Is He High Functioning?

Is he high functioning?

People often ask me this. 

It usually comes on the heels of my original offering—the offering of my son’s autism diagnosis, all baby bird in my upturned palm.

I understand the question.

I understand the desire to find footing upon the slippery bell curve.

I understand because I do it all the time.

Who is he, this boy of mine?

Who will he be?

I have spent nearly two decades trying to answer this.

Yet answering it feels like more than I can give. 

I was relieved when he was diagnosed. I was relieved to have a name for the set of behaviors that made my day long and scratchy, that made my boy loud and itchy, that made the world feel like a tight wool sweater wrapped around our shoulders. 

Is he high functioning?

It’s hard to say. 

High functioning autism, also known as a level one, is defined as a milder set of behaviors, social delays, and language challenges. 

Some research suggests it means an IQ of 80 or higher. 

You can’t quit autism. That’s the thing. 

You can’t throw your hands in the hair and declare you are done.

You make space for it. 

You admire it one moment, and loathe it the next. 

Then you learn how to listen.

You listen for words between the lines—breath between the screams. 

You have to find the space between the tears to find a reason to laugh, because it’s that the laughter keeps us coming back again and again. It keeps is from throwing open the front door and running down the driveway.

Is he high functioning?

I have no idea.

At eighteen, he continues to struggle with language. The other day in the grocery store when he kept asking for rosetti chicken.

I thought he was talking about some random brand of frozen chicken fingers I must have bought once. 

I walked toward the frozen food aisle, but he kept insisting we go to the section with prepared foods.

He stopped at the long, stainless steel counter and grabbed something in a plastic container with a cardboard handle.

A rotisserie chicken.

He hates my touch. When he was a baby he squirmed from my shoulder as though it was painful. It was like living with a stranger. 

My son. 

Who is this boy? 

I know that sounds ridiculous. I mean, I know the second his eyes open in the morning and I know when he doesn’t have socks left in his drawer because he starts the washing machine. I know his cuticles are red and raw because he bites them all the time and I know he loves the stuffed crust pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut.

I know he is in there.

Or is he?

The thing is, I am scared that beyond this wall of stolen words and scripted phrases there is simply silence—a great, wide emptiness devoid of originality, or creativity, or humor.

I don’t know how to breathe for this boy and not hurt.

Is he high functioning?

I guess so.

He knows within seconds if someone is sincere. He can tell if a person wants to talk to him for autism’s sake, or for Jack’s sake. There is a difference, you see.

Some want to fake-talk with him so they can go home and sit at the dinner table and crow over green beans about how they talked to a nice boy who had autism and it was all very good, really.

Others lean in and hear what he has to offer.

It takes exactly one second for him to tell the difference. If it’s the green bean scenario, he just turns around, and walks in the other direction. If it’s the other way, he bends down close. He tells his secrets.

When I see this in action, I am mesmerized. It’s like watching the ocean meet the shore and say listen, buddy. I know how many grains of sand you have in your soul.

Maybe it’s not about high functioning. 

Maybe that’s not the right question to ask.

Ask if he likes hotdogs, if he’s scared of fire, if he talks about death, if prefers a tangerine daybreak over evening’s purple dusk. 

As him how it feels to dive headfirst off the dock, to find his favorite Oreos in the cabinet, to graduate from high school, to live with a complicated diagnosis. 

Ask about the space between the tears we cry, and where we find the energy to smile.

Ask about the boy who refuses to let me hold him, who shuts me out, whose heart is at perpetual war with an anxiety-riddled spirit.

Ask how we surrender to a life we didn’t ask for, but love all the same.

Ask me. I will tell you. I will tell you anything you want to know.

We never had his IQ tested.