this is autism

Henry, November 2006

I took the boys to the dentist this morning; six months ago, when I booked the appointment, I thought I was being smart to schedule them early in the morning, on a day when they didn't have school. That way, I figured, I wouldn't be fighting traffic or exhaustion or my own end-of-the-day stress.

Our last visit to the dentist was hellish. Henry screamed and cried when the nurse tried to X-ray his teeth. Six months earlier, he had screamed and cried when she tried to brush his teeth. In June, after the most recent visit, I wrote this: "I find myself, sometimes, thinking that perhaps there's nothing wrong with Henry, that maybe his behavior is my fault. Maybe I'm just not a good parent; maybe I worry too much or expect too much. Maybe it's all in my mind."

I don't believe that any more.

This morning, after saying for days that he was all ready to have his teeth X-rayed, Henry fell apart in the dentist's office. After we talked about how the nurse would brush his teeth with a tooth brush, just like we do at home, he screamed and cried and refused to let her get near him. He was hysterical for most of the visit, talking loudly and irrationally and screaming that he was a loser and that I hated him. I spent the entire time we were there trying to talk him down, to convince him that no one was going to hurt him, trying to get him to look at me and use a quiet voice and listen and breathe.

Most of the time, I don't think about Henry as "autistic." He has language and social skills, although both are uneven and quirky. He is functioning well on a daily basis; he is in the right school and on the right medication. He is pleasant and funny and kind. But he is also anxious and, sometimes, irrational, particularly when he is frightened or angry. This morning he was both, and it took everything I had to stay calm in the face of his fury. He was not being obstinate; he was not testing me. He was scared. Terrified, in fact, because the film felt funny in his mouth and the toothpaste tasted different from what we have at home.

Today, when he was screaming and crying, I realized: this is what autism looks like. Henry doesn't experience the world the way I do; he never will. We are doing everything we can to help him function, to help him learn to function. But he will always be different. I have always known that, but I haven't ever made the connection, at least not in the visceral way I did today. We have always talked about the specific diagnostic labels in Henry's file: ADHD, Nonverbal Learning Disability, Sensory Integrative Disorder. We talk about autism spectrum disorders. But today, for the first time, I knew: this is what autism looks like.

Charlie spent his entire visit to the dentist alone. He had his teeth cleaned; he had a flouride treatment; he let the dentist look in his mouth. He went by himself to get a toy out of the Treasure Chest. He is incredibly proud of himself; when we came home, he said, "I'm four, but I acted like a SEVEN year old today!"

I was horrified to realize that not once in the entire time we were struggling with Henry had I even thought about Charlie. Often, Henry's reaction to the world engulfs me so completely that there is no room for Charlie, no extra energy to worry or wonder if he is okay.

This afternoon, we dressed up and played pirates, all three of us, but I was tired and still overwhelmed by the morning, so after a while, I talked the boys into getting into the big bed with me to read stories. They found every single pirate book we own and brought them all into my room, and then they each curled up against one side of me and we read and read and read. The sun was shining on their heads and they were so peaceful and sweet. It was perfect.

I wish I had some larger lesson, some take-away moral, other than BRING MY OWN TOOTHPASTE and NO MORE X-RAYS, but I don't. My son is autistic and I am only starting to see what that looks like.