EMTs, firefighters and police officers all have something in common. When crisis arrives and everyone’s running away from it, they’re the ones running towards it. They’re the first on the scene to help, to rescue and to serve. In my world, the term “first responders” means something a little different.
The first year after my son’s autism diagnosis — now five years ago — was by far the hardest. The news hit us like a mack truck. We were lost, confused and in many ways, in a state of grieving the “what could’ve been.” But probably more than anything, I felt alone. I’ll never forget our first responder, “Dana.” She was the first one to reach out. She has a son with autism, and she told us the first year would be the roughest… but she also told us things would get better. She said we’d find our therapists (we did). She said we’d find a school (we did). She said we’d find our “village”(we did). She said we’d find our way (we did). She was the first of our “first responders.” I’d later meet all the aforementioned amazing people who would also become first responders. The ones who reached out. The ones who came to help. The ones who came to “rescue.” The ones who’d devoted their lives to serve kiddos and families like ours. “Dana.” She was the first of my first responders. That’s something you never forget. That’s something I hope one day to pay forward to someone else in need. I hope one day I can be someone’s first responder. Full blog
Share:
