When our son David was diagnosed with autism shortly after he turned three, I initially experienced a giant sense of relief. Now we had a name for it. Now I could understand it better – understand him better, really – and now we could have some plan of action for his life. A month or so passed before I realized I was experiencing a different response to the diagnosis. This time it was grief, and I was startled by the suddenness and the severity of it. I grieved for the things he would never be able to do. I sorrowed over the fact that he and I may never have “normal conversations.” I wondered what the future really had in store for him, and ultimately I agonized over the fact that I felt like I was being a big drama queen.
That first year was a whirlwind of physical therapy, speech therapy, special ed. preschool, and the beginning of melatonin administered nightly (otherwise known as sleep for two very exhausted parents of an insomniac). I was grateful for all the help, especially the therapy, as long as we were able to get it. Still, part of me often wondered that first year if he really needed all that therapy and help. There were some days when he didn’t seem “autistic” at all, and when he was with his peer group, he seemed to manage pretty well. He may have been off to the side playing by himself, but it didn’t seem all that abnormal. After all, he was THREE, I reasoned, and of course three -year-olds are going to be stubborn and crazy and a little odd sometimes. Then, every once in a while, we would have one of those days that reminded me all too painfully that yes indeed, David was and will always be autistic.
Now he is six. He is a little kid shoved into a big body. He towers over his little brother, who is just a year younger than him. I have seen recent glimpses that foretell that his little brother will be surpassing him in many areas soon. His older sister is light years ahead of him both in common sense and in academics. He is starting to realize that he is not quite sure where he fits in.
The thing is, for the most part, David is completely unaware of people. He doesn’t interact with others (besides his siblings) very much and has a hard time grasping why we wouldn’t do things his way. This behavior was completely acceptable to his classmates when he was three. Three-year-olds could care less about proper social interactions and manners. Now, however, the difference between him and his peers is ever widening. Every day, I am looking for ways to help him bridge that gap or at the very least learn some methods to get by.
I am so used to his mannerisms and quirks that sometimes I still forget about his autism. I know God knew exactly what He was doing when He blessed our lives with David. And, oh, the stories we can tell of our experiences with him! Just yesterday, we went out to dinner. David insisted on using the restroom all by himself, but past episodes have proven that he cannot be trusted to go in alone. So Chris went in with him. A few minutes later, they emerged, and Chris looked as if he were going to burst in laughter at any second. “What happened?” I asked. He smirked. “Well, that was embarrassing,” he said. “Of course, David walked right up to the urinal next a man and started talking to him and asking him wildly inappropriate questions. And you know how he does it in that monotone voice. He was completely serious, and I’m pretty sure that guy had no idea what to say. When David asked him if he had ever pooped watermelon seeds, I knew it was time to get out of there!”
Ha! Our little man, who really has little sense of humor, has a gift for making us laugh just when we think we’ve been stretched to our breaking point. I can’t imagine life without him, and I certainly can’t imagine life without autism. The journey we have traveled together so far these three years has been nothing short of miraculous, breath-taking, and amazing. Now, when we hit teenage years, I may have a few other adjectives to describe this path we are on. . .
dandelion bouquets 