Category Archives: Deep Thoughts

Although I try to avoid them (I don’t try too hard), some “big picture” thoughts about autism and this blog are bound to appear. I’ll categorize my deep thoughts here.

Mainstream Positive

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I sacrifice many words on this blog to complaining about mainstream medical professionals. Or if I don’t, I mean to. I have myriad gripes about “the mainstream” and, especially, Martin’s Track One team.

It’s only fair, then, that I disclose positive experiences with the mainstream, too. Today I had one.

Martin is vaccinated. Almost fully vaccinated, a choice I now regret. (I don’t believe that vaccines “cause” autism; it’s more complicated. That digression I’ll save for another post.) He’s missing one currently due booster, which I don’t want him to receive. His school, however, requires certification that all students have all vaccinations and boosters. I’ve been in a bit of a bind.

Martin’s pediatrician, Dr. S, satisfied with the near-complete vaccination protocol he’s already undergone, has expressed a willingness to move forward only at my comfort level. I decided to ask her for a medical exemption to delay this last shot until we have more time to consider how it will affect Martin’s treatment.

Dr. S, however, has been absent from the office for some days and will not return within the school’s paperwork timeframe. So this morning I ended up referred to the back-up pediatrician, Dr. R. She took my phone call immediately.

I was nervous about whether Dr. R would be as willing to work with me on a medical exemption. I explained the situation, and that I had previously discussed with Dr. S holding off on additional vaccinations. Dr. R pulled Martin’s chart, reviewed Dr. S’s notes, and agreed to issue the temporary medical exemption for Martin. I was hung up the phone happy and grateful.

Five minutes later the phone rang. It was Dr. R again. In reviewing Martin’s chart, she had noticed that we’ve undertaken a biomedical protocol for treating ASD. She has other patients on the spectrum, whose parents have asked questions about what they can do. Would I be willing to tell her about our experience?

Would I? You betcha! I agreed to meet Dr. R at her office at lunchtime.

We ended up spending an entire hour together. Dr. R knew virtually nothing about DAN! or biomedical approaches to autism, other than tidbits she’d heard about modified diets. I started by disclaiming any understanding of the science behind curing autism, and said that I can only relay our family’s experience: what we’ve done, who we’ve seen, and how Martin has changed. Then I prattled endlessly, pulling no punches about the challenges or the gradual, yo-yo nature of the progress. Dr. R impressed me with her willingness to listen. She wrote the names of books and websites for her own follow-up reading. She asked questions about what resources I’ve found most helpful, and where she might direct other ASD patients’ families. She never once raised her eyebrows or looked at me like I’m loony for giving recovery a try.

I came away from the discussion with renewed faith in the medical establishment. If ASD recovery really does work—and Martin’s progress so far suggests it does—then the way it’s going to reach more spectrum kids is one ear at a time. Practitioners like Dr. R who at least are willing to listen might may help turn the tide.

The Uncertain Footing of Doubts

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Before Martin was diagnosed, when we had a hunch something was wrong, we consulted a good friend who works in EI. Our friend visited Martin, and, with her professional insight, discerned immediately what Adrian and I, first-time parents lacking any significant experience with toddlers, could not identify: that Martin likely had autism. She patiently answered our questions and pointed out signs such as Martin’s sporadic eye contact, lack of functional language, and tendency to drift instead of moving with direction and purpose.

She mentioned also Martin’s difficulty descending stairs, which resulted not only from underdeveloped muscles and coordination, but from limited awareness of his surroundings. When Martin walked down stairs, he never looked at his feet to find the next stair; he stepped down and assumed the stair was there. As a result, his footing was unsure and he risked stumbling.

Once we became aware of the stair problem, we started taking notice. It’s been a constant issue in the year since our friend visited.

