Safe to say, the pandemic hit people with intellectual disabilities especially hard. My 26-year-old son, Kevin, has autism spectrum disorder and COVID-19 delivered a multiple whammy — he lost all his social relationships, his dog Jasper died and he couldn’t visit his grandma and grandpa, both of whom passed away over the last two years. Kev still doesn’t understand that, no, that’s not Grandpa driving that gray Buick in front of us.
So much loss. And, frankly, regression in how he interacts with the world. His anxiety soared, and he is now working with a behavior coach to manage it.
That’s why I found myself choked up at Kevin’s serendipitous — and successful — reunion with one of his old friends: Santa.
Kev is a Christmas guy. Around 2007 — he would have been 10 — he met the real-deal Santa. We were shopping for poinsettias at Molbak’s Garden + Home in Woodinville when a Nordic-attired Santa approached and introduced himself. Eyes wide with a grin ear to ear, Kev reached out and grasped Santa’s hand and held on to it. I mean, actual Santa’s actual hand.
In a side conversation, Santa John, as he is known, told me he was a retired special-ed teacher. Who knew? That training explains why he understood Kevin in ways most people don’t, and why Kevin reacted so openly. Kev talked about it for days. Such a gift, and every year since. My husband once sent the Molbak’s bosses an email about the effect these visits have on our son. And Santa himself wrote back.
Later, when it wasn’t Christmastime and we stopped by Molbak’s for gardening supplies, I had to warn Kev that Santa was on vacation and was not at the store. He would ask about that as we drove by sometimes: “Santa still in Tahiti?”
Then, that damned pandemic struck. Kev was living in a nearby group home. I noticed when I was picking up my poinsettias in December 2020 that the Molbak’s folks had erected a cardboard version of Santa. Genius!
Well, I couldn’t bring Kevin to Molbak’s but I asked a nice employee by phone if I could borrow Cardboard Santa and bring him over to Kevin for a picture.
She called back with a better idea: Santa John was willing to come to the group home and greet Kevin and his roommates outside, distanced and masked. Thrilled, I told his home’s manager, who was open to it. Sadly, within days, Kevin, his roommates and their caregivers were hit with COVID-19.
No Santa that year. I gathered some of the pics of Kev with the Real Deal, made a photo cube ornament and dropped it off with a milkshake for his sore throat. Not the same.
In 2021, with vaccines on board, Kevin and I went to Molbak’s. Bemused, he stood next to Cardboard Santa. Again not the same — but Kev was a good sport and smiled.
A year ago, I saw Father Cardboard again. I wondered — even worried — how Santa was doing. Kevin and I often speculated about Santa’s vacation — Hawaii, Ireland, Kenya? And we hung the photo cube ornament on the tree.
Fast-forward to last weekend: Kev and I made our annual poinsettia pilgrimage. After I scooped up some plants, we began browsing. Then I noticed some activity near a room labeled “Events Center.”
No … could it be? I ambled over, hoping I could get a glimpse without Kevin catching on. Was there some inadequate substitute? Kevin is his mother’s son, after all, and he can spot a fake.
It was the man himself — Nordic duds and all. I kicked myself because we didn’t have an appointment, and I worried about my son’s reaction if we couldn’t say hi. (These visits are offered to members by email, which I missed both last year and this.)
But Santa’s helper checked her list — maybe even twice — winked and said, “I can get you in.”
We stood out of the way against the back wall; Kevin spied his old friend and started to rock from foot to foot, joy spilling all around the room, sloshing over the dogs and kids assembled in their Christmas best. Everyone smiled with glee. Santa John looked up, eyes wide with recognition. He waved back.
We waited. I coached Kev about how great it was to show Santa how patient he can be. We each took five deepers: inhale/exhale. We checked our anxiety levels. We were both in the “Green Zone” — all systems go.
There would be no meltdowns today! No way.
The tail-wagging golden retrievers and teens humoring their parents cleared out of the way.
Kevin’s turn.
“How old are you now, Kevin?” Santa asked, patting the chair next to him. Kev gave the wrong answer, giggled and plopped down, slipping his hand through Santa’s arm.
You read that right. Santa remembered his name. (That was the moment when I felt the lump in my throat and had to take another “deeper.”)
More kids and dogs were waiting, so no time for a side conversation. “Thanks for everything, Santa,” Kevin said.
With a catch in my voice, I told Santa how wonderful it was to see him. And how much we had missed him. Truly. But I was emotional about more than that.
In my mind, I flipped through the pictures back to all those years ago, when Santa John first saw Kevin for who he was.
(OK, going full cornball here: Cue “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town,” the Bruce Springsteen version.) Santa sees us all — right? Sleeping, awake, naughty, nice or in need of a little extra calm understanding, connection and good vibes.
Over those 16 years, these two pals probably spent no more than an hour together. Kevin can’t converse in conventional ways, but their connection is solid. And Kev, his dad and I have spent hours talking about Santa and where he went on vacation. It has been a gift that stretches the whole year round.
It all has meant so much. … And to Kevin, too.
Merry Christmas.
The opinions expressed in reader comments are those of the author only and do not reflect the opinions of The Seattle Times.