Superpowers

When Mark and I first started dating, he packed a romantic picnic lunch and took me on a hike to a secluded grassy field. He brought along a large soft blanket, flowers, china and silverware and all my favorite goodies lovingly prepared. He looked around long and hard to find the spot with the perfect view for our afternoon together. As he laid the blanket down and set out the carefully prepared delights, my eyes began to itch. I put on my sunglasses, but my eyes began tearing. He sat down next to me and began serving the food, but by this time my nose was itching. I tried hard to enjoy the lunch, but I was sneezing and coughing furiously long before we were done eating, and I had to admit that my allergies were acting up and I needed to leave.

"I'm so sorry," I said (between sneezes) as we walked back, "I ruined our lovely picnic. You worked so hard on it, and we didn't even get a chance to enjoy it. Stupid allergies!"

"Are you kidding?" he said, "I think it's so cool! You're sensitive to things in the air that neither of us can see. You can tell they're there, but I can't. It's amazing! It's like you have a superpower!" Mark had given me a whole new way of looking at a condition that had nothing but frustrated me my whole life. Being able to detect certain animals and kinds of pollen without seeing them isn't exactly the kind of kick ass superpower I might wish for, but in its way, it is still a superpower.

I sometimes think back to that day when working with my son's sensory integration issues. He's hypersensitive to (among other things) certain noises that others don't notice or have learned to tune out. Once, a few years ago, I took him to a doctor's appointment. He sat next to me in a chair staring across the waiting room and saying numbers at irregular intervals, "Two, seven. Three... Six." It seemed like he was counting.

"Six of what, buddy?" I finally asked.

"Pages," he said.

So I looked around. He didn't have a book and I couldn't see any papers around that matched the numbers he was saying. Then I listened, and I heard a printer softly humming, out of sight, in what must have been an office adjacent to the waiting area. Each time the printer stopped, my son would say a number. There would be a pause, the printer would start up again, and when it stopped, he'd say another number. He was listening to and counting the pages as they passed through the printer, something I hadn't noticed at first and then couldn't hear clearly even when I tried.

The printer wasn't bothering him, and seemed to be entertaining him, but other sounds, from a lullaby for his little sister to a neighbor sawing wood, can be torture to him. They rob him of his ability to enjoy situations he might otherwise, just as my allergies robbed me of an opportunity to enjoy that picnic years ago. He and I both have conditions that are a handicap in some circumstances (or eyes), but a superpower in others. Or maybe that mix is just what all superpowers are like.