Category Archives: Motivation

Autism recovery is an arduous process with no clear end-date. Posts in this category address, in some form or another, what I say to keep myself going.

¡Hola! I’m Doing Well

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As I mentioned, we’re vacationing in Adrian’s country of origin. Martin performed at the top of his game our first day here: fully attentive, interacting with his cousins, chatting with adults. Since then, I think, the change in routine, air thick with pollen (to which Martin appears sensitive), and general chaos of travel have taken their toll, and he’s faded a bit. So I was particularly pleased with this interaction at a museum today. I’ve highlighted the best parts in italics:

Adrian, who has been carrying Martin on his shoulders, plops him onto a bench, next to another boy, perhaps four years old.

The boy greets the three of us: “¡Hola!”

“Hola,” Adrian responds. “¿Cómo estás tú?”

“Bien,” says the boy.

“Martín,” Adrian prompts, “¿le puedes decir ‘hola’ al niño?”

Martin looks at the boy and says, “¡Hola!”

“¿Qué es eso?” the boy asks, motioning toward a toy in Martin’s hand.

Martin comprehends the question immediately and responds correctly, “Un avión.”

“¡Mira!” the boy says, turning toward a video screen showing footage of a military exercise. “Son soldados.”

Martin makes no verbal response but likewise directs his attention to the video screen. They watch together for a few seconds, and then the boy wanders back to his parents.

Adrian and I are left beaming.

Score: one more near-typical interaction.

The A-ha Moment: Part Two

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(This is the second in a series of posts, begun here last month.)

“There’s something we’re missing,” I said to Adrian after I read the article about a six-year-old boy whose autism had disappeared. “There’s something more we can do.”

I was ready to do whatever it took, to make any sacrifice or pay any price, to get back the bright and engaged boy I knew Martin could be. But I had no idea how, or which direction to turn.

After Martin was diagnosed, Adrian and I had got, from friends and family members, recommendations of people we “really should talk to.” I’d never followed up; I tend to be a go-it-alone kind of gal, and didn’t see myself finding solace in an “autism parent support group,” the path I thought I’d be walking if I started reaching out. Now, feeling lost, I decided to exploit some of those contacts.

My first call was to the wife of a once-removed business contact of Adrian. Neither Adrian nor I had ever met this woman, or her husband, who live in another city. I’ll call her Annie.

Annie answered the phone at the time we’d arranged by email, and I explained the situation: Martin’s diagnosis, the behavioral therapy, my frustration about not doing enough.

“I’m glad you contacted me,” Annie responded. “My son is nine years old, and recovered from autism.”

Those words. He’s recovered?

“Yes, completely.”

I grabbed a pen and notepad. “Tell me more?”

Annie, God bless her, spent a full hour on the phone. She had “dropped out of life” for four years, she said, in order to recover her son through every medical, holistic, traditional, and behavioral approach she could find. It had been hard work, especially knowing whom to trust and what to try. In the beginning she’d been told that only behavioral therapy was available. She hadn’t considered biomedical recovery until a friend got her interested in the topic. Once they started biomedical recovery, the difference was amazing. The traditional doctors told her the process would never work. She ignored them. Her only standard became whether a treatment might hurt her son.

(As I’m writing this, from my scrawl on that yellow notepad, ten months after the conversation, I hear in Annie’s words exactly what I would tell a parent if one were to call me today.)

Annie told me about RDI therapy instead of ABA. (She had pulled her son out of traditional one-on-one ABA therapy, a decision I also made some months later.) She told me about the Yasko profile, Generation Rescue, genetic mutations, hormone treatments, available therapies. My head was spinning. The key, Annie concluded, was to find a doctor with strong traditional medical strengths who nonetheless would ride the cutting edge of new treatments. She gave me the name of a doctor halfway across the country, an associate of the excellent Track Two doctor we now use for Martin.

I hung up the phone in a different place than I’d been an hour earlier. I spent the afternoon chasing down websites and phone numbers. I printed pages and pages. By the time Adrian arrived home that evening, I had a full presentation prepared for him.

I began with, “This is what we’re going to do.”

