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.

Chumbawamba, Friedrich Schiller. I’ll Be a Hero. I Know I Will

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The ASD recovery six-month review continues this evening. I’m posting twice today. I’m posting right now because Adrian feels depressed. We’re having the less-than-fabulous week I wrote about last night, and then this morning he read a father’s Wall Street Journal piece about a 15-year-old on the spectrum. The article reflects the grieve-for-the-child-you-don’t-have, celebrate-the-child-you-do-have, learn-from-difference perspective I discussed in my very first post.

Adrian emailed me the article. (In the event you’re reading between the lines, yes, it’s Labor Day, and we’re both working—lawyers to the core. Martin is out playing with my mother.) I read it and promptly replied to Adrian: “No. [Expletive] that. I’m not doing one iota of grieving until I have exhausted every avenue for overcoming ASD. No more articles like that, please.”

I refuse to grieve. I refuse to accept. I refuse to live with autism. I honor and adore Martin for who he is, at every step of this journey. But I refuse to stop trying to change him.

These words probably come across as haughty. It looks like I am suggesting that I—that we, all of us soldiers who believe we will recover our children, all the conquistadors who already recovered their children—have found a better way to deal with autism. Believe my assurance that I am a million miles from haughty about recovering Martin. I am uncertain, wobble-footed, and terrified about whether we will reach our goal. I wonder whether we are being taken on a long, expensive ride designed to exploit the hopes of desperate parents. This entire experience has humbled me, and Adrian, like nothing else. We have one child. We intended him to be perfect. Even when we recover Martin, he will be behind his peers. He’s lost so much time living alone in Martin-Land, under-communicative, distanced from us and other children.

I speak in absolutes because, from my perspective, acceptance is a dangerous slope. Each step toward reconciling myself to Martin’s autism is a step away from the unwavering determination needed to see this recovery process to its end, wherever that may be.

This Wall Street Journal article that depressed Adrian is, ironically, exactly the kick in the pants I needed this week. Reading it dropped that old 1990s Chumbawamba song Tubthumping into my head. You know the one: “I get knocked down, but I get up again. You’re never gonna keep me down.” Cheesy? Yes. Uncomfortably catchy? Maybe. A little shot of adrenaline when you need something to keep you going? Sure can be.

I’m guilty of various musical mantras these days. Adrian, a classical music fan, wonders why I’ve asked to hear Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in the car lately. He thinks I like the beginning of the fourth movement, the main portion of Schiller’s Ode to Joy that everyone knows. What I really want is a later, less-popular chorus of the Ode, this one: “Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen / Durch des Himmels prächt’gen Plan, / Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn, / Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen.” That means, “Happy, as his suns fly / Through heaven’s magnificent plain / Run, brothers, your way / Joyful, as a hero to the victory.”

Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen. Joyful, as a hero to the victory.

I will never stop. Chumbawamba, Friedrich Schiller. And this hero to the victory.

Violent, Unrelenting, and Exhausting: What I Wish I Had Known About ASD Recovery

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Yesterday I posted a promise that this blog would return, today, to the six-month evaluation of Martin’s ASD recovery. I don’t want to be the kind of blogger who makes a pledge and fails to pay, especially not when I’ve been blogging only a month. But I’m going to risk breaching my readers’ faith with one more diversion. I have to, because this crap day topping off this crap week compels me to address a new topic: what I wish I had known when we decided to treat autism biomedically. What I wish I had known, so I could have steeled myself.

I wish I had known that recovery would sometimes beat the daylights out of Martin. I’ve already written about how arduous I find chaperoning Martin’s recovery. That’s a bunch of self-indulgent reverie. Martin is the patient actually doing the work of emerging from autism. Martin is the guy too drunk from detox to sleep at night, too drowsy from sleeplessness to function during the day. Martin is the guy whose very cognition vacillates, who must wonder why his mind functioned differently yesterday than it will tomorrow. Martin is the guy who swallows pill after pill, oil upon oil, without protest, who accepts without explanation that he can’t eat what Adrian and I eat, that his sweetest treat is neither birthday cake nor Halloween booty, but a pear. My son today remained his darling, loving self even as he teetered on exhaustion, crying without provocation, unable to concentrate or to enjoy any toy, any game. I endured on the thought that these few years are saving him from a lifetime of lethargy and gut pain, muscle fatigue, and inability to connect with other souls.

