Thanks for the Ride

Today was Sam's last day at Theraplay.  He has been in therapy there since he was three years old.  I remember bringing him for an evaluation after he had been approved for Medicaid.  I was nervous and sat in on the session, still grieving and numb from his diagnosis with autism.  The therapist was efficient and matter of fact about Sam's delays and told me that he would qualify for physical therapy services.  A few weeks later, therapy began. I remember watching Sam ride the little horse, Molly, that was often chosen for the youngest clients.  She was soft and white,  with beautiful, long eyelashes which she used to flirt for carrots and sugar cubes.  Round and round the ring Sam rode, with his therapist and volunteers at his side.  They would have him face forward, backwards, and even sideways in the saddle, all part of the science of hippotherapy.  I would wave to him each time he passed, like other parents do as their kids ride the carousel at the zoo.  He looked so cute in his riding helmet and I thought about the irony of him riding horses at such a young age.  When I was a girl, I was horse-crazy.  I took one riding lesson a week and lived for that hour.  I loved everything from the smell of the leather saddle to the soft nose of the horse nuzzling my hand.  It got too expensive eventually and I had to stop riding, but my love for horses remained.   It delighted me to see Sam riding; it was a kinship I shared with him.  Danny and I would enjoy our time at the barn greeting the horses in their stalls, cuddling barn cats and offering dog biscuits to Ike and Milly, the friendly dogs who roamed around the stables.  The waiting room was full of families.  Mothers chatting about their kids, new interventions, IEP's.  It was a happy place, despite the challenges the children were facing.    When Sam achieved all his PT goals several years ago, he was transitioned into OT.  He has had several therapists over the years; all had a wonderful enthusiam for their work and helped Sam to make great progress.  At three, he was hardly talking and had tantrums when asked to push himself beyond his comfort zone.  He would work to identify letters of the alphabet posted around the riding ring and say "go" and "stop" to direct the horse.  At age eleven, as he rides  he tells his therapist about his favorite tv shows, what he got for his birthday and plans for his his vacation to Hilton Head.   He no longer rides the pony named Molly as his long legs would probably drag along the ground.   Instead, he rides big, handsome horses, always gentle, and sits tall in his saddle.  In the clinic he worked on cooperative play with his peers, seeking sensory input and appropriate outlets for his anxiety.  His therapist always had encouraging words for me and told me how much she looked forward to her hour with Sam each week.  Maybe she said the same thing about all her clients, but I believed her and left feeling lucky that I was Sam's mom.  We parents crave and treasure these kind words. 

A few months ago I received the letter from Medicaid I knew was coming.  Sam was denied continued services.   The state is in financial crisis and cuts are being made in every area.  The letter stated that he should be discharged with a home program, administered by his parent, I suppose (as if I have time to run a clinic in my home).  I rationalized away my anger, knowing that this was inevitable, that an appeal would be denied in these tough economic times, that another, much younger, child would take his spot and this is the natural course of things.  But when his last session ended today and his therapist brought Sam  to me in the waiting room, the tears came. Tears for time passing, Sam growing older, doors closing, the challenge of finding new ways to help Sam and keep him from the dreaded regression that can occur with termination of services.  Our lives are full of goodbyes; some barely cause a ripple while others leave a gap in our hearts.  As a parent of a special needs child, I am very aware that the responsibility lies with Bob and I to help Sam find his way in the world.   The State of Indiana does not know Sam, my son.  He was just a name on a list of children who had "aged out" of the system.  I will move forward, seek out different therapies, and love Sam with all my heart.  Theraplay will continue to help many families and we will always be grateful for all those Tuesday afternoons spent there.  Life goes on...