Boy – talk about a delay in processing – and I’m not talking about the paperwork!  Around 18 months ago, shortly after Sasha turned 18 (and after much discussion regarding the most appropriate attire) I dressed Sasha in her best business casual, along with ourselves, and headed to the courthouse.

We met our attorney there.   Thankfully a jovial, robust man whom I’d already met in prior weeks. Something about his spitting image to the late journalist Tim Russert brought me comfort.  I simply knew that everything was going to be OK.  Organized however, he was not. Nor punctual.  And so we three checked in with the county clerk and waited to be called while waiting for “Tim”.  Waiting never helps, and so as I sat it allowed my mind to wander. What if this doesn’t happen? I wondered.  Regardless, I figured…if this doesn’t go as planned, we’ll have some funny story to reflect on.    Silver lining.  But if things didn’t go as planned, that meant I’d no longer be the legal custodian over Sasha’s educational, medical or even residential decisions.  Yikes.  

You see, if a child is deemed mentally or developmentally incapacitated, upon their reaching adulthood at the age of 18, they then require a guardian.  If a parent chooses not to apply for this legal status, then a guardian  is selected by the courts and the child (or adult rather) becomes a ward of the state.  As a parent, this of course presents some internal struggles.  Haven’t I always “guarded” Sasha?  Why can’t I simply remain Sasha’s parent?  That summer I couldn’t help but feeling like she aged out of a more intimate category in our lives and became somehow an item of property.  But there were other concerns – I was remarried – with Sasha’s biological father living out of state, what if that came up?  But really, I just wasn’t quite ready for this, but I didn’t know why.  Despite being forewarned of the guardianship process many years prior by other special needs parents, in the back of my mind I thought, but that likely doesn’t apply to me, right?  In my warped mind this thought ran through: for this to ever apply to me, Sasha would have to reach the age of 18.

Ooof, and there it was, the underbelly.  The real reason why I felt so anxious in those days leading up to Sasha’s 18th birthday and our subsequent court date.  It wasn’t so much that I thought the courts wouldn’t rule in our favor, it was more that I couldn’t believe we were there.  I felt such gratitude and elation but also, such sadness.  Sadness because I was shocked that Sasha reached the age of 18.  Sadness because as she sat in that huge courtroom, with its honey hued wood paneled walls and state seals hanging above, I watched a stern judge allow just a glimpse of empathy to wash over his face.  He asked detailed questions about Sasha’s daily care.  He inquired about her decision making abilities, her safety awareness, her skills and her interests.  And for once in my life, as I gazed at “Tim” for guidance, I knew not to sugar coat.  I knew it would not be wise to inflate Sasha’s current state.  As Sasha sat in her over-sized leather chair with her little microphone in front of her, I knew that she could hear my answers.  I gazed at her and thought “I am so sorry”.

As the gavel fell, Sasha immediately stood erect to leave.  I shook Tim’s hand as his ruddy face beamed, his doughy cheeks bouncing with pleasure while congratulatory words were exchanged.  I thanked him as Sasha and her tan corduroy blazer took Mike’s hand to depart into the August sunshine.