Dear Stranger
Your son's autistic, just like mine.
by Amy Lutz
September 13, 2007
For some reason I don't entirely understand, when it comes to autism, the analogies fail and the gratitude disappears. "It's not the same," Keri said, when I pointed out I would want someone to tell me if that bruise on my child's leg was actually a tumor, or if those few seconds of blinking were really an epileptic seizure. But why isn't it the same? "You could be wrong," Keri said. And I agree — it would be unbearably cruel to unnecessarily send any parent into the emotional tailspin that follows such a diagnosis. But in Ben's case, I wasn't wrong. When a child exhibits delays in language and socialization, along with quirky behaviors like covering his ears and repetitively touching his hands together, there's no doubt an evaluation is in order.
One explanation may be that parents who have been insulated from the autism epidemic tend to hold many false assumptions about the disorder. They're utterly unable to reconcile their happy, affectionate child with the rocking, head-banging, withdrawn autistic of their imaginations. A second factor may be offense at the perceived implication that the mother is a bad parent for not noticing problems obvious to a complete stranger. Whatever the reason, it's really too bad. Because who better to help identify the tens of thousands of undiagnosed autistic toddlers and preschoolers out there than the parents who know autism better than any general practitioner — parents who have read the books, examined the research and seen firsthand the different manifestations autistic spectrum disorders can take?
So what happened with Ben? When I couldn't stop thinking about him two I do believe we are all, in some ways, responsible for one another.weeks later, I went back to his music class. Only his mother wasn't there. Instead, Ben was under the care of a nanny. As the teacher was wrapping up, I mentioned that Ben reminded me of my oldest son at that age. I didn't mention autism at all, just that Jonah was a late talker — an approach my sister recommended as being least likely to be met with hostile rejection. I asked the nanny to tell Ben's mother that, because of his language delay, he qualified right now for free speech therapy from the county, and the nanny said she would.
In all likelihood, this will have no effect on Ben's immediate future. I know if someone told me, when Jonah was twenty months old, that I should call the Early Intervention Unit, I would have thought, he's not even two yet. But maybe, if Ben's mother already has her suspicions, this might prompt her to pick up the phone. In any case, I carried my babies out to the car relieved that I hadn't let that family pass out of my life without at least planting a seed of concern. Because I do believe we are all, in some ways, responsible for one another, and that we need to share our experience when necessary — even if, especially if, it's experience we never wanted.
©2007 Amy Lutz and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Amy S.F. Lutz's work has appeared in dozens of
literary journals, including Cream City Review, The American
Poetry Review, Puerto del Sol, and Mid-American Review. She and
her husband have five children. She and her sister chronicle their two-family household in the blog whoelsewantstoliveinmyhouse.com |
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