The Weight of It

“Thank goodness! That’s it?” The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

The doctor’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That’s not the response I was expecting,” he said.

But what was he expecting? Tears? Grief? A mother unraveling at the news that her daughter was autistic? I wanted to explain—wanted to tell him that after watching my son’s body weaken, after hearing the words “terminal illness,” nothing else felt nearly as devastating. Autism wasn’t a death sentence. Autism was life, just a different kind.

I had learned long ago that people’s expectations rarely matched my reality. “HM3 Butierries, front and center.” I fell out of formation and proceeded to the front to receive the unexpected award- an honor. But as the medal was placed in my hand, it felt heavier than it should.

All I could hear was the Sergeant Major’s voice—low and angry, meant only for me, “You disgust me.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing into my chest. Why? The question had lived in me for years, a dull ache beneath the surface.

I stood at attention as the formation dispersed, the medal clutched in my palm like something stolen. Maybe that was what he saw when he looked at me—someone who had taken what wasn’t mine. A woman in a space he thought I didn’t deserve to stand in. I wanted to turn and ask him, “What did you expect from me?”

Later, I found myself asking the same thing of the doctor.

“My daughter can live a full and happy life with an autism diagnosis,” I told him. “Unlike her brother, who has Spinal Muscular Atrophy. Anything is easier to bear than that.”

The weight of a word. A diagnosis. A medal. A moment.

I used to think honor came with ribbons and medals. That grief came with tears. That suffering had a singular shape. But I’ve learned that weight isn’t always measured in metal, and loss isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it lingers in the silence after an unexpected diagnosis, in the echo of words meant to break you, in the sharp relief you hesitate to share—and in the quiet certainty that, despite everything, you will carry it all anyway.

_____________________________

Lori Butierries is a full-time caregiver to two children with disabilities. She uses her life experiences and the medical knowledge she gained from serving as a Hospital Corpsman in the United States Navy to help others facing similar hardships. Lori is an author for The Havok Journal, an official columnist for AwareNow Magazine, and a contributor to The Mighty. Likewise, other news sites like MSN and Yahoo! News have also republished select articles Lori has written. Lori’s writing extends to children’s literature. Her debut picture book, GIFT FROM GOD, was self-published at the beginning of 2021 and placed as a finalist in two categories in the 2021 Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Lori’s long-term goals are to use her writing to educate others about, advocate for, and dismantle negative stereotypes regarding disability, mental health, and the military/veteran community.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.