Developments in the Physical World

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Saturday morning, 2:00 a.m. Or 4:00 a.m.? Depends on the time zone we’re traversing, I suppose. I’m up all night again—this time for no reason worse than my own inability to sleep on an airplane. We’re flying for a nine-day visit to South America, including Adrian’s country of origin. I can barely see the laptop screen; it is tilted down because the seat in front of me is reclined, and it is set askance to point to glow away from Martin’s face. He’s slumbering with his head rested against my hip, his feet two seats away in Adrian’s lap.

It’s very uncomfortable, typing this way. I’m leaned so far into the aisle that anyone shuffling toward the bathroom knocks my shoulder.

Seems as good a time as any for a blog post.

The last few days have brought Martin some improvements, physically speaking.

Most prominently, he has stopped scratching. For several weeks he was clawing at his skin like a madman. His preschool sent notes about visits to the nurse for “self-inflicted scratches.” I’m not sure what caused him to feel so itchy. Most likely the yeast overgrowth, or secreting some toxins through the skin. I trimmed his fingernails extra-short, tucked in his shirt when possible. It was ugly. But as of yesterday we were down to only the occasional light scratch, the kind to be expected as the New York air turns winter-dry. The scabby welts crisscrossing his belly and thighs are healing.

The lethargy has faded, too. Martin’s lethargy is distinguishable from simple end-of-day tiredness (i.e., crabbiness) or had-a-bad-night exhaustion (also crabbiness, combined with hyperactivity and self-stimming). When Martin is lethargic, he shows interest in playing or interacting, then ends up lying on the floor or even atop our coffee table, fiddling with a toy. He also sits in W formation, as if he were sitting on his knees, except with feet and ankles splayed to his sides. I’ve tried sitting that way, as compared to on my knees or legs outstretched. The W takes less energy. It’s laziest. I guess that’s why it’s Martin’s go-to sitting position in times of lethargy.  I’ve witnessed only one W since Wednesday.

He’s thrusting his lower jaw forward less. That’s a habit that comes and goes. Possible sources include adrenal stress, self-stimming, or inflammation, either systemic or specific to the TMJ. Whatever the cause was, the behavior has disappeared again. Scrunching his features and squinting his eyes appears to be on the way out, as well. And he’s “big-boy walking,” heel-to-toe instead of tippy-toe.

I’m pleased with these developments. At the same time, I don’t want to sound the bugle too loudly, because Martin’s attention and language are still lagging where they were this summer. My hope is that the physical changes herald other, non-physical changes to come, that they signify a nascent shift back toward where we were—and then onto new achievements beyond.

Three Highlights Bringing Joy

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When things are not going well—and I have admitted that they’re not, at this time—I tend to overlook everyday successes that I otherwise might highlight. Martin has brought joy to me and Adrian in these recent incidents:

Hangin’ with the pastor’s son. My church pastor has an 11-year-old son named Joey. Martin clearly admires the older boy (which is a little victory in itself). When we spend time with their family socially, Martin tags after Joey, in a Martin sort of way: like a cat, acknowledging the subject only occasionally, yet appearing constantly in his vicinity. And Joey returns the affection, mussing Martin’s hair to say hi, paying at least middle-school-level attention to not clocking Martin with a soccer ball.

Last Sunday in church Joey sat three seats away from us, in the same row, separated from Martin by only a young woman, a school teacher with a pleasingly high tolerance for boyishness. Throughout the service I noticed Martin sneaking glances at Joey. During the passing of the peace Joey hugged Martin, then high-fived him, which involved grasping Martin’s wrist and physically bringing the younger boy’s hand to his own. Joey must have considered it a teaching moment, since Martin failed to catch the cue when Joey merely raised his own hand in the air.

The closing hymn, to Martin’s disappointment, was not “This Little Light of Mine.” (Earlier in the service, he had insisted, “We’re going to sing, ‘I’m gonna let it shine’!”) I wanted to give him some treat in its stead, so I asked, “Would you like to go stand with Joey?” Although I had phrased my permission as a question, Martin understood. He pushed past the schoolteacher and planted himself next to Joey, who was signing. As soon as he noticed Martin, Joey rested his hand on the shoulder of his admirer. Martin wrapped his toddler arm around Joey’s waist, and together they swayed to the music. Despite the age difference and Martin’s limitations (which Joey hardly seems to notice), they looked like any couple of boyhood friends.

