Autism | Calderism

The first sign that our outing to catch a hockey game was going to be a disaster was that our dad decided to buy tickets spur of the moment. When our mom asked if he had selected seats in the special needs section or in an empty section, our dad confidently answered that he picked even better seats — the cheapest ones. That seemed fine to Cald and me because it meant extra money to splurge at the Chik-fil-A drive thru, which is Cald’s favorite near-daily habit.

On the way to the game, we enjoyed our meal, especially Cald, who ate half his food and mushed half of the fries onto the car floor. We were making okay time until we hit the downtown area, when traffic came to a complete stop. It turns out, not only was our local team playing, but there was also a carnival in town. While our parents tried to navigate through the maze of cars — and were having a miserable time — Cald and I were having the time of our lives. We were listening to his iPad while watching Tiktoks on my phone.

Cald was a ball of joy and he was probably thinking our parents were being melodramatic and moody (his words), but oh boy, he didn’t know what was coming for him. By the third period of the game, we were still driving in the heinous traffic and the idea of going back home sprung up. My dad said if we didn’t find parking in 15 minutes we would. At the 14th minute, we found a spot. By the time we parked, Cald was already not in a mood to walk anywhere, but he was definitely in a mood to show us how he felt. He squirmed, squiglged, and made multiple requests to be carried. Eventually I succumbed and carried him.

The arena was loud. I mean, really loud. There were horns blowing and screens with flashing lights, and music playing at full blast, and roaring crowds, and a fight on the ice. But the stadium wasn’t packed, we passed a near empty section. I caught our mom looking at all that space longlingly. And I also saw her clench her teeth when my dad dragged us through to take the middle seats of a middle row of a completely packed seating area.

Cald was so overwhelmed. He cried. He squirmed and kept trying to climb out of the row. I tried to cheer him up with some snacks but he was inconsolable. I felt helpless because even though he had started out excited to go on a spontaneous adventure, it was clear that this adventure was heinous for him. He couldn’t handle the sensory overload. He couldn’t calm himself down. We couldn’t calm him down. And worst of all, he thought that the trip was ruined and it was his fault. We lasted no longer than one minutes at the game before we had to leave.

Thinking of how Cald blamed himself for this disaster made me really mad. It’s not his fault that loud noises and intense lights upset him. And it’s not his fault that the only way he can express his misery is by trying to physically escape. I want Cald to be able to go on adventures and enjoy all the things that life has to offer — hikes, hockey games, movies, Chik-Fil-A drive thru, music, and travel. But it’s clear that we have to plan for these adventures. They can’t be completely spontaneous. We have to think about what will make these trips fun for him. We could have brought headphones. We could have booked seats in the empty section. We could have gone on Autism night, when the stadium lowers the lights and the noise level.

We’re not going to stop taking Cald on trips. In fact, he’s requested we go to Universal and i know that we will have a great time going on intense rides and exploring Harry Potter World. We are, however, going to better plan for those trips. It won’t be a spur of the moment trip. My mom will probably pack and plan for every contingency. And I will be there for both the fun times, and the times when Calder needs a sensory break.