November 25, 2013


Posted in AMT's Faves, Life's Little Moments, My Take on Autism tagged , , , , , at 10:23 am by autismmommytherapist

Disney and Halloween 2013 184

His hands reach up forcefully to free his scalp from its gauzy restraints, and for the hundredth time I say “No Justin, it has to stay.” Although my son responds with obvious distress and a few more furtive attempts at freedom, he complies. My mom and I run around trying desperately to distract him, and achieve mecca when the hospital’s child life specialist brings a cache of “light up and spin” toys, his favorites from home being so yesterday. We are in our fourth hour of “EEG captivity,” and the adults in the room are all wondering how we’ll get him to bedtime, much less through the night where most of the important information will occur.

Finally our dinner arrives, and as if by magic my happy boy returns, his desire to pull off his cumbersome headgear quelled. I look at my mom and smile in relief, as since we’ve made the supreme effort to get here by God I want to compile this data. Eventually Justin turns off the television himself and hands me his favorite book, and with astonishment we realize the child who has only spent two nights outside of his own room in the last seven years is actually ready for bed. We quickly comply with his demands, darkening the room as he likes, turning on his sound sleep for white noise and comfort.

I curl up next to him on the bed and rub his back as I sing his night songs, see his breathing even out, watch him as he slips into slumber. My mom and I quickly clean up and organize the space for my husband’s impending shift, and we quietly high-five each other, as not only is Justin unconscious which is imperative for the study, but we’ve managed to capture the episodes that indicate potential seizure activity.

Since epilepsy is often co-morbid with autism his neuro pediatrician thought we should do the test, and although we don’t like to subject Justin to unnecessary procedures, this one seemed important. My shoe catches on his errant sneaker and I almost take a tumble in the dark, and I contort my body to avoid making noise because I will do anything legal to keep this boy asleep.

I sit to avoid further calamity, and wish once again the hospital served wine.

As we wait for my husband to arrive I have a few minutes to reflect on our experience, which despite great difficulty has been a positive one. My son, who generally wants to leave even the most fabulous places in under an hour and loves his bedtime routine perhaps as much as his parents, has made it through the better part of a day with tiny electrodes placed all over his head, held in place by a gauzy substance that is certainly irritating the hell out of him. He has born these indignities with some protest, but each and every time I’ve told him “No,” both in response to removing the offending head gear or his plea to leave as he shoves his shoes in my hands, he has complied with my refusals.

As I sit back in the hospital’s surprisingly comfy recliner I reflect upon how momentous today has been, how I could not have entertained even attempting this procedure even a year ago, how much Justin has matured, and with such grace. I think upon the different trajectory of my sons’ lives, how my youngest with mild autism will most likely follow a more traditional path, perhaps involving a spouse and children, most certainly a stint at college and career.

I muse that I will be proud of his collective accomplishments, the trappings of a “normal life” that will probably be his due. I gaze upon the slowly rising blanket of my slumbering son and feel to the depths of my soul that I am equally proud of this child as well, my son who tolerated the hands of strangers today, the confines of a hospital room, the indignities of electrodes monitoring the mysteries of his brain.

I contemplate the fact that every time I denied him his protest was coupled with a deep gaze into my eyes, a slumping of shoulders that admitted defeat, but an absence of aggression. I ponder how much self-control this action necessitated, how he contained his wrath, how he constantly shatters my expectations of him.

I walk over to adjust an errant swatch of his favorite blanket, feel his moist breath on my fingers, gently lean over to kiss the cloth so as not to disturb him. Tomorrow he will most likely return to his beloved home, this child who despite his severe autism has days dominated by affection, who at ten years of age is attempting to speak to get his needs met.

His accomplishments differ greatly from his sibling’s, but they are equal in stature, merit commensurate praise. I watch as he shifts slightly, perhaps chasing dreams of home, and my heart swells with pride, with love, with gratitude that he has helped us conquer yet one more hurdle in his often challenging life.

Soon my spouse will enter, and the changing of the guard will occur. But for these few moments I simply hold my mother’s hand, revel in the beauty of the boy before us, and let my unfettered pride reign.

June 8, 2011

Alphabet Soup

Posted in My Take on Autism tagged , , , , , , , at 9:01 am by autismmommytherapist

It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m trying really, really hard to suppress my irritation as I drive, and losing the battle miserably. I’m on my way to Justin’s new neurological pediatrician with husband and boy in tow, unhappy because we went to the wrong office, and now we’ll be late for our appointment. Justin had his intake at their facility in north Jersey months ago, but somehow Jeff and I both missed that this practice has two offices in the central part of our state, and now I’m cursing under my breath that I didn’t check the website more thoroughly. I look at my car clock once again, and sigh. I placate myself that getting Justin in and out of the first office, for the most part, was easy. Except for the fact that for the first time ever my eldest was scared in an elevator, which prompted him to launch his seventy-pound frame into my arms in the hopes I’d carry him out of it, we’re still okay. I’ll need a chiropractor immediately, but we will be okay.