When the pastoral procession retreated and the congregation turned to face the door, I saw that Adrian, who does not attend church, had slipped into the back row to wait for us. He, too, was observing Martin and Joey. After another moment Adrian caught my eye with a look that said, “This is good.”

Expressing a preference. Martin’s expresses opinions, of course: “want” and “don’t want,” “yes” and “no,” “more” and “done.” He doesn’t do much choosing among non-binary options, however, unless a questioner enumerates a list. That is, he can answer, “Shall we go to the park, the carousel, or the wine bar?”, but walking out the front door, destination unknown, he won’t say, “I’d like to go to the carousel.”

Tuesday morning Adrian was dressing Martin for school. When he pulled Martin’s Bert-and-Ernie t-shirt from its hanger, he and Martin had a conversation along these lines:

Martin: “No!”

Adrian: “You don’t want to wear Bert and Ernie?”

Martin: “I want guitars.”

Martin’s t-shirt with guitars was not visible. Adrian sorted the hangers and pulled it out.

“Was this the one you wanted?”

“Yes.”

We had not even known Martin realizes he has choices when getting dressed. Moreover, (1) Adrian did not present Martin with options; (2) the guitar shirt was hidden, meaning that Martin remembered and decided he wanted to wear it; and (3) Martin instigated the conversation and made a meaningful selection beyond I don’t like what you’re doing.

Martin has not yet repeated this feat. Wednesday he wore Bert and Ernie without complaint. Still, it’s another first.

The wrong idea, well expressed. We have four cats. Only one, George, will give Martin the time of day; the other three scatter like he’s lobbing grenades. (I don’t blame them. By the end of this anecdote, you won’t either.) George craves attention so much that he seeks even Martin’s rough touch.

One afternoon this week Martin and George were playing on the living room floor. The interaction went well, at first: Martin dragged his fist neck-to-tail along George’s arching back. George tipped to the side, purring, and let Martin manhandle his ribs. Then Martin switched from petting to hitting—George, God love him, refrained from scratching or nipping—and I reminded him, “Martin, be gentle with George. Remember: Gentle.” I covered Martin’s hand with mine and stroked George’s soft fur.

Martin perked up, the way he does when he has a new idea. He tugged his hand from mind, sprang to his feet, and said, “I want to sit on George!”

Before I could catch him, Martin plopped atop George, who promptly wriggled free and fled.

“Martin, sweetie, we do not sit on George.” I held Martin’s chin and guided his face toward mine, as I do when his attention is vital. “No sit on George. No.”

I paused and awaited a response while Martin processed.

“No sit on George,” he replied at last. I let him go.

I was concerned for George. Not that concerned. He’s sturdy, and swift, and has claws.

More than that, I was pleased. “I want to sit on George.” Such a properly articulated notion, and appropriate—well, appropriate to the situation, if not for the well-being of our household companion animals.

Pondering the Destination

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How am I going to know if Martin recovers?

Martin’s autism, for me, is defined by negatives. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t respond to his name. He doesn’t pay attention. He doesn’t use pronouns. He doesn’t have strong fine motor skills.

I wonder how neurotypicality will be defined. If I remove the “n’t” from each of those sentences, is Martin recovered? Or will he need to achieve some level of “can do” before we call him neurotypical?

The determination will be easiest if I can define recovery be negatives, too, by unusual behaviors discontinuing. For example, I’m writing this at the airport, waiting for a flight. Martin is seated in the chair next to me, playing with a toy train. He is not crawling under the row of seats trying to wedge himself into the smallest, most secure crevice available (which he used to do). At the security checkpoint he did not refuse to hold my hand and did not bolt. He has not had a potty accident all morning.

On the other hand, he did sort of freak out and refuse to wash his hands when the bathroom had only hot-air dryers, no paper towels. (I had some paper towels in our travel backpack. Meltdown averted.) What if he had not panicked at the thought of trying the hot-air dryer? Then would this be a neurotypical trip to the airport? Probably not. He still can’t ask questions or speak very clearly.

So I suppose our journey will end with a magic combination, when the peculiar behaviors cease and Martin attains skills that rival an average neurotypical peer’s.

