Set Apart: A Mother’S Steps to Peace

By Martha Griffin-Weis

Set Apart: A Mothers Steps to Peace traces the footsteps of a woman, Maggie, who gradually comes to suspect that her son, Bens, autism is caused by a reaction to his childhood vaccines. Eventually she learns how this diagnosis will change their lives. As the years pass, and he grows from childhood to adulthood, she grows in her love and compassion for him, her fortitude in the face of adversity, and her ability to leaven adversity with a sense of humor. Set Apart tells this mothers story by describing the events of a rather normal life, one with its share of joys and challenges, that changes forever when the details and ramifications of Bens reality become clear. As they learn how to live with that reality, they experience the transformation of their lives. In the end, Maggie finds the peace shes been missing and the power she needs to use her experiences to achieve a meaningful purpose in this life. Whether you have someone with autism in your family, or you know someone who does, or you simply find inspiring people who discover meaning and purpose in their lives, Set Apart: a Mothers Steps to Peace will help you to forge a bond with a mother who overcame missteps and detours and found the path to peace in her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490880952

Martha Griffin-Weis

Martha Griffin-Weis earned her bachelor’s degree in English literature and communications from Denison University and a master’s degree from the University of Bridgeport. A health care professional, she speaks publicly about mothering a son with autism, revealing the needs autism creates.

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Copyright © 2015 Martha Griffin-Weis.

Front Cover Image by Carrington Frick Gerli.

Author Photo by Indigo Images LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4908-8096-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-8097-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-8095-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015907660

WestBow Press rev. date: 7/6/2015

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Part I The Formation

Chapter 1: Kappa in Stilettos

Chapter 2: Plaid Pants and Satin Sheets

Chapter 3: Muffycakes and Donuts

Chapter 4: Won’t You Take Me to Funkytown?

Chapter 5: Bad Doctors and a Bad Mouse

Chapter 6: The Dog and Pony Show

Chapter 7: If You’re Going to Make an Omelet, You’re Going to Have to Break a Few Eggs

Chapter 8: Saints with Helmets

Chapter 9: Don’t Worry; Be Happy

Chapter 10: Camping and Jackie O

Part II The Transformation

Chapter 11: Fish and Forgiveness

Chapter 12: Arrive First or Go Home

Chapter 13: SPED Moms

Chapter 14: I’m Taking What I’m Given, and I’m Working for a Living

Chapter 15: Who Do You Say That I Am?

Chapter 16: It Is Well with My Soul

Chapter 17: If You Don’t Like What You’re Doing, You Can Always Do Something Else

Final Thought

Acknowledgments

Appendix

Madelyn’s Story

References

Books and Articles of Interest

About the Author

Blessed are the meek for they will inherit the earth.

(Matt. 5:5 NIV)

Image1authorandadultson300dpi.jpg

The author and her son.

Photo credit to Indigoimagesllc.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

When my son was diagnosed with autism at a young age, I wanted to read a book like this one. I wanted a crystal ball that would give me a glimpse into the future to assure me that we were going to make it safely through the wilderness in front of us. But unfortunately there was no crystal ball, and I found no book. Thirty years ago when autism was unusual, all of the information I read described harsh medical and behavioral intervention, and I found it in no way helpful.

I struggled as a mother of a child with autism at a time when autism was rare. There was no DAN, Defeat Autism Now support group, and there was no Autism Speaks organization. Today, people are dealing with the autism epidemic in great proportions, and they need to read something that is real and honest, informative and encouraging, written by someone who has lived it. If I can offer any insight to others who struggle, then this is the right way to do it.

I am happy to say that after many challenges, my son and I made it through our wilderness together with nothing but humor, love, and the grace of God. And although I cannot provide a crystal ball to prophesize the future, I can through this book share valuable insight and research about what we have learned along our way.

My hope is that families of children with special needs can relate to this story about a woman and her son, and that they will realize that when life does not go as planned, God does have a plan for you and you are blessed to have been set apart for a very special purpose.

PART I

The Formation

CHAPTER 1

Kappa in Stilettos

That August was the hottest on record according to the Farmer’s Almanac. The streets in New York City were on fire from the relentless heat wave. It must have been over one hundred degrees in the shade—if you could find any shade in New York City. I took the morning train from Hartford to meet Missy for lunch, and I regretted not taking a cab to the restaurant. The walk to the Greek Kitchen on Tenth Avenue was pretty far, and by the time I got there, I was soaked with sweat. My peasant skirt was a mass of wet wrinkles. Bad move to wear 100 percent cotton on the train.

