The Fires of Autism, Page 2

  * * *

  "I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Wygant. Todd has autism."

  Two sentences. Two short, simple sentences.

  That's all it had taken to shatter their world. Laura’s mind reeled, and she looked to her husband for support. He wore an emotionless mask -- his firefighter “I have a job to do and I will not show my feelings” face.

  Laura’s thoughts returned to their younger son. Todd had been such a happy baby, and so interactive. He used to be even more outgoing than Jerome had been at that age. He had made perfect eye contact. Smiled at people. Who could have imagined it would come to this?

  Laura and Calvin had both thought him a genius. Before he was even a year old, he could hand them a requested letter from an alphabet puzzle. Laura remembered that she had beamed with pride, and bragged to anyone who would listen, willingly or not, that Todd was bound to win the Nobel Prize for literature before he even turned 30. How could he not, when he was already showing signs of literacy far beyond his handful of months?

  And it wasn't just his ability to recognize letters that was unusual. He could also pick out specified shapes from his shape puzzle before he was a year old. And not just triangles, squares and circles, but also more complex shapes such as trapezoids and hexagons.

  He had apparently inherited Laura' musical abilities, as well. He was tapping his foot in perfect rhythm to songs before he was even able to cruise. Calvin had been the first to see it, and initially Laura had been skeptical. After all, Calving didn't have much of a sense of rhythm himself. She remembered vividly the delight she'd felt when Calvin put on some music and Todd proved him right.

  Todd had had such a promising beginning.

  Laura wondered when their son had first started showing signs of autism. She reluctantly admitted to herself that her mother had not only been right, but she had seen the warning signs quite a while before anyone else had.

  Todd's retreat into himself had started subtly. Their elder son Jerome had started to complain that Todd wasn't smiling at him or playing with his toys anymore. Laura had dismissed the concern; she had just figured that Todd was teething and so wasn't up to smiling or playing. But now she realized that Jerome, who had always been extremely close to his younger brother, had picked up on changes she herself should have seen.

  The weeks that followed were among the most painful of Laura's life. Long after Todd should have recovered fully from his teething, he was showing less and less interest in the world around him. His behaviors changed in other ways, as well. He used to babble, but he ceased doing so. He lost the few words he had had. She couldn't remember the last time he had called out for Mama or Dada.

  He stopped exploring his surroundings. He would just sit and stare. Well, 'stare' was putting it charitably, since his eyes were unfocussed. She could clap her hands an inch in front of his face and he wouldn't even blink.

  Her once-cuddly baby now did not seem to want to be touched. If she rubbed his back, he showed no awareness of her presence. His muscles wouldn't even become more tense or lax. And if she went to give him a hug, he would whine and bat her away.

  Sometime between Jerome's complaint and Todd's full deterioration, she had confided her fears to Calvin.

  "I think Mom may be right about Todd."

  "What?"

  "He's changing, Calvin. We're losing him. I've been doing some reading, and I think Mom's right. I think he has autism."

  "That's crazy. No one in your family has autism. And I doubt anyone in my biological family does, either; it's pretty rare."

  "According to what I've read, there are three primary characteristics associated with autism: Impaired social interaction. Check." Laura ticked the point off on her finger. "Todd isn't even looking at us anymore. Impaired language skills. Check. He's lost his words and isn't even babbling. And restrictive and repetitive behavior. Check. He's stopped rolling his toy car on the floor. He just holds it upside down and spins its wheels. And he has regressed into playing dump-and-fill games for hours on end. If I try to stop him, he starts to cry."

  "You're reading too much into his behaviors. He's fine. You’ve been thinking too much about autism and now you're seeing things that aren't there. You yourself had been saying that he's probably just teething. Teething made Jerome cranky; why shouldn't it affect Todd, too?"

  "It's more than that, Calvin. I'm going to take him to see Dr. Rosen tomorrow."

  Calvin sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "All right, honey, if it'll make you feel better. I'll go with you."

  Dr. Rosen had then referred them to Dr. Connolly, a pediatric neurologist, with the reassurance that the assessment wouldn't hurt Todd at all and might even be fun for the boy. Autism was determined by observation of behavior, not by anything like blood tests or brain scans.

  That's what had led up to today. And even though Laura had suspected that Todd was autistic, she still was not prepared for the doctor's verdict. Nothing could have prepared her for that. And her glance at Calvin revealed to her that he was in shock as much as she. Probably more so, since he had remained in denial about the possibility right up until now. She knew he had come along today simply to humor her and to show his emotional support. Of course he was too considerate to say so, but she knew him.

  Laura never thought she'd ever wish to be wrong about anything, but she had indeed fervently hoped that she was wrong about Todd.

  Dr. Connolly asked them if they had any questions. Calvin asked the first one, "What's the cure?"

  Dr. Connolly finally showed a hint of sympathy. "There is none. You might want to consider alternate living arrangements for him so that the experts can work with him and so that you can focus your attention on your other son."

  Laura was outraged. The shock from the diagnosis was replaced with a firm resolve. "You mean institutionalize our baby? Like hell we will! Come on, Calvin. If the 'good' doctor won't help our son, we'll do it ourselves." She left the office, dragging Todd with one hand and Jerome with the other. Calvin followed quietly behind.

  Response to the Alarm

  Calvin sat in silence during the car ride home, still trying to digest the diagnosis. Autism. Incurable. Lifelong. He grimaced. He himself had always been a bit of a misfit; but from what the doctor had said, he was at the very center of the bell curve compared to Todd. At least Calvin could hold ordinary conversations, he knew how society expected people to behave and he was able to blend in when necessary. Todd would probably never be able to do any of that. Todd might be human, but people would see him as being more alien than Mr. Spock.

  Autism. Incurable. Lifelong. There wasn't anything Calvin could do about it. The flames of the disorder were consuming his son, and he had to just stand by and helplessly watch it happen. He had finally met a fire he was completely powerless against. He could do nothing to help Todd. Nothing.

  Every time he glanced at Todd, he saw his own shortcomings, his own helplessness, his own powerlessness. He also saw his guilt. No one in Laura's family had autism. He had been adopted and didn't know about his biological family. But autism had to come from somewhere, didn't it? So it had to be his fault.

  Todd's autism was his fault, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.