I have a son who has autism. Autism is a disorder that is hard to
describe and even harder to diagnosis. My son Phillip was almost three before
my first husband and I became concerned about certain behaviors, and more
importantly, skills that were not developing. He was six before we found a team of doctors
who could tell us what was wrong.
When Phillip was born, he was the most beautiful baby I had ever
seen. A large number of nurses and my doctor agreed. He was a drop-dead
gorgeous baby; a head full of sandy golden hair, huge dark eyes, and a beautiful
skin. My husband and I couldn't believe how wonderful our baby was!
The first few weeks were pretty tough, but we got through them and
eventually I learned to tell the difference between cries, how to bathe quickly
and thoroughly, how to combat diaper rash and the hundred others things that
every new mom has to learn. Phillip seemed to be completely normal, even better
than normal. He hit every development milestone on time or early. We talked
about sending him to Harvard.
The first time we noticed anything was amiss was when Phillip was
three. We were visiting my in-laws and Phillip was running around playing, making
us all laugh. My father-in-law asked Phillip a question and Phillip didn't respond. He asked again but Phillip barely even paid attention to his granddaddy.
My father-in-law asked me, “Why doesn't he ever answer me? He acts like he doesn't hear.”
It was like being hit with a brick. Even as I denied that anything
was unusual, I had already realized that my father-in-law was right. Phillip
did talk, sometimes non-stop. But he rarely talked to us. We had to ask him
direct simple questions repeatedly in order to get a response from him.
I decided to take off that summer to spend more one-on-one time
with Phillip. We needed more observation to get an idea of what was going on.
We also took Phillip out of daycare and enrolled him in a half-day preschool
for the following year. I would only work in the mornings, again so I could try
to get a grip on what was happening.
The next year was busy. I was pregnant with my second son and was constantly
sick. We bought a house and moved. (Actually, I didn't do much moving. I was
too busy throwing up.) I spent every afternoon with Phillip, reading and
playing with him. I called the local
school and was able to get a ruling of speech impairment for him. We paid the
speech therapist to come to our house, since the schools offered no services
before age four.
We consulted with a local child psychologist, who told us Phillip
was hyperactive and spoiled, and that I was a weak mother. He was the first of
four doctors we would go through before finding the doctors at Ochsner’s
Medical Center in New Orleans. Remember this was in 1993, twenty years ago, and
autism was considered a rare condition. Most of the doctors had little training
or experience with autism.
Phillip was almost six before we got his diagnosis. We spent a
week at Ochsner’s Medical Center in New Orleans, having physical, neurological,
and emotional testing done. It was an incredibly stressful week, as we
struggled to get to each appointment while handling a two year old toddler, and
a frightened five year old.
At the end of the week we went to meet with the team doctors who
had overseen Phillip’s testing. A kind aide had offered to watch Daniel, our
younger son while we talked to the doctors. As we sat in the small white room
where doctors delivered unwanted diagnoses to frightened parents, I watched my boy
play on the floor as the doctor’s spoke. I looked back and forth from the
doctors to my boy, wandering if we were talking about the same boy. My Phillip
was smart, already reading and learning math. He just couldn't express himself
very well. He just needed some kind of therapy and he would be fine.
The doctors told us Atypical Autism, Pervasive Developmental
Disorder, Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder, Expressive Language Disorder, and
Functional Retardation. The whole scene
was unreal and difficult to understand. I felt like the floor had fallen away
under us. They told us that Phillip would never read; never progress much
beyond the level of development he had reached. We left the room holding
Phillip’s hand as if he might drift away if we let go.
That night my husband and I knelt beside the hotel bed, watching
Phillip sleep. We prayed, pouring out our grief and pain to the Lord. We wept,
wandering what was to become of our son, where could we find help for him? And
we knew that this could not be the end of Phillip’s story.
© Copyright 2013-2013, Magistra Vitae| Linda Simpson.
All Rights Reserved
"By posting content to this blog, you agree to transfer
copyright to the blog owner. Comments using foul language or of a disruptive, rude manner will be deleted."
