First came the questions. Why hasn’t he crawled? Walked? Talked? Milestones missed. Every other child in Mommy and Me passing him up. Was I just being a nervous first-time mother? My heart told me I wasn’t.
The teacher took me aside. “Call the regional center. See what they have to say. What could you lose?” Only all my plans. Only a whole future. Soccer and music classes replaced with evaluation after evaluation. Imagination, movement, strength and speech all scrutinized. In my home they came to judge, scrawling a new path for us, erasing the one we had made.
At Christmas, the formal diagnosis. Autism. Anger first. Then sadness. And finally defeat. Some say mourn the child you thought you’d have. The one that you felt was promised to you. Others say “What’s to mourn? My child is perfection.”
The therapies are grueling, and I imagine him screaming, trapped in a world I cannot access. He sees my world through gauze and he’s desperate to join me in my dimension. Other times he likes to hide away from colors too vibrant and noises too loud.
His outbursts are blinding. His furious scratches scar my arms. Maybe this is him trying to join my world. Stuck at a revolving door always just missing an opening. His rhythm perpetually off by a beat.
It’s lonely here. In this space far from my child. Far from others whose lives are consumed by playdates and zoo visits that I can never join. He runs away from me in public places. The gauze over his eyes and stuffed in his ears.
Therapies continue. Never ending. Forever present. We’re constantly second guessing ourselves. What choice will we make that will accidentally erase any progress we’ve made? I’m spent. I burnout. I need something, anything to show this is working and we made the right choice.
And one day, tears blossom in the gauze. He locks onto my eyes and suddenly I know he’s crossed over and I know he knows I’m his mama.
One day he says, “I love you”. He’s finally here. In that revolving door he found an opening.
I know I’m one of the lucky ones. Other mothers of autistic children will never hear “I love you.” I’ve been given the gift of his voice. His questions his wonderings. I will get my chance to explain my world.
My son is autistic. It took me time to accept this because I am not perfect. But he is.
Bethany Lopez 