Which I also suppose means our journey may never end. I mean, I engage in peculiar behaviors. (As far as I know, it is not normal that I refuse to start the washing machine until I’ve located each of our four cats, to make sure none is in the washer. Even though I’ve just checked the washer and confirmed that no cats are inside. Twice.) Moreover, I lack any sense of direction, can’t draw more than a stick figure, and couldn’t sing on key to save my life. So I would say I can’t find a new location, illustrate, or sing as well as an average peer, neurotypical or otherwise. Come to think of it, despite being athletic, I can’t even play basketball. Just not a skill I have.

My “can do” is not up to snuff. Looks like I need a recovery journey, too.

[Sigh.]

Friendships

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When Martin has a good day, I allow myself some daydreaming about life once he recovers.

So far, today has not been great. But yesterday was pretty good, and I did some daydreaming. I asked myself this: What is my No. 1 goal? If I could pick one facet of recovery wherein we succeed without qualification, what would it be?

Easy answer: friendships.

In post after post, I’ve extolled my husband, Adrian. We are (quoting a pal) the Disturbingly Happy Couple, co-participants in a head-butting, growling, grappling marriage of equal parts challenge and laughter. Without Adrian, I would, no doubt, lack the strength to recover Martin.

But there is another achievement of my adult life that I value just as much as my marriage: the ability to build and maintain friendships.

I didn’t have close friends growing up. That is to say, until I was in my 20’s I kept myself apart from others. I can perceive now that I had too little self-esteem as a young person, and that I masked that shortcoming with too much self-confidence—meaning that I ignored the needs of my peers and expected them to care for mine, without reciprocity. I had acquaintances, and “friends” in the sense of people with whom I interacted socially, but I never opened up to anyone. And if anyone tried to open up to me, I shut down.

As an adult, fortunately, I got better at internalizing humility in a way that led to more genuine relationships. It was a painstaking process, learning to unlock feelings and to expose my own weaknesses, and especially, to empathize. Inviting others out “just to talk.” Listening. Returning phone calls, writing thank-you notes, keeping track of what was going on in homes besides my own.

Closer friendships—I realize that this probably isn’t news to anyone but me—improved my life immeasurably. Today I marvel at the bone-headedness of self-isolation.

Adrian and I do RDI therapy with Martin. Last spring we watched a five-hour video explaining how RDI works. The first couple hours made for pretty awful viewing; a doctor enumerated the neurological bases for autism, and how those behaviors manifest themselves behaviorally. Dismal statistics appeared on-screen, noting that even the highest-functioning ASD adults, traditionally treated, do not live independently or enjoy significant peer relationships. Then the doctor appeared and reiterated that, unless their course of development is altered, high-functioning children with autism will not learn to make and keep friends. They will never have significant peer relationships.

I was mortified.

Another parent once told me, about her eleven-year-old son on the spectrum, “He doesn’t have friends except for one. But if he doesn’t care, why should I?”

I think she must be wrong. I think her son must care.

Martin will care if he has friends. And so will I, always.

Investigative Journalism, Part Two

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In yesterday’s post I described three articles that have appeared in the Chicago Tribune. The first, published two years ago, questioned the scientific underpinnings of ASD treatment and profiled the case of an apparently (?) recovered seven-year-old boy whose father contended that the boy would have progressed without, and may have suffered (yet unmanifested) harm from, biomedical interventions. The second and third articles, published last month, reported that this father’s complaint against Dr. Anju Usman, one of the boy’s treating physicians, had led to medical board charges against her. They also provided the detail that the boy’s treatment had been the subject of a divorce proceeding in which his mother, who supported the biomedical interventions, had lost custody.

Today I’m writing about the effect that such an article has on a parent undertaking a recovery journey. Specifically, this parent. Me.

I’ve made no secret that we’ve chosen an arduous path. Treating ASD biomedically means we’re raising Martin inconveniently. We’re navigating 21st-century America without processed or packaged foods, tap water for drinking or cooking, a microwave, grains, sugar, non-organic products, or restaurants. Martin swallows a lot of supplements—I’m not going to claim “six pills at once,” like the father in the Tribune article, but enough—and participates in 16 HANDLE exercises daily. We do RDI. It’s so much that, any moment when I’m not marveling some new achievement, I’m probably contemplating giving up.