As I stepped into the air-conditioned restaurant and peeled my sticky skirt from my thighs, I spotted Missy immediately. She was never hard to locate. I just had to scan for the most outrageously dressed female in the room. Today Missy wore a tight, one-piece, stretch catsuit with stilettos. Too tanned with too much jewelry, she looked like a hooker. Her bracelet jingled as she waved me toward her.

This is Mikhail. She winked and giggled, patting the barstool next to her for me to sit. "He makes the best margaritas ever," she gushed, making sure he heard. Then she said even louder, "Maggie, since when do you wear your pajamas to lunch? You look like you just stepped off the set of Little House on the Prairie. And where’s your cute boyfriend? I thought he was coming with you today."

I self-consciously smoothed out my now-hopelessly puckered skirt and blouse and casually replied, Oh, he had to study, but he said for me to tell you hello for him. Besides, I thought it might be better to just catch up ourselves. You know, girl talk.

Missy thrust out her chest as Mikhail passed by with drinks. In her best I know I’m a sultry wench voice, she said, Well, you know, when given the choice, I prefer the company of men over girl talk, Maggie.

I rolled my eyes and plopped on the barstool. Missy always assumed every man in the room desired her in every way. She ignored the fact that Mikhail was just doing his job as her bartender, sucking up for tips. I ignored the fact that she was an embarrassment to the planet. In the ten minutes it took for us to catch up with each other, Mikhail arrived with a fresh margarita with a little umbrella for Missy. Only Missy would order a margarita in a Greek restaurant. She brushed his hand coyly as he placed the drink on the napkin in front of her. I ordered a Chablis.

Missy and I had met at Denison University in Ohio my junior year. I had transferred from Pine Manor College and didn’t know anyone at Denison. Missy and I were in the same dorm, and she rushed me hard to join Kappa. Pine Manor didn’t have sororities. It was, at the time, a small women’s college tucked away outside Boston. My parents decided I needed a starter college since I was coming out of a rural high school and fresh from the farm, with no exposure to, well, anything. They also needed a place for me to go and be safe while they packed up and moved to Europe for my dad’s job.

In addition to being sort of a land heir, Dad worked for a big aerospace company in Connecticut. I was the youngest of three kids, and once I was out of the house and safe at my little women’s college, they were free to go with no worries. After two years at Pine Manor, I was ready to move on to different and possibly more exciting things …. in Ohio.

I remember the day I met Missy. I didn’t even know it was rush. Around mid-September Missy showed up at my door dressed in layered Lacoste shirts—pink with green—their collars popped up in the back and a Dean’s Fair Isle sweater draped casually around her shoulders. She was smoking a long, thin cigarette as she leaned into my doorframe, eyeing the contents of my room. When her gaze landed on my Pine Manor wastebasket, she walked right in, sat on my bed, and snuffed out her Marlboro Light in my potted plant.