Martin woke nearly an hour earlier than usual this morning. He’s been doing that these past few days, since he’s been perhaps a bit ill. Waking so early leaves him tired throughout the day, and when he’s tired, he’s not at his best. (We can’t let Martin nap; doing so ruins his sleep for at least one and as many as three or four nights.) We had a bad morning. Martin cried about everything. At one point he sat at the kitchen counter flipping through a board book, oblivious to me five feet away calling, “Martin. Martin? Martin. Martin! Martin,” to no avail, until in desperation I turned to Adrian and begged, “Where is he?”

It was the kind of morning that gives me doubts—doubts about whether we’re advancing and, especially, doubts about whether we’ll ever reach our goal of making Martin indistinguishable from his neurotypical peers. On a rational level, I know how far we’ve come in the past seven months. (Last month I laid the progress out, perhaps more painstakingly than interested anyone but me, in my series of “ASD Recovery Six-Month Review” posts.) On an emotional level, at any given moment when I’m not witnessing Martin perform a new and fabulous feat, the doubts come knocking. Tenacious little suckers, those doubts.

When Martin, Adrian, and I left for church at 10:00 a.m. Martin and I had been awake four hours already, ample time for me to sink into a psychological dumpster. That’s pretty much where I was floundering as I trudged after Martin and Adrian, down the winding flights of stairs from our walk-up apartment.

Halfway down Adrian gave a psst! and motioned to Martin. Below me I saw Martin barely touching the handrail, looking steadily at his feet as he descended, finding each stair before stepping. It was the first time I’d seen him do so for a sustained period. The action wasn’t accidental. Martin was doing what people are supposed to do when they walk down stairs, what happens instinctively for the neurotypical.

Suddenly I was fine again, lifted from the psychological dumpster. I was hopeful. I was satisfied.

It’s a glorious irony, this role reversal. Martin, literally, walks with steady footing now. And I, figuratively, step with trepidation and falter often.

Quote of the Last Thirteen Days: You Do

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A Facebook friend posted this yesterday on his wall, a quote from Jimmy Carter:

My faith demands—this is not optional—my faith demands that I do whatever I can, wherever I am, whenever I can, for as long as I can with whatever I have to try to make a difference.

It spoke to me, in terms of putting all my resources, physical and mental as well as economic, into recovering Martin. My faith does demand so much; whatever I need to sacrifice from my own life, I will give to improve Martin’s.

At the same time, this got me to thinking about something I wrote two days ago, replying to a comment left on this blog’s “About” page regarding biomedical ASD recovery:

I’m not saying this will work. Not saying I know how it works. Not saying everyone should do it. I’m just describing what we’re doing and what happens—fingers crossed.

The Track Two approach we’re taking for Martin is radical. Bucking the established medical community does not fall within every parent’s comfort zone. I know that. I never want this blog to suggest, to insinuate, or even to hint that the only way, or the best way, to “do whatever [you] can” is to undertake biomedical recovery.

Far from it. I am yet to meet the parent of a child with ASD who is not pouring his or her resources, every last drop, into that child. Special education, therapies, patience, protecting, comforting, just getting through the day: It takes all you’ve got. And somehow you do it, whatever you can, wherever you are, whenever you can, for as long as you can with whatever you have. You do.

An Indulgent Post About Feeling Sorry for Myself

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A few years ago, when Martin was still a baby and before I had any inkling that autism would strike our family, I attended a New York-area church-wide assembly. The church’s governing body stood in session. Under consideration was a resolution stating that member congregations welcome children affected by ASD and affirm their right to attend worship.

The delegates debated the resolution’s precise language. Would it say “autistic children,” or “children affected by autism spectrum disorders”? Should that be “persons” instead of “children”? Why limit it to ASD, instead of including all physical and mental challenges? Finally the nitpicking concluded, and the resolution passed overwhelmingly.

At the time, I found myself thinking, We need a resolution stating that children with autism are welcome in church services? Is that in dispute? Not self-evident?

Now that I’m parenting a child with autism, I may understand better.

Martin and I attend a cozy downtown church that reflects Manhattan sensibilities. The congregation is economically, ethnically, and socially diverse. During the week the building transforms into a soup kitchen and food pantry. It’s a boisterous place. Sunday mornings there, Martin is a rock star. Everyone greets him by name. Older children play with him; teenagers hug and squeeze him; adults engage him in whatever conversation he can handle. If Martin waits patiently after service for the pianist to finish performing, he gets to sit on the bench and strike the ivory keys himself.

