There are two types of people in this world, and today, I encountered both.
For a fleeting moment, I found myself forgetting—forgetting the countless emotions that swirl within me when I think about my son’s special needs and the challenges we face daily due to his condition. We were walking along our cherished path in the local woods, a rare sunny day illuminating our surroundings. I held my eldest son’s hand while his younger siblings dashed ahead, their father playfully chasing them while pushing an unoccupied wheelchair. In that laughter-filled moment, I momentarily set aside the weight of my thoughts and snapped a photo, embracing my oldest son as he whistled with joy.
It wasn’t until I noticed a family of four ahead of us, pausing to look in our direction, that reality struck. At first, I thought they were amused by my husband’s antics, but then I realized their gaze was fixed on my son and me.
We often visit these woods early to avoid the crowds that can amplify our discomfort. It’s sometimes too painful to confront what we’ve missed or to endure the stares, comments, and avoidance from others. We aim for our eldest son to enjoy his time as much as possible, considering his sensory sensitivities.
A friend once asked me if people genuinely stop to stare at us. Regrettably, I confirmed that this happens far too often.
Suddenly, I felt a wave of discomfort as I witnessed my son Ethan’s distress. His fists came crashing down on my stomach, followed by his roars and bites. My husband soon reappeared with the chair, and we carefully secured an agitated Ethan into it. Our other boys stood by, accustomed to these moments, understanding that sometimes we need to prioritize Ethan’s safety.
Once Ethan began to calm, I sensed the eyes upon us. A couple with two little girls observed us from a higher path, adding to the feeling of being judged. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, knowing that we are being scrutinized. Perhaps they were merely curious or concerned, but the act of staring itself can unsettle us in an instant.
After loading the boys into the car, we headed to the beach, determined not to let anything spoil our day. We’re fortunate to live on the west coast of Ireland, surrounded by stunning landscapes. The beach was tranquil, and my middle son, Leo, delightedly snapped photos of Ethan engaging with us—a rare glimpse of his personality, which Hunter syndrome often obscures.
As we sat on a bench, trying to capture a family photo, Ethan unexpectedly slapped his father and bit him. I prepared myself for the inevitable judgment from an approaching passerby. To my surprise, the man offered to take our picture instead. His lightheartedness amidst our chaos caught me off guard.
Ethan was in full meltdown mode, yet the man smiled and took our photo. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of our situation. This kind stranger reminded me that not all observers are critical, and that sometimes, moments of imperfection are worth capturing.
In a world divided into two types of people, let’s aspire to be like that kind stranger.
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In summary, while we navigate the complexities of raising a child with special needs, let us strive for understanding and kindness in our interactions with others.