Which means that during the past three months I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate giving up.

When I do research about Martin’s treatment, I seek out multiple sources and do my best to weed out bias, hyperbole, and blanket statements. When I speak with Martin’s practitioners, whether Track One or Track Two, I attempt to engage in dialogue: question, answer, challenge.

A mainstream-newspaper “investigation” is a different sort of animal. Because of their stature, we count on the big sources to do our homework for us, to examine every side and summarize fairly. To question, answer, and challenge without our participation. I studied magazine journalism as an undergraduate, and I remember this rule: When you’re going to write a major article, for that moment in time, you must become the world’s leading authority on your topic. In my mind, before the Chicago Tribune reporters sat down to write their original piece, they should have been the world’s leading authorities on biomedical ASD recovery.

And when the world’s leading authorities say a process is “dubious” and “unsupported,” that’s a pretty good reason to quit, right? Especially if the process is taking a toll on you like none you’ve ever known.

I admit that I hesitated, even, before sending last month’s Tribune articles to Adrian. I feared that they might make him want to quit. (A fear unwarranted: I sent them, we discussed, and Adrian remains as dedicated to Martin’s recovery as ever.)

And now I worry that those articles, and the actions of the Illinois medical board, might make other families want to quit. Goodness knows we’ve got the deck stacked against us as it is.

I can’t tell other families whether to continue biomedical recovery or to quit. I would never try. Heck, I don’t even know where my own family’s journey will end.

I can say that I don’t think the Tribune reporters became the world’s leading authorities, or if they did, they failed to demonstrate that. I know at least one family who allowed one of the reporters to meet their fully recovered son, whom Dr. Usman had treated. I saw no mention of any such families in the articles. I saw no investigation into whether (as I thought the articles may have hinted) the father’s complaints simply arose within a divorce context, or were instead prompted by that context. The Tribune presented the incompetent actions of rogue DAN! doctors; it made no mention of the compassion of competent biomedical-recovery practitioners.

All in all, I thought it was lopsided reporting.

But to a parent who’s desperate, and exhausted, lopsided reporting might just suffice to make you throw in the towel.

That, I think, would be a sorry effect.

Investigative Journalism, Part One

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[This post has become long, so I’ve decided to break it into two parts, to avoid losing readers halfway. The second part will appear tomorrow.]

Several readers now have asked my opinion on a recent Chicago Tribune article about Dr. Anju Usman.

I have an opinion.

Let me start by saying that, although I know her work by reputation and from speaking with parents whose children recovered under her care, I have never met Dr. Usman. She is not Martin’s excellent Track Two doctor. I lack any particular expertise for interpreting this story. I derive my understanding of the facts from the Tribune (what there is written, and what thence is missing), and have formed my opinion from own experience.

Here is the Tribune saga, based on what I’ve read: Almost two years ago, as part of a series called Dubious Medicine, the newspaper conducted biomedical ASD interventions and published its findings under the title “Risky alternative therapies for autism have little basis in science.” The article highlighted its conclusion up front, namely, that “many of these treatments amount to uncontrolled experiments on vulnerable children. . . . And though some parents fervently believe their children have benefited, the Tribune found a trail of disappointing results from the few clinical trials to evaluate the treatments objectively.”

The role of human-interest centerpiece in the Tribune’s initial story was played by a then-seven-year-old Chicago boy, a years-long patient of Dr. Usman and of Melbourne, Florida’s Dr. Daniel Rossignol. The article begins with the boy’s father, who opposes biomedical intervention, bemoaning his son’s ability to swallow six pills at once. Near the end, however, after its indictment of autism recovery science, the article takes a befuddling turn. The boy at age seven is described as “playful, funny[,] and outgoing”—which to me sounds a lot like “recovered.” The boy’s unnamed mother, according to the Tribune, “declined to be interviewed but [] said in court documents that she believes the boy’s many alternative therapies benefited him [and] argued that her son’s treatment must continue on a regular basis.” The father, by contrast, “said he [thought] his son . . . would have progressed developmentally without any medical treatments” and filed complaints with the state medical boards against Dr. Usman and Dr. Rossignol. He told the Tribune, “I worry very much. There may be latent physical harm. We don’t know.”

