Happy Birthday Colin

My son, Colin, turns ten years old today. I wasn’t planning to write about his birthday, but the significance of the occasion struck me as I warmed my coffee in the microwave this morning.

And right or wrong, every thought and emotion about Colin is filtered through the lens of his autism. He was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder in 2018. I wrote about that experience in this essay.

I realize how lucky I am to be Colin’s dad, especially since I was so late to the game of marriage and family. His presence reframes my existence. My job, my creative ambitions, and everything else in my life are secondary to being a good husband to my wife, Pam, and a good father to Colin.

Before rushing off to work, I wanted to share some previously published poems about parenthood and Colin, along with some photos of him.

Colin Joseph DiClemente at the pediatrician’s office.

Entrance

As blood, urine and feces stain the hospital sheets,
a nurse tells a mother-to-be,
“Honey, don’t be embarrassed.
What happens in the delivery room,
stays in the delivery room.”

The mother-to-be moans and sheds tears
as the epidural wears off and the labor reaches its climax
with a medieval torture method known as “Tug of War”—
sheets wrapped around ankles, legs hoisted in the air
and pulled apart as the mother-to-be screams
and squeezes her muscles and makes the final push until …
a tiny male human, slimy and alien-looking,
pops out of the womb with a full head of downy, brown hair
and soft, pliable ears like a Teddy bear.

The mother blurts out three words:
“Baby, baby, baby.”
The doctor transfers the squirming newborn to her breast,
and the two bond with skin-to-skin contact.
Love and happiness flow.
The task is completed, the effort done.
The child has safely entered the world.
But the real hard work has just begun.

Colin Joseph DiClemente. Age 2 years, 8 months.

The Great Equalizer

The democratic nature of parenthood.
It doesn’t matter who you are—
man, woman or trans, gay or straight,
Black, white or any other shade,
tall or short, skinny or fat, rich or poor—
when your toddler is wailing
in a grocery store or shopping mall,
when the feet are stomping, the arms swinging,
the cheeks reddened and the tears rolling—
all you want to do is pick up the child
and make the crying stop.

Wealth, social standing and comely looks
mean nothing to kids; they’re not impressed
by your credentials and you can’t negotiate
with these little angels and tyrants who rule the world.
Two clichés apply here:
parenting wipes the slate clean
and levels the playing field.

All mothers and fathers desire the same thing—
the health, safety and
development of their offspring.
The goals are simple amid the frenzy
of a life marked by stress and lack of sleep.
They are: eat the chicken nuggets, drink the apple juice,
recite the alphabet, put away the toys, finish the milk,
wave bye-bye and go down easy at nap time.

Pam and Colin outside NBT Bank Stadium.

Human Anatomy

Beneath the ribs
beats the heart
of a child,
waiting for its mother,
longing to be fed—
not just with milk and food,
but also with love.

Colin playing in the feeding therapy room.

Nap Time

Late afternoon, Sunday, gray light
seeping in through parted curtains.

Mother and baby sleeping on the couch,
hair tousled, right cheek against left breast,
elbows curved at equal angles.

I am awake, drinking coffee,
watching their chests rise and fall,
and trying not to make any noise.

My whole life revealed in the space
of three sofa cushions occupied by
two human beings who need me.

Soon the boy will stir;
soon he will squirm and cry, scatter his toys
and race around the cluttered living room.
Soon we will fix dinner
and wash dishes and take out the garbage.

But now time is suspended like a Rod Serling
freeze frame in a Twilight Zone episode—
a halting of activity, a pause in my Sunday
leading to reflection and gratitude for my blessings.

Warmth, safety and responsibility
are the words that pop into my head
while I observe mother and child stretched out together.
I don’t think about what I lack
or what I hope to attain and achieve.
In this moment, I have everything I need.

Pam and Colin.

Exam Room Revelation

“Autism Spectrum Disorder.”
The moment those words
escape the doctor’s lips,
our son’s future
appears bleaker.
The phrases
“special needs,
delayed communication
and lack of
social interaction” follow.

Sorrow for my son Colin
gushes inside me.
I feel sadness
for the challenges
he will endure,
and for his inability
to have a normal life.