During the service I try to position us surrounded by worship regulars—the people who know us. Then I can let my breath out, give Martin leeway. The regulars don’t mind when Martin comes crawling under their seats, grabbing ankles. They smile and pat his head. The regulars steer Martin gently back toward me when he wanders away. They ignore his sing-song chatting and the sound of his toy trains. They beam when he remembers their names, even if he shouts them in the middle of communion. They laugh when the pastor improvises: “I hear ya, Martin. This sermon’s been long, and I’m about to wrap it up.”

What’s much tougher is when we arrive late and end up seated with newcomers or guests, especially the kind who expect church to be solemn and silent. Martin and I enter the sanctuary with clamor approximating a blitzkrieg. We need five minutes just to settle and unpack: toys, books, napkins, containers of nut-and-seed crackers. I get self-conscious about this, if strangers are present. One week Martin’s sippy cup sprayed a couple ounces of seltzer water onto a woman we’d never seen before. She turned bright red, removed the offended blazer, and sat stiffly upright for the next hour, refusing even to look in our direction. Another week an older woman watched Martin scoot himself a few feet along the aisle floor during the sermon. Then she fixed a stern Please control your child stare on me, as if I were going to let him scoot right onto the alter. Which I considered doing. To spite her.

In times like those I see the wisdom of the resolution welcoming kids on the spectrum. Our pastor assures me unflaggingly that he wants Martin attending services, and buttresses the words with actions like finding ways to include Martin. (Martin was the little lamb in the Yuletide nativity scene. The little lamb who sobbed and tried to make off with the Baby Jesus.) But the pastor can’t be in every corner of the church at once; there will always be those who make it their business to express displeasure.

For them, I dream of carrying a copy of the assembly resolution. Of whipping it out of my purse and asking, “Have you seen this? It says that this denomination in this city welcomes children with autism, behavioral shortcomings and all. That means you will accept my son.”

And from there I imagine a magic piece of paper resolving that all of New York welcomes children with ASD. For the commuters who huff in annoyance when Martin moves too slowly on the subway stairs. For the baristas who give my spot at the coffee counter to someone else because I’ve had to chase Martin for a second. For the kids’ club that would rather refund our tuition than deal with Martin in class. Voila! A city made better.

The post really is not about ASD recovery, I suppose. It’s more about feeling sorry for myself. Forgive me the indulgence in exchange for this assurance: I really, really want to stop feeling sorry for myself. Some parents might accomplish that through emotional willpower. I, however, have the emotional willpower of a bacon-addicted puppy. Consequently, the likeliest way for me to stop feeling sorry for myself is to remove the sentimentality’s cause—to give the jerks fewer reasons to complain.

To zap the autism.

The Village Idiot Takes a Leap of Faith (and Some Track Two Practitioners Catch Her)

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The past three weeks or so, Martin has not been at his best, as I’ve written here in the blog.

Last Thursday I spoke by phone with Martin’s excellent Track Two doctor, who decided to slenderize the supplementation routine, in case we are overloading Martin’s system. She also asked a number of spot-on questions. “Has he appeared unnecessarily anxious during this time? Any increase in the teeth grinding?” My answers suggested to her that we might be experiencing some adrenal stress.

Yesterday we visited Martin’s homotoxicologist. I explained his spacey-ness and temporary backslide. The homotoxicologist said it sounded like too much Biosode, which is a homeopathic support formula Martin uses. Did his newfound symptoms by any chance correspond with an increase in Biosode?

I pondered the timing. Why, yes. I think Martin did lose his attention around the time that I moved from 2x diluting his Biosode to just 1x diluting.

The homotoxicologist ran some tests on how Martin’s systems are functioning. She pointed to a graph on the computer screen. “Look at that—seems like he’s got some adrenal stress, too.”

