Stunned and Alone

There I sat, at my mother's table, alone, confused, abandoned, and mad. The women from the school district had left, but their words remained like ghosts that repeated over and over, "We have come to the conclusion, along with the Psychiatrist and Developmental Specialist, that Cameron has Autism."

I was not prepared at all to hear such news. Cameron did not talk, but Ron's niece didn't speak until she was five, and now she's an honor student. Cameron didn't crawl until 14 months or walk until 27 months, but he did have pronated feet that he had to overcome. Cameron didn't hold his own bottle, feed himself finger foods, or show any interest in regular foods, but his older half-brother was not just a picky eater, he was downright fearful of anything that did not come out of a fast-food bag. Sure, Cameron had some issues, but we could rationalize them away. Were we not all "quirky" in our own little ways?

I thought back to some articles I had read in the obstetrics' office about children with Autism, but they didn't sound at all like my Cameron. My Cameron was social. He loved to tickle, hug, laugh, be read to, and look lovingly at those he was close to. Yes, he did focus intently on flicking his fingers close up to his eyes while he rocked on the floor, he was obsessed with ceiling fans, and he did have screaming fits when exposed to certain sounds. However, to label him as "Severe" and "Autistic" was preposterous and hurtful!

Over two years I had trusted and befriended these women: Cheryl (childhood specialist), Pam (physical therapist), and Jamie (speech therapist). I welcomed them into my home twice a week and Cameron adored them as they played together on the floor. How could they so blatantly and coldly drop this bomb on Cameron and I, and then just walk out the door? Cheryl did say, during their report, "This doesn't change Cameron. Cameron is still Cameron." Who the hell was she kidding? This changed everything.

I picked up the paperwork the women had left for me to review. The first was a copy of Cameron's Denver Developmental Screening Test (DDST). The test was administered by the school, and included our (Ron's and mine, and my parents) input as well. It covered of all aspects of development: social/emotional behavior, motor skills and coordination, cognitive abilities, and language and speech. At age two years and eight months, Cameron's highest score was just over one year for social/emotional behavior and his lowest scores were under six months for both language/speech and cognitive abilities. Cameron's motor skills and coordination fell within the two ranges. I looked for errors; they had to have miscalculated something or perhaps omitted some key information. I read the report over and over, but I could not find anything misleading or erroneous.

I picked up the second form the women had left. It was an application to the Michigan Department of Mental Health for a family support subsidy in the amount of $222.11. Cheryl had already filled in the diagnosis information and signed it. All I had to do was attach a copy of our tax return, sign, and return in the attached envelope. That was it. There was nothing else. There were no pamphlets defining Autism, no booklets filled with happy parents of cured children, no lists special Autism schools, no course of action, no prognosis, and last, but not least, no hope.

I knew what Ron was going to say. He did not believe Cameron needed any intervention in the first place; he maintained that his son was stuck in a system based on the school's economy -- more kids in the program equaled more funding for the school. He was already mad at me for "opening up this can of worms" as he called it. I considered not telling Ron about the results. But, damn it, he was my best friend - the "love of my life", and this is our son, if I could not talk to him and get support then I would simply implode! I put my head down on the table and started crying.

After a few minutes, I sat back up, and read the report again, this time looking for points to convince Ron of that which he was so vehemently avoiding. Ron insisted Cameron was just doing things "in his own time", even if "in his own time" meant missing milestones completely. I likened Cameron to a child putting his life together like a puzzle; Cameron was building his own puzzle, but he was putting some pieces in the wrong spots and throwing some pieces out completely. A sad picture of Cameron's future formed in my mind. I choked back my dreams of him proudly handing me a crayon masterpiece saying, "It's a picture of you and daddy to put on the refrigerator," and replaced it with a withdrawn, mute, and emotionless child being teased and tormented on a playground.

Ron was clearly in denial in regards to Cameron's missed benchmarks, and he was going to flip a gasket when I give him this news. He was already mad at me for commenting once, when I took off work for Cameron's therapy, that Cameron was my number one priority. Ron resented that statement, and he would haunt me with it for the rest of our marriage. Ron loved Cameron and loves him more as each day goes by, please don't misunderstand my words; Ron envisioned a marriage that was just us two - children, including his own son from a previous relationship - would be loved, but marginal to our relationship.

I looked over at Cameron. He was rocking in his favorite chair in my parent's living room, a blanket covered his head. I could tell that within the confines of his personal tent he was flicking his fingers; "stimming" is the term the women used for this, and it refers to self-stimulation. I called out to him, "Cameron!"

The rocking and stimming continued.

"Cameron!" again I called out, hoping beyond hope that this was all a bad dream and he would remove that damn blanket from over his head and reply, "yes, mama?"

Nothing. No reply. No cessation of stimming. I went to him and picked him up as I sat back down into the rocker with him cradled in my arms. I removed the blanket from his head and stroked his cheek. He smiled, completely oblivious to my saddened face stained with tears. He giggled and pulled at my hair.

It was true. It was all true, and there was no denying it: Cameron had special needs. Why him?! Why me?! I had just lost my sister-in-law, Yvonne, one year earlier to cancer, and I was still grieving that loss. Now, I had "lost" my son and could feel my marriage slipping away too. The reality flooded over me and I broke down into a cry that I had been holding back since Cameron's doctor sent him in for testing at six months of age.

I felt abandoned and so very alone. I wanted desperately to call Yvonne; she would know exactly what to say and what to do. But, that was no longer an option. Instead, I cried. I cried for the child I had just "lost". I cried for the young man that would never be. I cried for the arguments that were going to come when I took Cameron home. I cried for the time, not so long ago, when everything was perfect and Ron and I were so happy.