In this case,
love proves impotent.
You can’t intercede
with your heart.
And compassion won’t fix
the little boy
sleeping in his bed
as I type out
this bad poem
while lamenting
the diagnosis.

But love for him
does not decrease.
Instead, it grows stronger.
I am grateful
for the blessing
of the boy he is …
and the man
I hope
he will become—
regardless of autism.

Bedtime

Eventually, I’ll fall asleep,
but until then my kid
keeps annoying me,

flicking on the bedroom light
and screaming incoherent phrases—
bits of songs that make
some sense inside his mind.

Telling him “shh” does no good,
and I can’t decipher the words he speaks,
but I do enjoy hearing the sounds they make
when they escape his mouth,
as I close my eyes and try to get some sleep.

Crying at Bedtime

Nothing prepares a parent
for the tantrums of an autistic child.
There’s no well of patience to draw from.
You adapt. You divert. You distract.
You do whatever it takes to calm the child down—
until you earn that blessed moment of peace,
when his eyelids drop and he drifts off to sleep,
his small body folded in the cradle of your arms.

Colin drew with a Sharpie on the living room floor.

Autism Sleeps

My son sleeps,
curled under a blanket
on the couch.

His outbursts have ceased.
His cries and screams quieted.
His stimming stopped.

It’s like his autism
is in remission.
In sleep, he becomes
like any other child.

Observation After Eating Out

Pity for my son swells.
Yet I feel helpless,
Unable to intervene
To make his autism
Go away.

Our patience dwindles
As his outbursts intensify.
But love does not wane.
Instead, it grows stronger.

I have only one son.
Yes, he is different.
He is noisy and
Requires constant attention.
But I am thankful for
His presence in my life.
And who needs the quiet anyway?

Some Poems for Valentine’s Day

Here are some poems for Valentine’s Day. They were culled from previous collections and were written when I was still single and living in Phoenix, Arizona. I added some photos I took during that time period (1998-2006).

Heart Sunlight. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Solo V-Day

There is no love without another,
no romance when no companion is present.
The self cannot survive on its own.
Affection needs an outlet,
a target to these romantic thoughts.
And happiness demands reciprocation,
because desire withers when forced to remain inside,
and love has no point when Cupid’s bow fails to strike.

Morning on Fairmount Avenue. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

An Involuntary Condition

Here’s to all those whose
birthday wishes never came true—
for the unloved, unlucky and desperate,
for the manic and passive,
for the childless Demeter searching
in vain for her unborn Persephone,
for the clones of Sisyphus rolling
the stones of their loneliness,
groaning under the weight,
straining in the face of repeated defeat.
For the wedding days when
you will not stand upon the altar,
for the groves of family trees
shriveled and lacking offspring.
For all the men and women
who hate being single
and rebel against it every day,
but can do nothing to prevent
becoming orphans in their adulthood.

Slanting Desert Tree. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Nightingale

I have worshipped at the
altar of loneliness for far too long.
I need a love intervention—
a woman, an angel, a friend,
a nightingale to swoop in on my life
and replace the discordant, recurring song.

Late Afternoon Light. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Roommates

My pursuit of a union has ended,
And the desire to keep looking is gone,
Dissolved like Kool-Aid
Crystals in cold water.
I no longer fear the inevitable,
Because it already resides here.
I accept the reality of my adult life:
Loneliness is my only mate,
A discarnate presence
Occupying my twin bed at night.

Overnight Stay

The unattached go unnoticed
in hotel bars and lobbies,
watching couples and
overhearing conversations.
They retreat to their rooms
and fall asleep to the
sound of cable television,
turning up the volume
before drifting off
in order to shut out
the animal noises of
the man and woman
enjoying themselves
in the adjacent room—
while being reminded again
that others are not
spending the night alone.

Sunlight on Chair. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Saturday Night at the Cinema

Couples hurry down the aisle
of a movie theater,
finding seats as the house lights dim
and the previews start.

Locked in a state of solitude,
I gaze at them with envy.
For I remain alone . . .
a single ticket purchased,
no fingers entwined in a warm lap,
no shared overpriced soda or tub of popcorn,
no arm around her shoulder,
pushing aside her long brown hair.

