What's his prognosis, doctor?

Late Spring, 2004

Dr. MacMaster entered the room. Ron was seated in the chair, while I played with Cameron on the examining table. Cameron loved the sound of the paper crinkling under him, so we played our game of "who could crinkle the paper the loudest?" Cameron laughed out loudly at the doctor; he was always excited to see Dr. MacMaster! I stepped back as Dr. MacMaster took over the game with Cameron.

"How's my little buddy today?", he asked as he tickled Cameron and teased him with the paper. Cameron let out one of his big belly laughs along with a huge smile.

The doctor then turned to me. "I know the developmental specialists have been working with Cameron for some time now, and my nurse tells me that they've diagnosed him with Autism."

"Yes." I replied. Quickly I hoped that his next statement would be that they were wrong.

"They're very thorough up there (referring to the staff of the special education department), they have a great team, and they are committed. I have other parents that work with them and they're all quite happy with the work they do with their children."

I was crushed. This isn't what I wanted to hear. He was agreeing with them -- he was taking their side.

"We're seeing more and more of this," he continued, "although I only have two other children that come to see me that have been diagnosed with Autism. I do know that it's such a broad diagnosis, and can come out in so many different forms. Five years ago I rarely heard of a child in this area with Autism, let alone have one as a patient, but now I personally have three patients under the age of four," he paused and switched his attention from Cameron to Ron and I. "What can I do for you today?"

"You can pull out your prescription pad and fix this," I thought angrily to myself. Instead "we don't know," is what came out of Ron's and my mouths. There was an uncomfortable silence for what felt like minutes, but was probably more like seconds.

"I can do a little research," Doctor MacMaster said, "and see what's working for my other families. Other than that, I truly believe that your best bet is to keep on doing what your doing; continue the in-home therapies, try to keep Cameron engaged, and don't fall for any "quick fix" treatments you may find on the internet. Families have lost fortunes on those. Sadly, there are those out there that will try to profit from your desire to cure your son. There is no cure, but therapy does help."

This was all so clinical. Where was the rage? Why wasn't the doctor insisting that we get second opinions, schedule appointments with specialists, or start him on the latest drug treatment? Why wasn't he yelling, "STAT", and rounding up the medical troops in his office to come in right away and fix my child? Why wasn't he telling us that the University of Michigan or the Mayo Clinic had great success in curing Autism? At the very least, why wasn't he crying?

"Will he ever talk?" was all I could ask at that point.

"It's hard to say, many do obtain speech -- even if it's limited, but some don't. The school has speech therapists that will work with him, and they'll work with various devices to help him communicate. Like I said, keep on doing what you're doing. Early intervention is key with these children, and luckily, Cameron has been with them for about two years now," he then turned his concern directly to Ron and I, "How are the two of you holding up?"

"We're fine," Ron quickly stated before I could tell the truth, "I just think so much of this will come in time. My niece was speech delayed until she was five, and now she's an honor student at U of M. I believe that Cameron is just Cameron and he's working on his own schedule. I know Joy's really upset about this and wants a quick fix, but I think I agree with you; we just need to keep on doing what we're doing and he'll get there."

I wanted to scream. Ron was retreating - he'd given up the fight he had in him as recently as that morning. The doctor never said Cameron would get "there", for "there", to me, meant "normal, talkative, lots of friends, normal schooling, college, career, family..." Dr. MacMaster never committed Cameron to getting "there". To me, the doctor iterated that Cameron would get "somewhere", but no one -- not even the doctor who could cure everything else we had ever taken to him -- knew where that would be.

Furthermore, I was not fine. I was hurt. I was sad, distraught, alone, confused, mad, bitter, and just about every other "negative" I could possibly be! I had just lost my son. My dreams for him had died, just like Yvonne, my sister-in-law that had passed away from cancer one year before this. I knew that Cameron hadn't died, per-se, but it sure as hell felt like it. I was the furthest from fine a person could ever be, and my husband, my best friend, couldn't understand that.

Ron and the doctor switched the conversation to Cameron's pronated feet and the need to get Cameron to see a pediatric podiatrist. "I'll have my office schedule an appointment for him. There's a great doctor in Traverse City. He'll probably prescribe braces for his feet that he'll have to wear in his shoes. Most kids don't like them at first, but it will give him more stability, and he'll get used to them. In time, he'll more than likely need surgery, but they wait to do that until he's around 12."

I couldn't believe it. We had no real plan of attack for the Autism. And, to add insult to injury, Cameron was going to have to wear leg braces.

Ron and I walked out of the clinic with no more answers than when we arrived. In the car, Ron checked his cell phone and commented that he had many calls to return. "I'll have to work late tonight," he declared, "I've got workers and my boss wanting answers now." He returned phone calls from the car, as I sat quietly. Cameron was in the back seat playing with his talking Elmo doll.

"Can you take that away from him?" Ron asked as he held his hand over the speaker of his phone, "I don't want this worker to hear that stupid thing going off." (Cameron had a way of rapid push-buttoning his Elmo doll to keep repeating parts of phrases - it was, to say the least - quite annoying.)

And so it went. The Ron that sat with me on the couch comforting me just three days ago was back to being in denial. I felt like Cameron and I were interrupting Ron's work time, and I was over-reacting, and wasting his time. I might have been wrong. Looking back now, I understand that it was Ron's way of coping -- I think he knew deep down that I was falling apart, and since he couldn't fix it, he needed to keep that which he could together; maintaining the day-to-day was his best course of action. Nevertheless, being a protective mother and, I'll admit it, a bit too thin-skinned, I took it personally.

I carried Cameron in the house and quickly removed his jacket, shoes and socks. Cameron would fuss something awful until his shoes and socks were off his feet. How on earth did Ron and Dr. MacMaster think I was going to be able to put braces on him every morning? They had no idea what I was going to have to go through for that to happen. I sat and played with Cameron on the floor while more and more questions and worries popped in my head.