Just what the Track Two doctor had divined.

When we got home I shuffled through Martin’s daily log. Sure enough, on the page marked August 28, about three weeks ago, I found this entry: “NO CONCENTRATION (just a few days since Biosode increase?)–>tired, lethargic.”

When you are a parent dealing with autism recovery, it can feel like there’s a lot of hocus-pocus and guesswork swirling around you. And there probably is guesswork; autism recovery is only emerging as a field, so some degree of hit-or-miss seems inevitable. (Actually, in my understanding, hit-or-miss constitutes a substantial component of all medical practice. The Big Imposing Hospital doctors’ buckshot approach to Martin’s issues confirms that understanding.) Plus, everything is complicated. When I sit with the homotoxicologist, I listen attentively and nod like I comprehend her explanations. Really, all I’m doing is trying (1) to grasp the bare bones, enough to tell the Track Two doctor what the homotoxicologist is up to and make sure we’re all on the same page; and (2) to remember key concepts that I want to research later, to ensure my own comfort level with the process.

In other words, there is a degree to which I have to put my trust in these persons. They are the ones building this new science of recovery, and their understanding of autism and biology outpaces mine by light years. (In college, I fulfilled my core requirement with a course titled “Chemistry for Non-Science Majors.”)

Yes, everyone who visits a doctor instead of treating himself at home takes a leap of faith. But the leap is maybe somewhat more difficult to take when the very demand to have your child treated stands to refute mainstream medicine. By choosing the biomedical approach, I—the idiot in the village of science—am saying, “That whole mountain of physicians has got it wrong, and I believe I have got it right.”

Which means I’m pretty darn happy when the members of Team Martin—Track Two show that they do, indeed, know whereof they speak.

Quote of the Last Six Days, and an Associated Analogy to a Tree

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Six days have passed since I began my occasional series of helpful quotes, so this post I shall declare neither the quote of the day nor the quote of the week, but the quote of the last six days.

These are lyrics from “Shaking the Tree,” which I believe first was released on Youssou N’Dour’s 1989 album The Lion and then became a sort of title track for Peter Gabriel’s 1990 compilation Shaking the Tree: Sixteen Golden Greats.

You had to be so strong
And you do nothing wrong
Nothing wrong at all
We’re gonna to break it down
We have to shake it down
Shake it all around.

If you know the song and Peter Gabriel’s music, you may be thinking, hey, that song is about women’s empowerment, not autism recovery. As far as I know, that’s correct. It’s about women’s empowerment, and the tree is male oppression. Nevertheless, I’m going to say it can be useful in the struggle against autism.

Allow me to confess that, although the sun has broken the clouds occasionally (church last weekend was a nice shine), this has been a crap few weeks. Really. I’m putting on a brave face, but things are not going well. Martin has no attention. His eye contact is off. He’s echolalic. He’s been shuffling his feet instead of heel-to-toe walking. And he’s exhausted all the time.

Several days ago, Martin’s HANDLE therapist, Katie, sent me an email responding to the September 5 post in which I described recovery as “beat[ing] the daylights out of Martin.” Katie said she was concerned that we may be trying too much at once with Martin, instead of approaching his recovery gently, which is the best path to healing. Her concern is valid; indeed, I plan to post later this weekend on the topic of gentleness. Fortunately, Martin’s excellent Track Two doctor also agrees that moving slowly is most effective. Just yesterday she and I consulted about the crap time we’re having, and she tweaked Martin’s supplementation/detoxification regimen—for the time being, doing less.

Which brings us to Peter Gabriel and the tree. “We’re gonna to break it down / We have to shake it down.” In this analogy, autism is the tree, and Martin is the garden that’s been invaded. I aspire to get rid of the tree. One cannot simply push over something so massive and entrenched as a tree. Hacking away with an axe creates problems, too: It leaves the stump and the roots, still sucking nutrients from the soil and hogging all the other plants’ space. No, to succeed we have to shake it down.