But I am able to forget my life
while the sprockets are engaged.
The shuttering picture seduces me again,
and I become numb to everything—
until the last frame passes,
when knowledge of my isolation
rumbles like a stagecoach procession
across the Arizona desert
in a John Ford Western.

Then the film noir,
black and white feeling returns.
And as the end credits roll,
I stand up and flee
the darkness of the theater,
stepping into the artificial light
of the shopping mall parking lot.

Left-Hand Fetish

With regard to women,
I am obsessed with one body part.
If I spot a woman I like
seated in a crowded café,
or walking through an airport,
my eyes travel directly
to the top of her left hand.
I need to know right away:
Does she wear an engagement ring
or wedding band?
Is she free to love me,
if she so chooses?
Or is she already partnered
with another man?

The Look

I noticed that look—
that look that
she was looking
at him instead of me.

I was neither cast aside,
nor dismissed outright,
but much worse—
completely overlooked.

Hurtful Words

The voice of a woman
I admire from afar
pierces the afternoon air.
Her voice mingles
with other sounds
inside the lobby
of the Phoenix Art Museum
on a Saturday in February.
The woman does not
intend to be cruel.
Yet she crushes my heart,
dispersing romantic hope,
when she delivers
a simple sentence,
beginning with the words:
“My boyfriend is . . .”
She proceeds to tell a co-worker
about her weekend plans,
but I stop listening,
as I realize
there’s no point
to knowing more.

Embrace the Futility

This essay was published in the Spring 2024 issue of The Awakenings Review. I’m grateful to editor Robert Lundin for giving me permission to publish the essay on my blog.

In the pediatric surgery waiting room, my wife, Pam, and I sit on a couch, watching a television screen as Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg testifies before a House subcommittee about the data-sharing scandal involving Cambridge Analytica. It’s April 2018, and we’ve been here all morning since bringing our two-year-old son, Colin, to the hospital for an anesthesia-induced auditory brainstem response (ABR) test.

The audiologist steps into the room and shuffles toward us with his eyes cast downward. He’s short and balding with grayish-brown hair on the sides of his head. After he directs us to a more private area, he says in a low voice, “He’s doing fine. The test went well. It’s good news from my perspective, but maybe bad news for you. His hearing is fine, perfectly normal.”

“So what does that mean?” I say.

“It means his hearing isn’t the cause of his delayed speech.”

“I knew it. I knew it,” Pam says.

We would receive the official diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder (ASD) a few months later. And as Colin has grown, during moments when he refuses to eat, take a bath, or leave the house, or when he throws tantrums—his face bright red, his arms flapping, and his voice emitting high-pitched screams that reverberate off the walls and ceiling—I have repeated two mantras in my head: “Embrace the Futility” and its softer sibling, “Accept the Inevitable.”

Colin’s room. He loves to line up his toys in patterns,

I use these twin sayings as coping mechanisms to brook the vagaries and hardships of life.

I take no credit for inventing the verbiage of Embrace the Futility. One of my co-workers at a broadcast news wire service in Arizona shouted the phrase several years ago when we were understaffed on the overnight shift and getting inundated with news summaries and audio files sent to us from multiple markets across the country.

Embrace the Futility sounds like a negative concept, but it is a positive and freeing principle (at least for me).

It guides my behavior with one central dictum: I am not in control. The world is a dealer at a Las Vegas blackjack table, and the house always wins. My mental approach is, “Expect the worst and be pleased when it doesn’t turn out that way.”

At an early age, our parents teach us that we will live for a short time and then die. The rules of the game are rigged. We know the score at the outset, and the contest ends in our defeat.

Embrace the Futility and Accept the Inevitable give me the freedom to let go of things I am powerless to control. As a result, I reconcile myself to an existence dictated by failure, sickness, and eventual death.

This is a personal philosophy based on my lived experience; it may not work for everyone. But Embrace the Futility and Accept the Inevitable have helped me to endure the inexorable rough patches in life.

I am consumed with pity for my son, knowing his autism—his diminished ability to communicate verbally—puts him out of alignment with the rest of the world. In this case, love proves impotent to effect change or prevent the hurt he will absorb as he grows.

Colin sitting in the stands on the first-base line.