If only he too could see the prize.

I wish I had known that my work would be every day, unrelenting. No one knows Martin’s diet, supplementation, and routine like I do. Not my mother, who is visiting. Not Martin’s excellent Track Two doctor, who oversees his care. Not even Samara, who is with Martin five days a week. I can never sleep in; certain pills and drops must be given as soon as Martin rises, and spreading his HANDLE exercises throughout the day means completing some before breakfast. I can leave the apartment for an evening, but I can never take a break; for me to be gone a few hours requires adjusting his supplementation before and after, completing exercises ahead of schedule, preparing food. Last month a family member became ill, requiring me to make an impromptu four-day trip to Germany. I ended up pulling two consecutive all-nighters before I could depart, getting my business affairs in order and then spending nearly 24 hours in the kitchen, freezing meals and training Samara, who had to move into our apartment while I was away. I long to declare a holiday from ASD recovery: a morning, noon, and night just for me, to squander as I see fit.

I never will.

I wish I had known what it feels like to run the proverbial marathon. For at least ten days now, Martin’s progress seems to have stalled. He’s had no concentration. His sleep has faltered. He’s even engaged in self-stimming behaviors. I begin to doubt whether we will succeed in recovering Martin. I can’t help but doubt. This evening I was out on a prepared-in-advance jaunt, showing some tourist friends Times Square after dusk, when I received this email from Adrian: “I was looking at some pictures of Martin and realizing that I am ultimately very scared of the whole thing.” Some months ago Martin’s excellent Track Two doctor commended me and Adrian for noting even the flyspecks of progress—the times when Martin understands a facial expression, or reads a gesture, or engages another child. The recovery process is so long, so tortuous, the doctor said, that the parents who catch these little things are the ones who ultimately succeed. The parents who, on the other hand, await the morning when their child will suddenly wake up neurotypical lack the stamina to finish the journey. They give up. The doctor’s word sounded so true, and I recognize them to be such. But I wish I had known that even those among us who record signs of recovery in every detail, however ephemeral, eventually will flag.

And I wish I knew, now, how to hold it together when recovery is beating the daylights out of Martin, when my work is unrelenting, and when it feels like this marathon will never end.

Call It What You Will, New York State. A Rose by Any Other Name Is Still Autism

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Martin’s autism was diagnosed by the Big Imposing Hospital, and not by the State of New York during his Early Intervention intake.

For the EI intake, Martin was visited by a speech therapist, an occupational therapist, and a child psychologist. (A physical therapist came and evaluated him later.) The psychologist, who reviewed the speech and OT reports and ultimately made the determination that Martin was eligible for services, told me, “It’s autism. You might call it ‘high-functioning autism,’ or, ‘Asperger’s syndrome’.”

Several months later, when I brought Martin to the Big Imposing Hospital’s special department for developmental issues, I told the doctors, “Martin has autism.” The doctors conducted an extensive several-hours-long interview with me, ran Martin through a battery of tests over several visits, collected surveys from Samara and Martin’s classroom teacher, and finally met with me and Adrian together, whereupon they confirmed to us that Martin has autism.

They said they were surprised that the State had provided an autism diagnosis, however. The autism diagnosis was not usually given to a child so young.

I didn’t think much about that comment until one day when I was having a casual conversation with one of Martin’s EI therapists. The therapist—I’ll call her Anna—bemoaned the fact that, under state guidelines, children younger than age five cannot be labeled autistic.

Really? I went and found Martin’s original EI reports, including the comprehensive evaluation from the psychologist. I had never perused the documents thoroughly; I know I should have checked them, but at the time it was just too painful to read page after page describing Martin’s inabilities.

Sure enough, the official diagnosis of the psychologist—who had told me, “It’s autism”—was not autism, but “pervasive developmental delay,” or PDD. I showed the diagnosis to Anna and asked her why she thought it was problematic not to say “autism.”

It’s problematic, Anna opined, because she works with non-verbal, self-stimming, clearly autistic children whose parents say, “We’re not worried. It’s just developmental delay. He’ll catch up.” And she can’t say, “It’s not just a delay. It’s autism. And he probably won’t catch up.”

