OK

Himself and I are talking in the kitchen.  It has been an emotional few days; I have had a number of lumps removed following a cancer scare and am in a fair bit of denial, Lid has just had her provisional autism diagnosis made, and I have run out of mentalism tablets.

Himself is finding Lid's diagnosis easy to accept.  She is still, to his mind, a pain in the arse, she is now merely an autistic pain in the arse.  He cannot understand why I am upset by it, he has no idea why it is bothering me as we "knew" that she was autistic when we went for the appointment.

My attempts to explain to him that it is the loss of hope that is killing me; that before it was said aloud by a paedeatrician it was merely a supposition, a theory as to why she behaves like she does are met with baffled looks.  I tell him I blame myself for ruining my kids' lives, because what other explanation can there be?  Both share my DNA and not paternal DNA, so it must be my fault that they are like this, that they are autistic and, because of that, I have stopped them from having the lives they might have had if they weren't.

I say that I have seen how The Boy has suffered, and he has suffered, make no mistake, from his diagnosis, and the idea that his sister will also go through it is unbearable.

In a very quiet voice, Himself tells me I am being a dollop.  He reminds me, very sternly, that of course it isn't my fault, that there is no proof of a genetic link "causing" autism, and that some children just are.  He says that actually, I have done an amazing job with our children, that if I weren't their Mum they really would have suffered.  He tells me that he admires that I don't give up, that if they have gotten anything from me it is this, that I have given them the "Wiltshire's Don't Quit" spirit.  He tells me that it will all be ok.

I am cross with him for being so nice, and I am cross at myself for being affected by what he says.  I drag my sleeve under my nose, because I want him to understand that, I want him to plumb the depths that he outwardly refuses to.  I want him to be me.

"And what" I ask, "if it isn't ok?"

There is a palpable silence, during which he looks at me, holds my hand and tells me in a most un-Himself manner "Why wouldn't it be ok?  Of course it'll be ok.  It'll be better than ok, because you're their Mum. Wiltshire's don't quit, do they? Dollop."

My hair is ruffled.  I am dragging my sleeve across my face to mop up the various parts of it that are leaking.

OK? It better be.