I understand I am professing ableism. I recognize Colin’s disability should not be viewed as a problem that needs to be fixed. But as a parent, I know his autism dictates his future, making his life more difficult. Colin may never lead an independent life. He may never enjoy what neurotypical kids experience—playing organized sports, going to college, falling in love, and working full-time.

I can’t wish away his autism or intervene to make him “normal.”

I could lament the diagnosis. I could resist—to metaphorically bang my head against a cinder block wall and expect to make an opening. Instead, I acknowledge that I cannot “cure” Colin, and I accept him unconditionally. And amid the many challenges of raising an autistic child, Pam and I savor ordinary moments with Colin, relishing his squeals of laughter and his blithesome presence as he jumps around our living room.

Pam and Colin.

But Embrace the Futility and Accept the Inevitable have universal applications. Your car breaks down. You file for divorce. Bankruptcy, fraud, cancer, a broken femur, or a flooded basement—sure, bring it on.

Embrace the Futility and Accept the Inevitable can help anyone reframe the unavoidable “suckiness” of life. You don’t ignore the mess, but you admit you can’t control it. And it’s OK to let go—to reconcile yourself to what the universe throws at you.

Since age fifteen, I’ve had multiple surgeries and radiation treatments for a slow-growth, benign tumor at the base of the brain, near the pituitary gland. The latest surgical intervention came in July 2023, when a neurosurgeon and an ears, nose, and throat specialist teamed up, taking a transsphenoidal approach (through the nose) to extract tumor remnants that had affected my vision. Even as I write these words, I know the craniopharyngioma will eventually expand in my head and another date on the operating table looms in my future.

I was also diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis in 2017. The disease has altered my digestion and lung function while leaving me with bent, aching fingers.

And while I do my share of complaining about these medical conditions, I also Embrace the Futility of my body breaking down, since the decline is inescapable.

My late father, Francis Sr., offered the best example of Accepting the Inevitable.

When he was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2007, an oncologist gave him the option of starting chemotherapy, but the doctor stressed the dismal odds of the treatment elongating my father’s life. My dad curled his bottom lip and said, “Why bother? What’s the point?”

Dad, side angle. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

He rejected tubes, injections, and trips to the hospital. He endured his fate with stoicism, making the best of his last six months on earth, placing bets at OTB (Off-Track Betting), racking up credit card debt (which would be wiped out with his death), and eating sweets he had eschewed previously—Klondike bars and Little Debbie snacks—before dying at home under hospice care.

So now, when circumstances beyond my control arise, I follow my father’s model. I submit, acquiesce, and capitulate—assenting myself to a fate I cannot sway. And this allows me to move forward without resistance to the vicissitudes of life.

A Mother’s Day Poem

Here is a Mother’s Day poem in honor of my mom, Carmella. It’s from my collection The Truth I Must Invent (Poets’ Choice, 2023). I realize it’s a dark poem, but it doesn’t fully express my mother’s identity.

As a dad now, I also understand that all parents are flawed, imperfect people. My mother likely struggled with undiagnosed depression. And this particular poem captures only one side of Carmella, not revealing the truth of her kindness, generosity, diligence, faith and love.

Carmella DeCosty Ruane.

I also believe any memory of deceased family members and friends—even negative ones—venerate the individuals and keep their spirits alive. Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms and mother figures out there. Where would any of us be without you?

New Year’s Reflections

New Year’s Eve 2023. Time to rewind and then hit reset.

I’m grateful for getting another 365 tokens to drop into the slot machine. Another 365 scratch-off lottery tickets to play. Another 365 chances to be better than the day before.

Card from David’s Refuge.

I’m closing out the year filled with both anxiety and excitement.

By all accounts, 2023 was a pretty good year for me. I made some strides as a writer and filmmaker.

I earned an Emmy (my second) as part of a production team at Syracuse University.

Photo by Shane Johnson.

I published a full-length poetry collection, The Truth I Must Invent. I published a couple of short stories and a short play in some literary magazines.

The Truth I Must Invent book cover.

I completed two short documentary films, Ralph Rotella: The Sole of Syracuse, which premiered at the Syracuse International Film Festival and was an official entry at the Culver City Film Festival, and The World Series of Bocce: A Celebration of Sport, Family and Community, which is awaiting festival decisions.