I understand the state’s policy (and will admit that I am laboring under utter hearsay, having undertaken no investigation to determine whether “no autism before five” in fact represents official policy). “Autism” is a nightmare of a word. More than one of my close friends gasped audibly the first time they heard me apply it to Martin. The Department of Health must not want therapists silly-stringing scary autism vibes over families, especially when an autism diagnosis itself doesn’t always stick.

On the other hand, let’s consider whether this policy doesn’t throw yet another hurdle into the path of recovery. Treating autism, whether biomedically or through traditional behavioral therapy, is ridiculously hard. I know it’s a heckuva lot more than I thought I was signing up for when Adrian and I decided to become parents. You can bet that I would not be spending most of my waking hours on Martin’s recovery regimen if I didn’t somehow feel that the effort is absolutely necessary.

Almost a year ago, when Adrian and I first noticed that somethng about Martin made him different from other kids, I phoned an old friend who works with children in EI. (I’ll tell that story in a later post.) My friend came and spent a day with me and Martin, asking questions and observing him at the playground, at home, and in a class for two-year-olds. That same day, in the afternoon, my friend said, “I know this isn’t easy to hear, but based on what I’ve seen, Martin has autism.”

She said that as a friend, not as an EI pracitioner or a state employee. And it wasn’t easy to hear. Still, I will be forever grateful to my friend for putting the word autism into my head, immediately and up front. I’m not as proactive as I must seem from these blog posts. Not nearly so—for example, ask Adrian about my housekeeping skills, or whether I’m on time for anything, ever. If I’d had ample wiggle room to convince myself that Martin had some issue other than autism, I would’ve done so. I would have been one of those parents saying that he’ll catch up, and letting myself be content with the ample behavioral therapy offered by the state. But I didn’t have wiggle room. The big A was staring me down, right from the get-go. Proactive or not, I don’t get pushed around, and no way was I going to let the big A mess with my kid.

What I worry is that when we don’t call a spade a spade, we let parents off the hook, which doesn’t benefit anyone in the years to come.

He Does a Lot. It Just Doesn’t Require Doing Much

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We’re New Yorkers.

Before we radicalized Martin’s treatment, we also acted like New Yorkers. Saturday mornings Adrian took Martin to the playground while I went to the gym—Adrian called it the “Daddy Hour,” because the playground teemed with fathers and their toddlers, while the respective mommies slept in or aerobicized—and then we met for brunch at a favorite organic restaurant.  Saturday afternoons we took an early dinner wherever we happened to be in the City, and usually at a pub. Sunday mornings we ate brunch at Middle Eastern joint near my church. Sunday evenings we ate family dinner at a popular Italian restaurant in our neighborhood. If Adrian could leave the office before 6:00 p.m. on a weekday, Martin and I picked him up and we went for snacks.

We took frequent weekend trips, often spur-of-the-moment, to the Island, upstate, the Jersey shore, Cape Cod.

The New York lifestyle ended when we decided to fight ASD biomedically and through diet. We almost never eat out as a family anymore. It’s not so much that we mind having to bring Martin’s food with us. Instead, it seems unfair. Martin has to sit at the table and watch us eat foods he can’t have.

Saturday mornings are not playground time anymore. They’re reserved for Adrian and Martin’s RDI exercises while I cook a large breakfast, trying to compensate for the loss of brunch. Sunday mornings Martin and I eat at home. Adrian drops us at church and escapes to the Middle Eastern joint, now with the company only of a book.

Weekend trips have dwindled. They take days of planning. Cooking and filling a cooler with heat-and-eat meals. Dividing and packing the correct oils, additives, powders, and supplements, some of which must be kept refrigerated. When we do leave town, we can’t stay anyplace without at least a kitchenette, so we end up visiting private homes or finding “suite”-type hotels. We love cruises, but those are out for a while. This summer we found an alternative vacation and rented a house in Maine.

A couple days ago a friend asked me whether I shoulder alone most of Martin’s treatment regimen, or whether Adrian helps.

I responded immediately and confidently that Adrian helps, a great deal.

But other than the RDI exercises, I couldn’t explain how.

I have the answer now: Adrian has, without complaint, accepted the wholesale abandonment of our former lifestyle. That takes a lot—to change what you enjoy, to create new models of together-time, to become a different kind of family. And he had to do it within months of learning that his only child has autism, and adjusting his expectations accordingly.

So Adrian helps by not resisting.

