then plucked tender leaves from the woody stems of an oregano plant. They would go into the soup after the tomatoes, beans, and chicken broth. And then, at the very end, when the flavors had time to meld, I would add salt and pepper and red pepper flakes for a little heat.
My little radio behind the kitchen sink crackled. Laura Story’s comforting voice streamed into the kitchen in a staccato of static. Jon had offered to wire the kitchen for speakers, but I liked my scratchy little radio. Laura was singing “Blessings.” I swayed to the music, singing:
‘Cause what if your blessings come through raindrops?
What if your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know?
You’re near
What if my greatest disappointments or the aching of this life?
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can’t satisfy?
What if trials of this life?
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are your mercies in disguise.
I continued to hum, reflecting on God and how my vision of Him had changed in the past years. I knew in the very deepest part of me that He was not only a man. He was the lake, the light, and the wise women who counseled me. God used the nurses and doctors who helped us—Julie, Sue, Becki, Anne, Diana, Leah—and everyone else who arrived when we needed them. God was the color of the Parisian sky in my oil pastels, and was in my fingers that created the picture of my flaming heart. God was the chicken that loved my son, who called for him at the gate every morning.
I thought about how we were all moving through our grief. How it was finding its place in our lives, shaping us, refining us, changing us. The great Alchemist had done his job, and somehow we had emerged through the fire, forged of stuff altogether stronger than the individual pieces that went into the making.
For me, acceptance of this life had been difficult. It wasn't until I was willing to live into the reality of our story that I was able to let go of the picture perfect plan I had counted on. Once I accepted our new way of being, I wondered why I hadn't done it sooner. It wasn’t simple or easy, but it felt so natural, so right. I had finally made my peace with it.
My singing was interrupted by Andrew shouting from the hallway. “You still can’t sing, Mom! You’d never make it on American Idol!”
I shouted back down the hall, “You’re wrong! I’m sure I’ll be in the top ten!”
The sound of a resumed video game floated into the kitchen. I breathed in deeply, then sighed, as the pleasure of preparing a meal for my family registered in my overtired brain.
When dinner was ready, I wandered down the hall to invite the kids to eat. Jon was due home any minute. I found Hannah sprawled across the day bed, her chin in her hands, feet up the back wall with her toes making circles around a long forgotten dinosaur poster. Andrew was sitting in a chair with Frightful in his lap, absently playing with her wing while talking to the television. Frightful looked up as I walked into the room, staring at me with her yellow eyes. “We’re all good here,” she seemed to say. I put my hand across my mouth to conceal a smile.
Hannah caught my eye with a look that said, “I tried to tell him!”
My first instinct was to admonish him, repeat exactly what Hannah’s eyes had conveyed: chickens don’t come in the house, but something held me back. It was like a set of arms wrapped themselves around me, held me in place and said, “Look! Look at what is here in front of you! What do you see?”
My mind worked slowly, assembling together the pieces of the picture. We were home. We were okay. My grown children were bickering like siblings do. Andrew was healthy, his face just now showing some color. After graduation, with the help of a job coach, he had landed a part-time job as a prep-chef in a local catering kitchen. In a few short weeks, Hannah would be starting her junior year in high school.
The playroom, now a media room, was a mess, littered with empty cups, plates of half eaten snacks, and piles of video games spilling from the shelves. It had been an unremarkable day—nothing special or out of the ordinary. We were simply living.
I heard Jon’s car in the drive as an answer formed in my mind.
What did I see?
I saw that we were living out the answers to our agonizing prayers. We had been given a new life, one we were still learning to embrace. We discovered that a willingness to change was not only the secret to survival, but the secret to happiness. And out of that would come joy—someday.
I imagined Jon walking in to this scene. What would he see? Would he notice the mess, the unmade bed, and a dusty chicken sitting on our son’s lap? Or would he sense the magic that lay beyond the mess? Would he understand the significance?
The door to the garage clicked shut and I felt Jon behind me, his hands dropping the usual stack of mail and bills at our feet. His arms wrapped around me tightly, replacing the invisible arms that held me back just moments before. He shifted his weight so his chin rested on the top of my head, and I felt him take in the scene before us: looking from Andrew, to his chicken, to Hannah sprawled on the bed with a smile. So ordinary, yet extraordinary. My hands reached up behind me, searching for Jon’s face. He grasped them in his own hands, bringing my palms to the sides of his head, then sliding his hands down my shoulders, my arms, and finally to my waist where he pulled me in close.
“I’m home,” he spoke into my hair.
As I stood there in that room, anchored to the earth by my husband’s arms, I knew without a doubt that I lived in the company of heroes.
Epilogue
My twenty-year-old son was on the porch, perched in an ancient green wicker chair. He shifted his weight, paint flecked off, leaving a grassy-colored ring around the base of each leg. Frightful was on his lap, nesting in the space between his knees.
Andrew reached for her beak, pulling her head towards him. “So you can see me better,” he said. He patted her silky feathers, mottled in blacks, caramel, and gold. A lone tail feather escaped, twirling to the ground. “Mom is telling our story tonight, Frightful. To a herd of people that are gonna be all dressed up like she is.”
Frightful leaned forward, her beady bird-eyes blinking.
“I wonder what Mom will say? Will she tell them the important stuff? I told her to tell those people about you. You’re the only one who knows what we’ve been through. Nobody else understands, except maybe Sue. I guess Mom does a little bit, too. But she wasn’t there in our head. She doesn’t know what it was like. She doesn’t understand why we had to leave and go to a special place inside our head where nobody could touch us. You and me and Katniss and Iron Man and Shadow were there. Especially Shadow. He was there the whole time. He got sick, too, and we had to fix him. But he is better now. He is happy now.”