World Series of Bocce title screenshot.

I completed a feature screenplay and a full-length coming-of-age memoir (a ten-year project!). But despite numerous revisions, I still don’t know if the words on the page are memorable or whether either project will come to fruition (e.g., production or publication).

So those are my accomplishments in 2023. Big whoop, right? Yada-yada-yada. Blah-blah-blah.

Here are the standout moments during the last calendar year.

In June, my Aunt Teresa, a.k.a. Sister Carmella DeCosty, visited Central New York to attend the funeral of her brother, my Uncle Fee, in Rome, New York. She stayed with us in Syracuse, and we had a lot of fun catching up.

Pam and Aunt T.

A flashback of Aunt T. during a holiday at my maternal grandparents’ house. I think that’s me on her lap, with my mom in red and my Aunt Pat in black.

My seven-year-old son, Colin, who is autistic, enjoyed trick-or-treating for the first time this Halloween. I think he actually “got it” this year.

Colin getting ready to trick-or-treat.

I spent Thanksgiving with my brother Dirk and his family in Rome and my sister Lisa and her family from Ohio. The best part—no snow!

For the holiday season, my wife Pam hung a stocking for Colin in mid-December and gave him little presents every day—stuff like Kinder Joy eggs and Play-Doh. He seemed to understand the concept of Santa Claus, and he was excited to open presents on Christmas morning.

Pam and Colin.

Pam went back to school this fall, enrolling in an occupational therapy assistant program at Bryant & Stratton College. The workload was arduous, but Pam scored high grades during her first semester.

But the most significant event of 2023—I survived my sixth brain surgery with my brain function and memory intact. In July, a team of neurosurgeons and ENT surgeons at Upstate performed a transsphenoidal (through the nose) surgery to remove parts of a craniopharyngioma that had been growing near the pituitary region, affecting my vision. I had a cerebral spinal fluid leak during surgery, but the ENT surgeon repaired it, and the patch is holding nearly six months later.

I wish all good things for you in 2024. A partial list includes: Love, family, faith (whatever you choose that to be), employment, health, health insurance, kind co-workers, transportation, clean drinking water, food, a home, a roof, four walls, a furnace, indoor plumbing, electricity, clean air, and trees. Lots of trees. I am supremely thankful for all of the above.

I leave you with a couple of New Year’s-themed poems. It’s amazing what you can find when you do a word search on the Poetry Foundation website.

January by Weldon Kees

Morning: blue, cold, and still.
Eyes that have stared too long
Stare at the wedge of light
At the end of the frozen room
Where snow on the windowsill,
Packed and cold as a life,
Winters the sense of wrong.

Poetry magazine, March 1951.

New Year’s Eve by Maurice Lesemann

The towers give tongue, the wailing horns grow loud;
And this odd planet where we wake and are
Has once again, amid a tumult of cloud,
Swung safely and serenely round its star.

Poetry magazine, April 1932.

Back to the Blog

It’s been too long since my last entry. I’ve been busy with work, family, creative side projects and a recent bout with a stomach flu (now resolved).

Winter has given way to spring-like weather in Central New York, although I’m not hauling my winter coat to the dry cleaner just yet.

And I wanted to return to the blog because today I made some interesting visual discoveries that I wanted to share. I left my cubicle at the office this afternoon to join one of my colleagues on a B-roll video shoot at Shaffer Art Building on the campus of Syracuse University. Some College of Visual and Performing Arts’ students were working on a professional film shoot for a project written and directed by a VPA professor.

While I stood in the hallway, I took notice of my surroundings and captured these images.

Light hitting wall. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Steenbeck. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

I was so excited to see this Steenbeck editing machine. It made me think of Martin Scorsese’s longtime editor, Thelma Schoonmaker. I’m sure she edited some projects on a Steenbeck. I actually used one when I was a graduate film student at American University in the early 1990s. The machinery is now a dinosaur in a non-linear, Adobe Premiere/Avid/Final Cut world.

The next two images were terse, profound statements that I consider poetry. The words made me stop, pay attention and ponder their meaning. I wish I had the author’s name to give proper credit and supreme praise.

Selfishness and Loneliness. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Pray to be Loved. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

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