How does shaking down a tree work? By building momentum, offsetting the push to against the push fro and thereby moving with ever more power. Eventually the tree will topple, extracting its own roots from the ground. But, disrupt the side-to-side motion—by deviating from the straight path, for example, or failing to keep pushing at the right moment—and the process stops. The tree settles back into place, trunk vertical.

That may be what has happened these past few weeks. Something has disrupted the push-pull toward recovery. Perhaps we are doing too much, as Katie suggested, thrusting one direction without respecting the need to rock the tree. Or perhaps some supplement or exercise or change in routine doesn’t agree with Martin and has disrupted the motion. Whatever it is, autism seems to have settled back into place, plunk in the middle of the lush garden that is Martin.

It can feel, when this happens, like we’re starting from scratch. True, we do have to start anew, in terms of shaking that tree again. But although shaking it down may still take a while, it gets easier every time we start, because the roots have already been loosed.

Autism may think it’s settled back in, but it no longer has the same hold on Martin. I’ve seen the progress we’ve made. I’ve witnessed where we were before this slump. I know we’re getting to the core.

The tree is vulnerable.

So it’s been a crap few weeks. It’s time to muster my determination and start shaking again, steadily, persistently, yet gently. After all, the soil in which this tree grows is my son. I’d like to keep it as intact as possible.

Guilt

Posted on by findingmykid
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Here in New York, next weekend, Developmental Delay Resources is sponsoring a three-day course on “Having Healthy Babies: Outsmarting Developmental Delays”—i.e., autism prevention. According to the event’s publicity page, the course will be devoted to pre-conception health, carrying and birthing healthy babies, and post-partum health.

It sounds provocative, and I think that some members of Team Martin (therapists, nutritionist, &c.) are planning to attend.

I can’t go, though. No way. From an emotional perspective, learning at this point about autism prevention would overwhelm me.

Martin’s cranio-sacral therapist is some sort of intuitive healer. She knows things. On Martin’s first visit to her, she was laying her hands on him, concentrating, murmuring about what seemed to be going on inside his gut. Suddenly she called to me to join them. I knelt beside where they were working on the carpet. The therapist had one hand resting on Martin’s head. She pressed the other hand against my breastbone.

“There’s a void here, something missing,” she said. “You’re not connecting completely with Martin.”

Excuse me?

She continued, “You’ve got to get rid of the guilt you’re carrying about his birth. You’ve just got to let that go and tune into the here and now.”

I was stunned. I had described to her how Martin was born, but I hadn’t used the word guilt. Not about his birth, or anything else. Yet she knew, and knew that it was getting in the way.

Martin’s birth was a series of decisions I did not want. Martin came late to the party; in the 42nd week of pregnancy, against my better instinct, I gave in and let the doctors induce labor. From there, it spiraled. On pitocin, my confused body produced increasingly long, unproductive contractions, until finally it barely unclenched between them. The doctor decided we needed to relax me artificially and ordered an epidural analgesia, which I also did not want. After nearly 16 hours of artificially induced labor, Martin got stuck, sideways, and his heart rate fell. By the time they wheeled me into the operating room and cut him out, I was (unsurprisingly) running a fever, meaning that Martin, who was healthy and alert with an APGAR of 9, was whisked away to the NICU.

So those were Martin’s first days in this world. Instead of coming to us naturally and snuggling into the loving arms of his parents, he met a surgeon’s scalpel and then slept with strangers under the offensive, blazing halogen of a noisy NICU.

I know that environmental factors play a role in autism. I wear the guilt of Martin’s traumatic birth, of my decision to allow pitocin. I wear it like a heavy jacket, pounds and pounds weighing me down.

Was birth trauma related to autism? What is related to autism?

I never should have got caught up in the H1N1 hype and given Martin that unnecessary vaccine. Or most of the other vaccines, either.

We had our kitchen rebuilt while I was pregnant. I breathed that dust daily. Mistake.

I used my Blackberry. All the time.

If there is such a thing as autism prevention, then there’s something I should have done differently. It will be a long time before I’m recovered enough to discuss that topic.

