Fourteen Versions of Autism
I.
Mother’s Day. A balmy green morning. He arrives, all nine pounds, three ounces. Instantly, I fall in love with his pink newborn ears, his tiny fingernails.
My life is forever changed, in ways I cannot begin to comprehend.
II.
The crying doesn’t stop. He is sick all the time. A deep, barking cough. Ear infection after ear infection. He never sleeps. We never sleep. Desperately, I hold him close.
I don’t know what else to do. What is wrong? Something’s wrong.
Fear flutters beneath my ribcage. A trapped bird with wings the shape of a boy.
Jack Jack Jack.
III.
Tests. Lot of tests. I sit behind glass and watch. His eyes are empty. He doesn’t clap for the pretend birthday party. He doesn’t look at the grimy doll.
I hate that doll.
IV.
The doctor’s office. His face his kind. His tie is blue. Jack whirls and screams. He slams his shin on the filing cabinet. He drops to the floor, shrieking. Gently, the doctor asks if he ever comes to me for comfort.
No, I say.
Oh, he says.
And I know. Now I know.
V.
He said Mama. All blue eyes and curved face. Mama. Once, then he walks away.
VI.
First grade. Anxiety descends upon him. He chants nonsense. He is afraid of the bathroom, the wind, the dog next door.
VII.
At the stoplight, I see a boy his age bounce a basketball on the sidewalk. My throat tightens. I envy the ease, the relaxed shoulders and smooth gait. Autism stole that from my son.
I look over at him in the passenger seat.
What will he do?
Who will he be?
I love him fiercely.
VIII.
We meet each morning in the light of a purple dawn. He toasts waffles. I pour coffee. We orbit one another. We trade facts about the windchill factor like two court reporters. Secretly, I long for a real conversation. Something beyond the celebrities and the weather.
IX.
He fills my spirit. He breaks my heart.
X.
Please, stop staring at him. Stop staring at us.
I know he jumps. I know he twitches.
As me. Ask me anything. I will tell you.
XI.
Puberty. The perfect storm. I don’t know how to handle the outbursts, the calls from the school, the desperate disconnect between us.
I am lost. I am failing.
Every day he comes home from school and curls up inside the bathtub. Without water, he cocoons inside the porcelain.
I follow his lead. In the morning, I smooth the blankets on his bed, hoping it will make for a more restful night. At the grocery store I buy avocados – his new favorite.
Slowly, there is ease.
Slowly, we make it to the other side.
XII.
High school. What’s next?
What can he do?
Who can he be?
Still, we are two court reporters. Still, I remain hopeful.
We drop his older brother off to college. I watch him trace the windowsill, the desktop, the bedframe. He has always seen the world through his fingertips first.
He wants this for himself, I think.
Back home, I sit at my desk. I begin to imagine possibilities.
I make phone calls.
I am confronted by the de facto discrimination that is the world. The lack of programs and spots. The empty void into which I am afraid we will fall.
My stomach sinks.
My heart is determined.
I am determined to give him a patch of earth to call his own.
We fill out forms. Carefully, he signs his name at the bottom.
He breaks my heart.
He fills my spirit.
I measure time in the trajectory of sunlight across my desk.
The deep gold of autumn.
Winter’s watery blue.
The white inside January deep chill.
February. This is our month.
The month of hearts, of snow, of newness.
He is accepted.
XIII.
A red cap and gown. A deliberate walk to Pomp and Circumstance.
A flurry of shopping for kitchen utensils. A new quilt. Blue towels.
How can I let him go?
Who will he be?
Who will I be?
XIV.
July.
Raindrops pelt the windshield.
By the time we arrive, the sky is bright again.
We unpack. He traces a new space.
In the parking lot, he turns one way. We turn the other.
The caged bird no longer flutters.
He begins to fly.