Am I giving him a pass? Maybe a little. But he’s the one who works full-time. More than full-time. It also bears mentioning that, from what I’ve seen and heard, the No. 1 impediment to many a mother treating her child’s ASD is an uncooperative father.

Sorry, dads out there. I know you are wonderful! It’s just that some of you are still learning to believe in recovery. I’m lucky that Adrian already does.

Autism Recovery Is Impossible. Like, Everything About It Is Impossible

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So garlic and onion are gone from Martin’s diet, along with all tomato, peppers, eggplant, nightshades in general, and (hen) eggs. At least for the time being.

You may remember that a couple weeks ago Martin visited a (second) naturopath/allergist, who deemed Martin sensitive to phenols in those foods. He recommended that they go away for about six months, while we treat the sensitivities.

Well, that’s impossible, I thought at the time. We’re so restricted already, and my taste strategy consists of 90% garlic, 8% onion, and 2% whatever else winds up in the mixing bowl. No way I can lose garlic and onion.

This afternoon, as I modified a vegetable chowder recipe to make it garlic-free, I realized that what I melodramatically deem impossible seldom is. In a very short time, cooking without garlic and onion has become second nature. I’ve found ways to substitute. For onion, I try to consider the overall composition of the dish, what flavor I’m shooting for—fortunately, I have rather imprecise aim—and whether celery might not work, or the sharper celeriac, or another root vegetable like a turnip or a parsnip. And while I do miss my trusty sidekick garlic, its absence has prompted me to experiment more with my spice rack’s eager understudies like white pepper (doesn’t fall under the pepper prohibition) and fenugreek. Yes, my recipes taste different. But no, they do not suck. Or at least not enough that Martin has noticed.

I intimated in an earlier post that every step of this process began as impossible. Long before we radicalized Martin’s diet, before we even came to understand that recovery is possible, Adrian and I heard about mainstream medicine’s lone concession to diet’s effect on autism: that a gluten-free diet, for reasons allegedly unknown, may benefit some persons on the spectrum. Back then, I thought going gluten-free would be so difficult, so monumtenally life-changing, that I would at best give it a try for a month, then abandon the effort if I saw insufficient results.

Then we radicalized, and our consultant Kathleen was explaining to me that we’re not talking just gluten-free. We need to be thinking grain-free (impossible). Corn-free (impossible). Soy-free (we’re vegetarians; we love soy). Nearly fruit-free. Starchy vegetable-free. You get the picture.

Back then, my heart sank as Kathleen spoke. I trembled at the thought of what might go next.

Yet here we are. Pancakes without flour or eggs? Give me some cauliflower, spices, and duck eggs. I’ll get it done. Hummus without garbanzos or garlic? I’m on it.

We’re facing new challenges these days, as I delve deeper into what it takes to make our home safe for a child living on the spectrm with its attendant sensitivities. Commercially available household cleaners, other than crunchy-granola natual stuff, went first. The wireless phones are gone; I actually have to sit down at a desk when I want to talk. Blackberries are off, when possible. Tap water is fltered twice before it passes Martin’s lips. No fluoride toothpaste. No plastic utensils or storage containers in the kitchen. No microwave. No aluminum foil.

But we still have a wireless internet router, and a wireless printer/scanner/fax. I haven’t yet had the apartment tested for electromagnetic fields. And we live in New York City. Even setting aside the omnipresent aroma of car exhaust and doubtless gazillons of satellite waves beaming through our home, we have construction, and construction dust, on three sides of us right now.

It’s all impossible.

The Dreaded Comparisons: My ASD Son When the Neurotypicals Come to Town

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Adrian has taken Martin to a birthday party, for two girls Martin knows from the neighborhood playgrounds. I stayed home because I had to work. Honestly, though, I’m glad I had to work. I have not yet arrived at the place where I’m comfortable with Martin around other children.

Of course I don’t mean that I don’t like Martin playing with other children. Quite the opposite: Since he turned the corner a couple months ago from parallel play to interactive, we’ve delighted in watching him discover his friends in new ways.

What I dread is watching adults realize that Martin is not quite like the other kids. We have chosen to reveal Martin’s condition only to family and to friends who have cause to interact regularly with him. So I’m not out there shouting the word autism to strangers, or even to acquaintances not really within our inner circle.

Which means that ofttimes I’m uncomfortable and/or making excuses.