My Uneasy Relationship with Social Networking a/k/a the Reason Why I Blog About ASD Recovery

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Social networking must be a godsend to support-group people.

I’m not a support-group person. I don’t belong to any gathering of autism parents. I have very limited “community” when it comes to dealing with Martin’s issues. Social networking thus far has accomplished approximately nothing to assist with his recovery.

Instead—and I’ll admit that this is my own fault, as I seem wholly unable just to shut the darn Facebook off—what social networking does, mostly, is make me feel bad.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to read friends’ posts about their children doing sweet, standard kid stuff. Check out Billy’s first day of kindergarten! Sadie scored a soccer goal! Maria is nervous for the sixth-grade dance! Nothing threatening there.

What I dread are the conscientiously self-effacing triumphs of the über-mom. She’s usually a figure from my distant history whom I know today only on-line. A mom whose fashionable kids have highfalutin names, speak in clever quips, and misbehave only in adorable ways. A mom who prepares elaborate meals not because a recovery regimen demands it, but because once her little Aristotle discovered wasabi-infused ginger puree over sashimi skewers and pea cakes, she just had to make them weekly. A mom with perfect hair who doesn’t have to deal. With. Autism. (This is an amalgam. The über-mom is not one. She’s many. And she’s all over my Facebook page.)

I don’t know why posts about perfect kids bother me so much. Resentment? Bitterness? Deep down I know that if über-mom’s life were really so great, she wouldn’t be spending so much time on Facebook posting about how great life is. But when I’m worried about Martin, I don’t live deep down. I’m on the surface, where every wunderkind update feels like a dig against me and mine.

Before Martin’s diagnosis, I had two big experiences, one good and one bad, using a social network to address a child-rearing issue. The good experience arose in the morass of Martin’s early sleeping trouble. Adrian was away on business. At 9:30 pm I had just got Martin back to sleep for the third time. In frustration I signed onto Facebook and posted what was happening. Within half an hour, at least a dozen other parents (in this case, actual friends, people I know, not just disembodied Facebook presences from past life) responded with empathy, common experiences, and possible solutions. Already by the time Martin woke again, around 10:20 pm, I was feeling more confident, and accompanied by my misery’s company.

The bad experience arose in the context of a local “mothers’ group” I joined when Martin was born. This group met from time to time for coffee or to go walking, which I had done once or twice. (It felt awkward trying to become friends with other women based only on the coincidence of giving birth during the same season.) The group’s main function was on-line communication, stuff like babysitter wages and mommy-and-me classes. Around the time that our kids were moving to solid foods, I posted an inquiry about whether the group included any other vegan or vegetarian families. If so, I said, I’d like to get together to talk about nutrition and menus, and maybe to let the kids play so Martin wouldn’t think he was the only vegetarian in town. (I have vegetarian friends, but none with children who live in New York City.) The group’s moderator responded immediately and vehemently. She demanded to know why I was trying to split the mothers’ group along dietary lines. Did I think I was better than mothers who let their children eat meat? Did I have a problem with her giving her son chicken? What was next—would I be letting Martin play only with children whose parents are Democrats? I removed my post, befuddled, wondering how I’d managed to provoke such a reaction, and also why everyone assumes vegetarians are Democrats.

If I could get a cyber-beating for trying to connect with vegetarians, heaven only knows the peril of raising ASD recovery in a social-networking context. After seven weeks of blogging, already I can identify myriad ideas of mine that will cause some folks to bristle. Let’s start with my basic premise: that recovery from autism is possible. On the Twitter feed associated with this blog (@findingmykid), I follow at least one account with precisely the opposite take: that biomedical treatment of autism is “quackery.” And frankly, I have respect for that position. There are days when I myself just can’t believe that the mainstream medical community is suppressing the means to recovery from a condition that affects one in every 70 American boys. By now I’ve talked to enough parents who recovered their children to keep me going, but barely. (Quack away, my friends—it’s just enough to keep the skepticism at bay.)