We’ve switched clinicians in part due to that waiting room incident, but also because my husband and I have come to believe that Justin has a dual diagnosis of ASD and OCD, and we’re hoping to have fresh eyes assess the situation. The secondary diagnosis of obsessive-compulsive disorder has been largely dismissed by Justin’s practitioners in the past, all of whom have thought that his rigid adherence to ritual is simply a facet of perseveration, a central tenet of autism. His father and I think it may be something more.

Last month we were fortunate to have the BCBA from Justin’s school in our residence for a few hours to assess his “maneuvers”, the rotation of DVDs/CDs/picture frames/shoes/plush toys that consumes him, and drives us crazy. This gifted woman with decades of experience with children on the spectrum validated our concerns, agreeing with us that some of his actions were a function of the repetitive aspects of a spectrum disorder, but the duration and severity of his focus indicated something else was amiss as well. Jeff and I subsequently figured it was worth the hell of finding a new doctor, and made the calls.

We pull into the parking lot of the hospital complex a mere three minutes late, and since at our first visit this woman seemed to be the paragon of compassion, I figure she’ll let our tardiness slide. We whisk Justin into the waiting room and check him in, and my husband makes sure the receptionist has our new insurance information while I attempt to keep Justin from barging in on a surgery. Our new neuroped takes us almost immediately, which further endears her to me, and I quickly tote goody bag, boy and purse into her well-lit and child-friendly examination room. Not only is there space for the four of us to sit, but there appear to be actual “autism-interesting” toys for Justin’s perusal as well, and once again I’m grateful we put him on that long waiting list last summer. I find myself almost giddy at how simple the entire affair has gone.

As I’ve said before, it doesn’t take much these days.

At our last visit we broached our concerns about the possibility of Justin’s sporting a second disorder, so we spend a good portion of our appointment time discussing how he’s doing at school (beautifully), his behavior at home (save for the constant house reorg, wonderful), and the numerous interventions we’ve attempted. My husband and I share with her the opinion of our fabulous BCBA-for-a-day, and reiterate we’re aware of the difficulty of culling out the perseverative aspects of his behaviors from those that might be purely of a compulsive nature.

Eventually, we stop talking, and listen.

Our learned practitioner concurs with us that dual diagnosis is difficult, and perhaps at the end of the day, immaterial. She says that from what she’s heard it is probable he has both disorders, and she’s willing to state it for the record. We discuss our “plan of attack”, which begins with increasing the dosage of his current medication, then perhaps exploring others if this intervention fails to mitigate the situation. We are given time-frames and parameters for using this approach, and she throws out the names of other potential medications. Our doctor gently informs us that things might get worse for a while before they get better, if they get better. We are reminded that none of this may work because he has autism, as well as OCD. Finally, our new physician gently tells us that it may take months to see a change, if any, because finding the right SSRI for OCD is a complicated task.

Hmm. Ambiguity in a treatment plan. It seems we’ve been here before.

As Justin begins to tire of the toys he initially found so fascinating, his father and I simultaneously wrap up our little tete-a-tete with Justin’s doctor, whom I’d recommend unequivocally to anyone (and that doesn’t happen often). We gather our stuff, thank her, and as Jeff heads to the exit with our boy, I tell him I’m going to make our next appointment in person, so I don’t have to remember to place the call next week. When I finish reconfiguring the chess pieces of our summer schedule I have an appointment secured, and head rapidly back to the exit so we can attempt our return home prior to rush hour.

In the distance I see Jeff struggling a bit with Justin’s safety harness, and I heighten my pace because I know how frustrating those buckles can be, and frankly, I’m just better at it. I know I have almost an entire minute alone to process this dual designation before I’m reunited once again with my family, and, I quickly assess my emotional state (I’ve become expert at this over the years). Unbidden as I walk, the tune from the “alphabet song” enters my head. There is a slight variation on a theme this time with the words “ABCD, ASD, HIJK my son has OCD” inserting itself into my fatigue-ridden brain.

No, I’m not sure where that came from.

I continue on to the car, and realize I’ve suspected this outcome for years, am far more interested in whether or not this knowledge can help alleviate some of his more troubling symptoms than whether or not he has a second “label”. So many recent studies seem to suggest that a variety of disorders comprise one big happy family, with ASD, OCD, ADD and others perhaps fighting for purchase on one or two chromosomes. Perhaps we’ll add more letters to his “alphabet soup” along the way, perhaps not. At the end of the day, what he has is irrelevant to who he is, and how much he’s loved.

And as I leave the parking lot after a brief skirmish with my spouse over which direction to turn (he was right, I know, it’s shocking), I remind myself that on the bad days, and yes, there still are bad days, that this absolute truth is what I need to remember most.