Frightful pulled her beak free, craned her neck around and stood up, her scaly feet clutching Andrew’s leg for balance. Then there was a fluffing of feathers, an arching of wings, and a full body shake before she sat down facing out toward the world. A low crooning, followed by a chirp! came from her chest—a song she sang only for Andrew.
“Coo-coorrr. Krrillll…Chirp. CHIRP!”
I was there all along, Andrew. I remember.
Andrew shifted again, this time tucking her under his arm.
I set my overnight bag in the hall and went in search of my purse. “Are you ready to come in, Andrew?” I called through the open door.
That night, I would be sharing our story at an annual fundraiser for Seattle Children’s Hospital and the Children’s Autism Center. Word of our journey had traveled to the right set of ears and it was determined we fit the theme of the event perfectly. We were their two-for-one deal.
It was my first time speaking in front of an audience and I was allotted nine minutes to sum up the last twenty years of our lives with Andrew. For days, a mixture of anticipation and terror plagued me. At night, I was haunted by visions of falling off the stage, becoming ill, or losing my voice. I knew I had only one chance to command the attention of an audience that had been guests at too many fundraisers, had heard too many compelling stories, and were always asked to dig deeply into their pockets. What would make my story any different?
The first draft of my speech filled thirteen pages. When I finally dared to speak the words aloud, I was home, alone. I set my iPhone on timer, perched it on the back of the bathroom sink, and closed the door. When I finished reading, it read twenty-three minutes.
“I can’t seem to get my mind wrapped around the right words,” I told Jon as we finished the dishes one night.
He gave me a pat answer. “I know whatever you say, it’ll be great.”
I wasn’t as confident.
The next day I rewrote the speech. Then I cut and rewrote the speech again. The iPhone in my bathroom hideaway said twelve minutes when I read this time. A friend joined me at Starbucks later that day where she cut and rearranged my story even more.
“Speak only the words that matter to you most,” she said, making the last edit. “Imagine you’re telling your story to a stranger. Give them the highlights right away, give them a reason to listen to you,” she said.
In the end, after the final edits, I was able to weave the fabric of our lives together as a family doing our best to raise a child who was autistic and critically ill.
Before leaving for the Gala, I went in search of Andrew. I found him at the kitchen table absorbed in his new Calvin & Hobbes book, surrounded by a bowl of grapes, a jug of Betty Crocker frosting, and a red velvet cake mix.
“We’ll be home in the morning. Grandma Cherry will spend the night with you and Hannah,” I told him. It felt like such a normal thing to say and do, that I almost giggled.
“You’re talking about me tonight, aren’t you?” he asked without looking up from his book.
Surprised by his sudden interest, I replied, “I am. I’m talking about our family, too.”
I could see his mind making calculations, his face contorting as thoughts tumbled around. “Okay, but be sure to tell them about Frightful,” he said, reaching for a handful of grapes.
While Jon loaded our car with our two overnight bags, I ran upstairs to deliver a gift to Hannah. She wasn’t in her room, so I tucked the little box and a card into the folds of her quilt—the same one that traveled to the hospital with her. It read:
“My Dear Hannah,
I wouldn’t have a story to tell,
were it not for you. You are my hero.
Love, Mom”
Jon and I joined the silent auction before dinner. Women in glittery gowns and cocktail dresses made their way through rows of auction items, while men in tuxedos clustered in groups enjoying samples of the Washington wines to be auctioned later that night. For a long time, I hovered at the far end of the Mezzanine, watching as people spilled from the elevators and melted into the crowd. It felt surreal, like I was stepping back into real time after having been away from the world for a lifetime.
After dinner was served, I caught sight of the event coordinator. She flashed her hand at me, “Five minutes,” she mouthed.
I quickly took a few bites o
f my entrée and felt it lodge halfway down my throat. I guzzled water and dropped a handful of extra strength Tums into my mouth in an effort to abate the feeling that I might barf all over the microphone once I made it to the stage.
Minutes later, I was introduced to a noisy and festive audience. I stood on the podium, with Jon at my side, gazing into a sparkling crowd of four hundred. The Fairmont Olympic Hotel ballroom was crowded with an assortment of Seattle’s elite—high tech executives, philanthropists, big money private donors, hospital guilds, and the best doctors in the medical community—people who expected to be entertained, to be moved, to be impressed. What qualified me to be the one to speak to their hearts tonight?
I thought of my friend coaching me the day before. “Stand tall, but not stiff. Don’t lock your knees, don’t grip the podium, don’t wring your hands. Look at the crowd. Smile. Gesture. It’s easy. Piece of cake.”
My hands were shaking. I grabbed onto the podium. I felt like I might be sick. But then I paused, allowing the sounds of the dining room to slowly register in my ears. I heard the chime of forks hitting china, servers questioning, wine goblets filling, and the growing hum of festive conversation. Jon touched my shoulder, sending a wordless signal of confidence: You can do this.
I scanned the crowd until I met a solitary face of anticipation. Keeping hold of her eyes, I leaned into the microphone and told her my secret.
“My son’s best friend is a chicken named Frightful. He taught her to ride in his arms while cruising the neighborhood on his electric bike.”
The woman in the red ball gown put down her fork and smiled back at me. The room was silenced. Looking directly into the faces of the crowd, I knew my story would be heard by those that needed to hear a message of hope.
I continued. “The young man I’ve had the privilege to raise is an expert on World War II history, is obsessed with superheroes, and is an accomplished chef who hopes to own his own restaurant someday. He is quirky, kind, frustratingly rigid, strong, persistent, and one of the bravest young men I know. He is also autistic.”
The Chicken Who Saved Us Page 27