9 To 190

“Max is here,” my son said on cue and immediately ran to the bathroom. The receptionist smiled at me and called out, “Hi Max.” But Max was already busy with his primary goal…a full examination of the bathroom fan system. It’s a Braun fan, in case you were wondering.

Nurse Sally led us into an examination room and began asking the list of questions that has become so familiar with each yearly physical. What meds is Max taking? How is his diet? How about his sleeping pattern? Sally engaged Max, asking him questions even though he struggled to answer.

Finally, the doctor came in. Our relationship has become friendly now, the edges of our defined roles slightly blurred from wear and tear, from 22 years of autism. I met this doctor when Max was just one week old and weighed 9 pounds. I remember desperately wanting to look showered and capable at that first appointment. I’m sure I was neither. Back then I never could have imagined the road ahead, the diagnosis and divorce, the challenges and beauty. After the doctor examined our new baby, he turned to us and said, “Good work.”

And how is Max doing now? The doctor asked as he reviewed Sally’s notes. And how about his behavior? And what is his day like now that he’s finished school? Most pediatricians only see patients until they reach the age of 18, but this doctor asked Max to stay on. We chatted a bit, laughed a lot, and then I looked over at Max. He was sitting beside me, all 190 pounds of him, his broad shoulders stretching his shirt. There was a quietness about him, a peacefulness. And the moment caught my heart.

That first one-week appointment had been in this very room. And it was here, a few years later, when I first heard thoughts of autism, back when I managed my son as he bounced around like a human Super Ball grabbing at toys, lunging at the door, screaming in fear. There were times I sat in the waiting room of this office allowing myself to glance at the glossy child care magazines filled with clever crafts and star-shaped sandwiches, knowing it was written in a foreign language. But life never stays the same; it is different today, in ways I never could have imagined. Max is different. And maybe I’m different too. Max isn’t cured of autism, by any stretch. But that’s not my measuring stick. I put my arm around Max, and turned back to the doctor.

“Don’t you think it’s remarkable?” I said interrupting his questions. “I mean, not many people have seen the whole journey. And you have. You’ve been here for all of it.” I clutched my purse across my lap to cover the spider vanes on the tops of my legs – a permanent record of my son’s young feet jumping endlessly on my lap. “Don’t you think it’s amazing to see who Max has become?”

The doctor’s shoulders fell a bit and he stopped taking notes. He looked up at us softly, the years suddenly showing in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “It is quite amazing.”

The exam continued, but I couldn’t help but think about all of the people who have come in and out of our lives over the past 22 years. Some have been with us for a season and we have been blessed to know them. Others have come into our lives only to turn around and leave. But a few, a very few, have been here through it all. How thankful I am for them, for our history, for their faithfulness. And in turn they are witnesses to God’s sustaining and abundant grace, His perfect plan to change us and grow us closer to Him.

We finished the exam and Max bounced out of the room, back to his favorite bathroom fan. I turned to the doctor, still overwhelmed by this time-capsule moment, and I stretched out my hand unsure if a hug wouldn’t be more appropriate.

“Thank you for staying with us on the journey,” I said as our hands met. And then I smiled and returned the words he had given to me some 22 years ago.

“Good work.”

—Emily Colson