So anyway, I’m not social networking. I’m blogging. The site is open for comments (I’ll “approve” any comment that is neither spam nor profanity-laced), and I expect to receive some that express disagreement. I hope to, even; that’s what makes a forum. Still, blogging feels less vulnerable than social networking. Maybe it’s because knowing that I’m expressing controversial views prepares me for backlash. Maybe it’s because I’m anonymous. Maybe it’s just because the blog is mine, as if I’m in control.

As if I’m in control of anything at all.

Anonymity. It’s Not Just for Criminals Anymore

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This blog’s “About” page states that I will explain the reasons why I am blogging anonymously. I have three reasons.

First, I am blogging anonymously for Martin’s protection. You may have read my various references to “Track One” treatments, or “Track Two” doctors, and so forth. The mainstream medical community does not accept that recovery from autism is possible. Only doctors on the cutting edge—the DAN! project and beyond—are willing to treat autism biomedically. Adrian and I have decided to exploit both traditional medical care (which I call Track One) and more radical biomedical intervention (which I call Track Two). Martin, therefore, sees not only his excellent Track Two doctor (and his N.D./allergist and his homotoxicologist and his cranio-sacral therapist) but also a battery of mainstream medical professionals at a preeminent New York-area facility, a/k/a the Big Imposing Hospital.

I have grown increasingly dissatisfied with the Track One doctors. I want to be able to state that fact, and the reasons why, without fearing that those professionals could read this blog and recognize Martin. Hearing angry or dissatisfied thoughts from Martin’s mother could cause a Track One doctor, knowingly or subconsciously, to compromise his care. I am not alleging that any Track One doctor is either prone to or even capable of changing a child’s care based on complaints from a parent. Although their approach does not work for us, I have great respect for the professionalism of Martin’s Track One doctors. I simply think it doesn’t pay to take chances. That’s probably the risk-averse lawyer in me.

Second, I’m not yet sure whether the story of Martin’s recovery is mine to tell. Really, it’s his story. If Martin does recover fully, will he want others to know he ever had autism? Is it fair for me to be so public with his struggles? Adrian and I reveal Martin’s autism to our closest friends, and to others who spend significant time with him. But we don’t tell everyone. Far from it. Even some family members don’t know. Adrian’s sisters don’t know. Martin’s condition doesn’t shame or embarrass us. We’re just dealing with it in our own way, which does not include a PA system.

Third—and this is the least of the reasons for anonymity; that I’m even revealing it falls under my promise of honesty—I want everyone to be able to relate to our journey, so that this blog can touch as many caregivers as possible. That includes eliminating what might unnecessarily make us seem different from other families. When I started this blog, Adrian and I discussed what names I should give him and Martin. No name works across every ethnicity, of course. But we felt like “Adrian” and “Martin” crossed about as many lines as one could expect without tending toward clear identification of any particular ethnicity. They are solid, attractive, and in the context of the 21st-century United States, reasonably generic names. (Adrian’s and Martin’s actual first names make it hard to mistake that, as any faithful reader of this blog already may have suspected, we are a Hispanic family.)

So that’s it. I’m blogging anonymously to protect Martin from repercussions; because I don’t know if Martin would want this information revealed about him; and in an effort to make us as much as possible like you, and you, and you and you and you.

Quote of the Day (or Week) (or Month?)

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I’ve written already about songs that are helping to keep me going. Every so often I stumble across a quote that helps, too. I’ve decided to post some. Here is the first in what should become an occasional series:

I looked at him with surprise. “St. John,” I said, “I think you are almost wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness! To what end?”

“To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to your keeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strict account. . . .”

Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre. Sure, variations on this theme pop up in the Bible (“From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.” Luke 12:48 (New International Version)), and Spiderman (“With great power comes great responsibility.”), and goodness only knows where else. The Jane Eyre version, with the keeping of accounts and such, feels both academic and motivational. Odd combination.

I won’t try to explain how this quote relates to the fight against autism. I’m probably giving my writing too much credit, but I aspire to post stories that tend to make such explanation unnecessary.