D-Day

I think the world stopped moving for me on D-Day, or Diagnosis Day - the day in 2006 when my son, Tristan, was diagnosed with Autism. People on the streets, in their cars, and in stores kept going on with their lives around me, but my world stopped.

How could this happen? He was born healthy and was meeting all of his developmental milestones. He wasn't acting all "Rain Man" like, and I had seen Autism in my days as a Teacher's Aide in a special education school; Tristan did not do any of the behaviors those kids had - there was no repetitive hand flapping or rocking back and forth.

And yet there were things he did that puzzled me. He had a speech delay, but a strange one. He was really smart for his age, knew his letters and numbers by the time he was two and a half years old, would repeat lines of his favorite movies and could say words like "volcano," but couldn't hold a conversation. He had major tantrums and hated when I left him with anyone else.

I even uttered the words, "Do you think he has autism?" at one point, and was dismissed with a "Oh, that's silly."

We were having our second child at the time these red flags started popping up, and we all thought that perhaps he was upset about the impending arrival of the new baby.

But by the time Sebastian was 6 months old and Tristan was two and a half years old, we knew there was some problem. The day we KNEW something was wrong, we were at Disney World, the happiest place on earth. What kid doesn't love Disney? Tristan was having a really difficult time, and in line for rides or security, he would flip out, screaming about the wait in line, the close proximity of people to him. He even hit me and his Dad, not because he was being naughty, but because he was so upset, he had no outlet for his anxiety. That's when we KNEW.

And then D-Day, Diagnosis Day. "Your son has autism."

The days, weeks, and months that followed D-Day felt like a blur. Tristan was in 20 - 25 hours of therapy per week for more than two years. We had monthly team meetings, regular testing for delays, reviews of goals and objectives we wanted him to reach, and endless discussions about his progess.

In those years following D-Day, we watched our second son, Sebastian, with such a critical eye. Siblings of children with Autism have a much higher rate of being diagnosed with it as well. He began speech therapy at 18 months, but was discharged from therapies a year later. With a great sigh, we dodged the Autism bullet with Sebastian.

And in the mix of all that - an unplanned pregnancy. A third child - another boy, Emerson. Another son to watch with that critical eye. Again, Emerson needed speech therapy. we started him at 15 months this time, hoping that he would follow Sebastian in needing just a little help and would be discharged a year later.

That critical eye picked up a  few "red flags" along the way, but they were small warning signs. He didn't like the tags in his clothes and preferred to be bare-footed most of the time. But a lot of kids are like that, I reasoned. He didn't like loud noises and hated the crowds of the holiday shopping. But I don't like that either, I reasoned.

But there were things I couldn't reason away: lack of meaningful eye contact, not always responding to his name, constant need for running and jumping.

And then, two weeks ago, there were were again. "Your son has Autism."

Second D-Day.

My world stopped again.

Somehow the second diagnosis seems more daunting than the first.  The first time, we jumped in with both feet, with all of our energy. We were ready to get our son the help he needed, trying to get him to a place where he was doing the best he could. And it was HARD. So DIFFICULT. TIRING. EXHAUSTING.

But Tristan is now in that place where he is doing the best he can. We know the therapies work, because he's doing so well right now. Above-average in reading. Making friends at school. Participating in BoyScouts. In a regular First-Grade class, doing the same school work as every one else.

Now we KNOW the road that is ahead of us. We know how tiring and exhausting it is. Do we have the energy to start all over again? To travel this road once more?

It's not a matter of having the energy. You find that energy for your kids, no matter what. Our son needs help and we will get it for him. We will spend hours in meetings, therapies, doctor appointments - whatever it takes to get him to that place we know he can go.

So here we go again....