Two weeks ago, after days of cold rain, the weather finally turned its nose toward a much warmer corner. As my son played in the backyard, I swept off the deck, all the while noting how increasingly absentminded I was becoming. Okay, I got that swept, now I need to... oh wait, I missed a spot, I need to... oh great, now where the heck did I put that broom??
Stepping down to the lawn, I turned and planted my right foot into an odd hole, twisting it sharply as I fell to the ground. The pain was intense!
My son ran over. “Mommy, are you okay?”
“Yeah… I just need some… time,” I grimaced.
“I’m worried,” he replied, his anxiety evident in his fast-blinking eyes.
“Don’t you worry, Honey. I’ll be fine by tomorrow. I just need to get inside.”
As happens to most of us during times like these, the sweet taste of denial had already begun to take over my common sense.
No, my foot is fine. I just need a little more time.
An automatic defense mechanism, a state of denial is where our minds initially fall in order to protect ourselves from the stress of any unknown. It compels us to pull every chipped rationale from our pockets and lay them on the table. True, it may lighten the load, but it’s always a gamble, especially when it comes to a child with a developmental delay.
No, my son is fine. He just needs a little more time.
From the day he was born, I noticed some odd little blips in my son’s behavior. In fact, it raised a flag high enough to compel me to look it up on the internet. His pediatrician at the time dismissed the concern, and thus I settled down into a comfortable state of denial.
As my son grew into a toddler, the little blips became bumps. Our close friends and families began dropping their hints of observation. By this point, I’d denied my own for so long I refused to see them anymore. When I looked at my son, I only saw myself. After all, he was so much like the way my mother had described me at this age. I thought, If he’s so much like me and I grew up just fine, then he will also grow up to be just fine, too.
More months went by and the bumps grew bumpier. His developmental milestones were getting tougher to meet, his tantrums more intense. So what if he’s a little sensitive and qwerky? He just needs more time!
Finally, a good friend stepped in for a denial intervention. Heaven only knows how many times she’d watched as I batted away all those mosquitos of concern. Armed with her own personal denial swatter, she met me at the park. Initially, I expected she was there to help me swat away those mosquitos. Instead, she raised the swatter and hit me squarely between the eyes. “Maybe you should get him evaluated… just to see. If it comes back as nothing, then you have that peace of mind. If it comes back as something else, then you know what you’re facing. You have nothing to lose, only to gain.”
Despite the perfect sense it made, the words still stung a little. However, I needed to be swatted by them. I’d become so trapped in my own state of denial, I wasn’t seeing things straight. I have a sneaking suspicion there may be other parents right now struggling in the same position.
Autism is a word that should never be denied nor feared. As I’d thought all along, my son indeed needed more time. It just needed to be time well spent. Thanks to the knowledge we gained by seeking help, we’ve better supported him through his early development and education. Through it all, he remains the same kid he always was. The only person who changed was me, a parent now empowered by knowledge.
Today, I look at my son and I see something different, but it isn’t Autism. I see my son. Before long, he’ll grow up to be an adult, just like me. Just like me, he’ll be just fine.
I thought my injured foot didn’t really warrant a trip to the hospital. My fiancé, on the other hand, made it clear he felt otherwise. Eventually, his strong persistence overtook my denial-ridden protests and I agreed to take a trip to the local ER that evening. I didn’t expect (nor like) the diagnosis, but I do feel empowered by the knowledge I gained… as well as by the pair of crutches I also received that evening.
Now, I send these words from atop another embarrassingly large island of unfolded laundry. The only things missing are a lawn chair, a pina colada and… oh great, now where the heck did I put those crutches??
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