Timothy Parsons lived almost 38 years and every day contained struggle. His speech would always be hard to understand. Placed on the autism spectrum at four, he didn’t know the term “neurotypical,” but he knew he was different. He feared being labeled crazy or retarded.
As a kid he excelled at climbing and at catching catfish. He learned, with great effort, to swim, ride a bike, and take the tiller of our sailboat. He won the 50-yard backstroke heat at county.
He played sports with peers who pulled further and further ahead year by year. Friendships were hard to come by, so he treasured a bracelet someone made for him.
School grew to be nearly impossible, but he followed football, if a family member was an alum. Baseball, so his brother took him to a Brooklyn Cyclones game. He loved amusement parks. He kept money “you couldn’t spend” that an uncle bought from overseas
He would never be able to drive a car, or live independently, but he hoarded keys.
Timothy’s easiest path was work, if it was real, adult work. His first paid job, the summer he was 15, was school custodian. He ran the buffer, had lunch with the rest of the crew, and got paid on Friday, just like everybody else.
At 30, he began working as a custodian at his neighborhood McDonald’s, with regulars to schmooze with and coworkers who valued him. And a paycheck. After seven years, he applied for and got, a job at another restaurant. “Mom,” he said, “the lady said I’m just what they’re looking for!”
Long before his dad went on the lung transplant list, Timothy put “organ donor” on his state ID. He knew this was a real contribution, one he could make without struggle, but with pride.