Example: Last weekend Adrian, Martin, and I attended a housewarming party for friends in Westchester. The first couple hours, Martin was the lone child present, apart from a lovely 11-year-old who—whether from boredom or geniality—was willing to chase and chum around with our toddler. During those hours, none of the adults gave Martin a second glance, other than to comment on his being cute.

Toward the end of our visit, however, another family showed up with a five-year-old and a three-year-old daughter in tow. A basis for comparison. Within minutes it was evident that their three-year-old had better self-control and was far more advanced in language than ours. And so, because I don’t like anyone thinking my son is unintelligent, or even developmentally behind, I started covering for him. When Martin spun in circles, I smiled knowingly and said he was tired and over-stimulated from a long week. When he used only simple declarative and imperative sentences, I said that he is bilingual, and that his English is playing catch-up to his second language.

Perhaps I was just imagining that the other Westchester guests were wondering what’s wrong with Martin. (Now is a good time to note that, some months ago, Martin would attract the curiosity of even non-parents, who seemed to register that he was “off.” We’ve made enough progress that few now seem to notice without parental perception, or another child for comparison.) Moreover, apart from the hosts, we knew hardly a soul at the party. I had no reason to cover for Martin the way I did. It’s an instinct, I suppose. It’s also a reaction to watching how my child still lags behind.

Adrian confessed to being nervous about today’s birthday party, too. He was shaken last week by a playground visit during which he and Martin ran into an acquaintance and his son, who is half a year younger than Martin. That boy and his father were playing “pretend baseball,” imitating throwing and catching and running the bases. Adrian has been working hard with Martin on pretending skills, which is one of Martin’s toughest areas. Adrian expressed sorrow that Martin lacked the skills to join the pretend baseball game.

I have this to go on: With persistence, we may just resolve Martin’s ASD before he is old enough himself to make these dreaded comparisons.

What Are You in For?

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This week Adrian and I attended orientation at Martin’s new school. Martin is identified as a “preschooler with a disability,” so he has a placement through the Committee on Special Preschool Education (CPSE), which is a public program. The school itself, however, is largely privately funded, part of a national network serving learning-disabled people. It is a magnificent facility for three-to-five-year-olds, well staffed and boasting amenities like sensory gymnasiums and a music room. Adrian and I feel so grateful that Martin has been offered a spot there, starting September 7.

The parents at the orientation seemed, almost stereotypically, Manhattan-ish. Expensively dressed. Talking a lot and coming off as pushy, in a positive, I’m-going-to-bat-for-my-kid kind of way. I glanced around the room and saw dozens of couples who looked—how can I put this?—like Adrian and I.

But as soon as they started asking questions, it was evident that these parents are in a different situation than the playground moms I know from my neighborhood. “My son can’t chew. He can only swallow purées,” one parent said. “What measures do you have in place to prevent him from grabbing another child’s food as a choking hazard?” Another said, “My daughter is just learning to walk. Who will help her to the front of the bus?” Twice during the orientation I felt myself near tears. Maybe the cause was despair that Martin is classified with such children. Or relief that his condition is mild by comparison. Or being confronted by the reality that no matter how much we polish our image, imperfection finds us. I’m still not sure.

Afterward, Adrian and I walked to a nearby diner. I recognized another couple who had been at the orientation, now seated at a booth across from ours. They recognized us, likewise, so we introduced ourselves and said our son, Martin, would be starting this fall as a three-year-old. Their son, too! they said. His name is Warren, and they are happy to have found such a wonderful program for him.

With that information out, we all stopped talking and smiled at each other.

I wanted to ask, What’s wrong with Warren? What are you in for? I didn’t, of course.

Warren’s dad broke the silence with a joke about needing pancakes to decompress from all the information we’d received at orientation. We laughed and returned to our own booth.

I don’t yet know the social code of this realm we have entered, don’t know what I can and cannot ask, what details are mine to gather or which of Martin’s secrets are mine to give. In fact, other than over the internet or by phone, I know almost no one whose child is disabled (learning or otherwise). I may be avoiding too much.

Shortcomings

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Shortcomings. I have them.

Martin and I are headed to Chicago on Sunday. We have a Monday morning appointment to see his excellent Track Two doctor. This afternoon the doctor’s nurse called and said that they are missing blood results, some testing we were supposed to have done. I remembered that I never had the testing done. The prescription form was attached to paperwork that I turned over to Adrian to seek insurance reimbursement. By the time I went looking for it, the prescription had disappeared. And then the whole thing slipped my mind. I suppose I thought maybe the doctor would … forget that she prescribed this blood work for Martin? Of course, she didn’t.

