Journey to Pamukkale

Pamukkale, Turkey 2021

It’s not easy to travel with two little kids in any circumstance. My two sons are both nonverbal and diagnosed with Autism, plus other exceptionalities. So, on top of being young humans, they also have to confront their heightened sensory perception, lower threshold to regulate emotion, and many other challenges due to the neurological difference in their brains. They are beautiful, joyful, good boys. But there are days (still) when we can’t even get from the door of our house to the car door with them.

We’ve abandoned trips to go to the grocery store, to the playground, and to visit someone next door at different times. Given all that, I have to honestly say I thought I might never travel again, especially during the younger years when the boys were both still in a stroller because they just would not keep walking and, instead, threw themselves (kicking and screaming) on the ground in a continual cycle of frustration (for me and for them). I thought we might have to stay inside our little house in Atlanta forever.

And then one day we moved across the world to Ankara. My husband, Alper, got a work opportunity in his hometown, so we sold our cars and home and everything inside it. We packed up a few suitcases, strapped the boys into a double wagon stroller, and flew to Turkey. My husband’s parents are retired and split the year between Ankara and the resort city of Bodrum. That first summer after we arrived, we drove down to visit Babaanne and Dede (Grandma and Grandpa) on the coast. It took us two days, and we stopped at Pamukkale because it’s one of the most beautiful and famous places in Turkey, and it was right along our route. We weren’t sure how (or if) we could walk up to see the “cotton castle” (pamuk = cotton + kale = castle) from the carpark with the boys.

Alper and I are both travelers. We can put on a backpack and walk for hours. We can sit in a busy bus station and wait for a day. We can eat protein bars and drink water from our fanny packs and be perfectly content as long as there’s a beautiful view on it’s way. Or whatever it means to be a traveler. What I learned on this walk to the cascading salt pools of Pamukkale is that our sons are travelers, too. Of course they are. For many reasons, I dismissed that part of them because of their disability. And that’s my learning curve, in both motherhood and as a caregiver.

Charlie, our oldest, age six at the time, set his gaze on the horizon of the path to Pamukkale and set out on a journey. He led us up the hill in the heat, took us into the shade of the giant trees swaying in the wind, and naturally slid off his shoes before immersing himself in one of the healing thermal pools at the edge of the cliff. Archie, age three, followed his older brother and whistled with that absolute contentment only a child can relay as he splashed around. I tried to absorb that fleeting moment as I absorbed the rays of the sun, standing there watching my precious guys commune with this holy place.

Both boys were fitted with medical drop harnesses and then each one attached to one of us (to our backpacks) by a spring tether, as directed by their doctor. They elope, which is a scary word with a nightmare on the other end for any parent. It means they run. At any moment, for any reason, they will run at full speed and disappear in the time it takes us to tie our shoes or order a sandwich. So we attach them to us. This set up has brought us much shaming and some pretty distasteful heckling from strangers during outings, but it was a literal lifesaver on the cliffs of Pamukkale. We swam, we soaked, we drank fresh-squeezed orange juice. We didn’t worry. We took pictures like tourists.

We watched the sunset as we walked back to the car past the ancient city of Hierapolis, with it’s temples and columns built by the Romans and Byzantines, ancient rulers of this place, ancestors of my sons. As we walked, I could feel the spirits of these ancient grandparents guiding the boys’ steps, welcoming them home. No shaming, no heckling from these guardian entities in the pink fading light. Only acceptance and wishes for a good journey ahead.

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Thank you for reading Postcard Memoir.

Good journey,

~Emily Lupita

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