You went to Pine Manor? she gushed. My friend Naomi went there. She’s from West Palm Beach. She worked at Lily Pulitzer for the summer and got me this belt with her discount and … It went on from there.

~~~~~~~~

Two weeks later on Friday, the grassy quadrangle between Huffman and Crawford Halls swarmed with preppies in various stages of intoxication. I stood at the window and waited for Missy, who finally arrived wearing pink, wide-wale, corduroy pants with little pigs embroidered on them. Her face had a long-extended summer tan, with a bit of orange around the jaw line. She blew smoke through her nose and announced it was time for happy hour. We stepped outside the dorm into a sea of girls dressed in pink and green or wine and silver-blue. Missy pushed into a group of males and made sure she introduced me to every frat rat she knew.

Finally she left me to go find a beer and a boy. I stood alone on the stone terrace overlooking the football field. As I watched the Betas play Frisbee, someone handed me a paper cup full of liquid dispensed from a huge, plastic garbage pail. Hey, I’m Mary. Thirsty? Have some Gallo and ginger ale, said a smiling girl in Levis and a T-shirt. Its awful stuff- but wine is fine, she giggled as she introduced me to a bunch of girls who were also going through rush, although none of us knew it.

When I finally caught on, the idea of pledging a sorority appealed to me because they were kind of like a family. Since mine was on the other side of the world and I was far from Connecticut, I thought that was exactly what I needed. I really liked the girls from the Kappa house, but since my mother had been a Pi Beta Phi, I ended up pledging that house with Mary and my friends Megan, Jill and Sandy.

Even though I didn’t pledge Kappa, Missy and I remained friends for the next two years. Not best friends, definitely, so I was shocked when she asked me to be one of her bridesmaids. After I shelled out an exorbitant amount of money for the dress, the shoes, and the shower and managed to keep her from lip-locking the limo driver at her bachelorette party, my job ended when she and Steve exchanged their I dos. After their tremendously expensive wedding, Missy and Steve moved to New York City, because Steve had a job on Wall Street and she had landed a retail manager’s job in the lingerie department at Bloomies.

Six months later their lives were all set, it seemed. Now she wanted to know what I was going to do and where I was headed: the loaded questions. Mikhail brought my wine, and we both ordered gyro platters with Greek salad. That gave me some time to think about her questions. I had an expensive bachelor’s degree in English literature and no clue what I wanted to do with it. So I answered simply. I like to write. Missy wrinkled her nose as if to say, That’s it? Luckily I spotted Mikhail with our food before the urge to smack her in the eye fully manifested.

I watched Missy dig into her gyro. While licking the tzatziki sauce off her fingers, she announced, No offense, Maggie, but I would never want to read a book about your life. Did I say that? Did I say I was going to write a book about my life? Geez! I had Mikhail hit me for another drink this time a martini straight up. Missy twirled the little umbrella around in her third margarita and flirted with Mikhail, while I brooded about coming all the way to New York City to have lunch with her in the first place. I guess I was trying to recapture what we’d left behind at college. A carefree life at Denison, with no responsibilities and a safe plan for several years already seemed a lifetime ago. I thought about the vulnerability of youth and the expectations of adulthood. Life suddenly seemed so complicated, and I became aware of how some relationships just are not meant to translate into real life.

While Missy inhaled her margarita, I amused myself by watching people in the street. I was mesmerized by a mother pushing a baby in a stroller, towing another child by the hand, with a third child strapped to her front. When Mikhail moved to another patron, Missy’s attention snapped to the scene in the street. As we continued to watch the menagerie, she feigned a gag. Ugh, look at that kid she’s carrying!

The child she had strapped to her chest had a torso so long he could be Danny DeVito in a snuggly. He was huge, way too big to be carried. When I looked closer, I could see he was fastened into some kind of contraption. His neck was limp because he had some type of deformity. His eyes and face were expressionless as his legs dangled beneath the woman’s waist. He looked very old to be carried that way—and she looked haggard.

My heart twisted with pity. I looked away for an instant, as if I had witnessed something grotesque. Clearly the child had a disability that rendered him helpless. I returned my focus, fascinated as the woman made her way down the street. She ignored people’s stares. Her children wailed, but she marched with eyes forward, her stride a purposeful cadence, charging into a battle I knew nothing about.

Following my stare, Missy wiped the muck off her fingers, tossed back the rest of her drink, and made fun of the mother and her children. Suddenly indignant I stared at the woman because I couldn’t bring myself to look at Missy. How dare she? If that child had been an injured animal, would her reaction have been one of disgust? What is it about human nature that holds such a macabre fascination with the deformed but at the same time discards them so easily? Why is it the weak, the old, and the disabled are considered nuisances in our society? I bore shame for my entire species, but mostly Missy. I thought human beings were supposed to be the civilized creatures.

I called Mikhail over and asked to settle our tab. I was finished … with Missy. We said our good-byes on the sidewalk and I watched her click off in her stilettos to catch a cab. I called after her, Say hello to Steve for me, but she was already gone, digging through her purse for a lost lipstick in the back of the cab.

As I walked slowly back to Grand Central Station to catch my train, I couldn’t get the image of that woman in the street out of my head. On the ride back to Connecticut, I felt the agony of that mother’s pain move down my throat and take root in my heart. I was not aware that I had witnessed a prefiguration of my life.

CHAPTER 2

Plaid Pants and Satin Sheets

I let my friendship with Missy dissolve, assuming that she moved on to a successful, affluent, perfect life with no pets. As for me I did what any unemployed graduate with a degree in English literature would do: I took the first decent job offered to me in the fossil fuel parts department of an engineering firm. In the fall after graduation, I arrived at my first day at Turbo Fire wearing a new wool Pendleton suit I’d purchased at G. Fox and Co., the snazzy department store in Hartford.

I was a twenty-two-year old ingénue, fresh from the campus of my Ohio alma