The Big Imposing Hospital sent me a notice recently, too, inquiring about the blood testing the geneticist wanted. I don’t feel so guilty about that one; the geneticist said there was little chance that we would learn anything from blood work. Still, I should have had it done. I could have had LabCorp draw the blood at the same time as the blood for the Track Two doctor. My bad.

And then there’s the lipase. It’s been in Martin’s supplementation/medication schedule since our last visit to his Track Two doctor ten weeks ago. I was supposed to start giving it to him two weeks after that visit. (We “ramp up” to new supplements.) I waited the entire two weeks before I went looking for a compounding pharmacy that could fill the prescription. I had no idea how to find a compounding pharmacy, and by the time I finally woke up and asked Kathleen Reily for the name of one, the lipase prescription too was gone. Poof! Someday perhaps I’ll find it behind a heat register or under a cabinet in my home office.

So much gets done. I’ve promised not to beat myself up for what doesn’t.

Waxing Poetically

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Here’s some information about me: First, I have a degree in creative writing. If I try hard, and spend a lot of time, and stare out the window between clauses, and search within myself for emotive phrases, I can usually write a pretty sentence. A flowery sentence, even, when the occasion calls for flourish. I can do that. Second, I also have a master’s degree in philosophical theology, a field I adore (though I went on to become an lawyer). Sometimes in the middle of the night I get so worked up about the meaning of eternity that I have to go downstairs and see if I can find an episode of Family Ties on Hub TV to calm me.

I’m revealing these facts to make a point about this blog. A few books have come out recently by parents who wax poetically about their children with ASD and related issues, who have found the meaning in their quirkiness, who see beauty in a life that looks different. I’ve perused the jackets of those books, but I haven’t read one. Each time I try, I end up thinking, Cut the crap. Despite the creative-writing and theology degrees, I don’t care to ponder the meta-questions associated with my son’s disorder. In this blog I will not be contemplating the interactions that make us human. I will not be reflecting on what Martin’s otherness says about my sameness.

I will admit that Adrian and I have talked about the blessings of a son whose development, on most fronts, is delayed. We get the opportunity to savor moments that might otherwise have flown by. In the past few weeks Martin has finally found the focus and moderation to walk alongside a grown-up, holding hands. Last week we realized that, when Martin speaks, he now looks at one of us to make sure he has our attention. How many parents of neurotypical children celebrate those milestones? Yet Adrian detests the saying that everything happens for a reason, and on some level I agree with him. I mean, I’m yet to find the well-wisher who can give me the “reason” that my kid has autism.

Martin’s autism, more so than any non-work-related issue I’ve ever encountered, has brought out the lawyer in me. I just want to roll up my sleeves and fix this. I chose that word—fix—with care. I know it will anger or upset some persons in the autism community, but I have promised honesty in this blog. And the truth is that I view autism as a problem, and I plan to fix it.

Here’s an analogy: I do a lot of volunteer work in area church governance. Often when a matter of business arises, we spend, seriously, hours making sure that everyone’s position is heard on church history, theological implications, congregational inclusion, who knows what. (Hey, it’s church, right?) I detest those discussions. After five or ten minutes, all the really important stuff has been said, and we’re just drifting Joyce-like through emotional arguments and feel-good reassurances. Serving on many of the same committees is another lawyer, retired from a big firm like the kind that employs me. I catch his eye, and we give each other a look that says, “These people obviously don’t work on billable hours.”

It’s like billable hours here. We have a limited window in which to recover Martin. With each passing day, it will be more difficult. I’m not going to waste any time searching for the ways in which his life with autism can be just as rich and varied as without. And I know we may not succeed. Martin might, for his entire life, remain distinguishable from his neurotypical peers. If that happens, I have no doubt that I will find comfort in a more philosophical approach to our situation. Now is not that time. If I can fix this disorder, I will not let it fester while I admire the bigger picture. This blog is about the workaday aspects of finding, and fixing.

I suppose there is some irony that I’ve written this post at all. True, it required taking a step back to contemplate our journey and what I plan for this blog. But I really don’t have time for irony, either.