Autism's Subtle Aches

Just about two years ago, our youngest son was diagnosed with autism. We were actually pretty fortunate; my wife had noticed tiny clues early on--earlier even than an official diagnosis was possible--so we'd already been receiving help. And he tested "high" on the spectrum--indeed, the doctor said that he was in a small percentage of children that could, with early intervention, come to test "off the spectrum" when they got older.

As diagnoses of autism go, this was a pretty good one, making it easy for me to slip into a subtle form of something akin to denial--not denial exactly, since I understood and accepted the diagnosis, but something like it: a denial of the importance of the diagnosis. Call it willful ignorance, for lack of a better term.

Shortly after, Oprah aired a special about families living with autism. I originally planned to skip it, since I'm not a huge Oprah fan--and anyway, I figured it wouldn't really apply to my situation.

I did end up watching it, though. At this distance, almost two years later, it's almost fascinating to see how well I insulated myself from understanding the effects of autism on these families. Denial and ignorance make truly effective armor.

I remember one father, though, weeping into the camera and saying, "I just want to hear him say Daddy." I should have identified with him, being a father myself. But all I could think was, "Daddy? Really?" Of all the things to be concerned about--all the difficulties facing the child, and his brother, and the family--that seemed about the most selfish possible.

And then, just a few weeks ago, I was at the mall, sitting on a bench in a play area, watching my two boys climbing little play structures, chasing each other, jumping down from what must have been for them great heights. And my boy, the boy with autism, turned to me and shouted in his four-year-old, speech-delayed voice, "Look at me, Daddy! Watch me!"

And right then, sitting on that bench in the mall, I thought of that father on Oprah, and found myself crying for him, and for me, and for the ways that autism insinuates itself into even the most simple moments.