Last night I was thinking about October 2000, Daniel's 4 year visit to the new pediatrician I don't know why. Sometimes it just comes back to me. I got out of bed and wrote this. I've been holding it in my drafts not sure if I should put it out there. It didn't seem a very Christmasy thing to write. It was almost Daniel's fourth birthday when he was diagnosed with autism. It was together one of the worst and best days of my life. Worst for the obvious. Best because it gave me answers and strategies and the people to help us figure out this thing called autism.
The day before. An argument. Who has and hasn't done what. The anxiety of not knowing what's going on with our child. Anxious to see the new Dr. the next day. Words were exchanged. Not knowing who else to blame.
In bed that night I said a prayer.
It was simple, "God, please don't let it be autism".
People think I don't know. They think denial is weighing me down. They think they see it and I don't. I've spent 3 years, 24 hours a day with Daniel. I knew there was something. I thought I didn't know what. Do they really think I don't know?
God, please don't let it be autism
I'd found avenues to break through with him. I know it can be done. Why can nobody else see it? See him?
God, please don't let it be autism
The Dr's office. Daniel is scared. It's a new place. He is screaming. Confused. It's a bad day. Laying on the floor of the office screaming. Red with anger and overload. Screaming, kicking, screaming. We just let him be.
God, please don't let it be autism
The nurse, asking questions, does he do this? No. Can he do that? No. Concern on her face. Her face is etched in my mind forever. The face of a person who may finally say it.
God, please don't let it be autism
The Dr. has the look of someone about to share something huge. He is struggling. He is upset. He finally says it. I think Daniel has autism. The words hang in the air.
Is Daniel still screaming? I can't hear him if he is. The room becomes an empty barrier. I sit there. Silent. I can hear my husband softly crying. I've hardly heard that before. I can see the pain on the Dr's face. The nurse is still there. She is watching me. I'm not moving. Not talking. Not crying. She takes my silence as bravery. It is not.
God, why is it autism?
