A couple of weeks ago, I sat in the doctors office with Boo getting a refill of our various medications.
Scripts in hand I took a deep breath and asked the question I have been meaning to for years.
Could I get a disability parking sticker for Boo?
The doctor reached into his drawer and pulled out a pen. Those novelty pens that big pharma give out to doctors so they will prescribe their wares.
He handed the pen to Boo, just like he always does – I am sure he saves them up for him, this doctor being the type that I suspect has a list of prompts for each patient. Mine is ‘how is your mum?’ (grrrrrr, she is his patient too), Boo’s is ‘Here is a pen, just for you because you are an artist’ – and expressed surprise that I didn’t already have one.
I dropped my list of arguments I had been obsessively folding and unfolding, reasons why we so desperately need this flimsy blue and white laminated card, into my open bag and watched him fill out the form.
‘You have problem? Tell them to call me!’ He exclaimed. Picking up the phone handset for emphasis.
And today that blue and white card came in the mail.
I will admit my eyes welled up.
The relief unexplainable.
No more scoping out car parks for the safest spot. A spot where there is no traffic.
A spot close enough to the doors for a quick escape if it becomes all too much for my overwhelmed boy.
A spot where I don’t have my heart in my mouth as he flings open the door, mentally calculating how much it will cost to repair the car next to us if he buries our door in theirs.
This flimsy laminated card opens a world to us.
The ability to go places without the stress of the car park looming, before and after. I can relax somewhat, not ever hypervigilant trying to keep one step ahead of my flighty oblivious boy when parking on the street. Never doing a full shop cause I need one hand to hold onto him, or be able to chase him if he takes off.
This flimsy laminated card is more for me than it is for him.
Along with my phone and the freedom that affords me when he is not in my care, I am one step closer to having a ‘normal’ life.
Well the kind of normal I want, anyway.