Fast-forward to last month. The Tribune ran back-to-back articles on Dr. Usman. The first, “Illinois regulators seek to discipline autism doctor,” reported that this father’s grievances had led to the Illinois Department of Financial and Professional Regulation charging Dr. Usman with “unprofessional, unethical and/or dishonorable conduct” and seeking suspension or revocation of her medical license. It noted as well that the father had in fact sued Drs. Usman and Rossignol, a case that apparently is pending in the Circuit Court of Cook County.

The second article, “Illinois medical board files complaint against star autism doctor,” was similar to the first, with some more detail on that complaint. More interestingly, from my perspective, it included this detail:

The treatments that [the father]’s son received were also the subject of a bitter divorce and custody battle between [the father], who vehemently opposed the therapies, and his wife. She had been a proponent of the therapies for the boy, according to divorce court records. [The father] and his wife divorced. [The father] was awarded residential custody.

If any of the feared “latent physical harm” had evinced itself in the boy, the Tribune makes no mention thereof.

The Tribune articles supply much potential fodder for this blog—like the science underlying autism recovery, and laboratory studies versus field work; how prosecution of heterodoxy curtails the ability to pursue alternative treatments; reporters’ influence on the way we interpret the world. (The also supply much fodder less appropriate for the blog—like the validity of a medical-malpractice lawsuit absent any manifested harm, or the ways a divorcing couple can entrap third-parties into their own anger.) I’m not going to pursue any of those topics.

Instead, tomorrow, I will address the effect that stories like the Tribune’s have on me and, I would guess, others in the thick of a biomedical recovery journey.

So Do I Still Have to Be Honest?

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This was to be the day. I’ve been thinking about it all week, and today I was going to post a disclosure—a confession. It would have read something like this:

We’re not making progress, at least not that I perceive. We got off to an explosive start: Martin zoomed from restlessness to sleep, from lethargy to energy, from drifting to engagement, from low muscle tone to standard body-type. Then, late in summer, the advances dwindled, and Martin backslid in attention and language.

It’s almost winter now, and I’m wondering if we’ll get back on track and whether the burden of an ASD recovery journey really makes sense. I’m even ready to admit that, had I felt this way in August, I would not have started blogging. It’s too difficult, exposing your own aspirations and vulnerabilities on-line (even if anonymously) when the very subject you’re blogging has beaten you into the gutter. Back in August, when I wrote my first post, we weren’t chugging along like we once had been, but it just felt like we’d pulled into a rest stop on the recovery highway. A check of the map, maybe a snack, and we’d be back on our way.

But then the ignition refused to turn. Two or three months later, the biomedical car remains stalled, and Triple-A has not shown. I’m stuck.

 That’s approximately the ode to frustration I had in mind to post.

By now, if I’ve set this up properly, you’re asking why I say what “was to be.” Why am I quoting the ode to frustration, instead of posting it directly?

The answer is that Martin climbed out of bed this morning and said, “Hello, Mommy.” When I plopped into the chair in his room and asked if he’d like to sit on me, he responded, “Sit on you,” getting the preposition correct if not the idiom. He asked to use the potty and did his business without clawing at his legs, which he’s been scratching raw from yeast itch. When I helped him get dressed, he put his arms into his sleeves and then—instead of letting the shirt stay bunch around his chest, as usual—he tugged the hem down over his belly, looking like any neurotypical three-year-old getting dressed. He glanced down with each step as we descended the stairs to the kitchen. He ate his waffle with a fork. When I asked if he wanted more, he said, “I want more waffle.”

It was a good morning.

True, it was just one good morning, and later this afternoon Martin got spacier.

As it turns out, for now, one good morning was enough. I decided not to let my icky desperation take the starring role in today’s post.

Still, I had to reveal what I’d thought about writing. That’s my commitment to honesty here.

This morning I thought I heard the engine try to turn. I can’t wait for tomorrow. We may leave this rest stop yet.

It’s Like a Cruise Ship, But This Ain’t No Pleasure Cruise

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I’ve expressed some frustration at feeling stalled lately. I’m looking for the leaps of progress we saw early in Martin’s recovery, when we sped from not sleeping to sleeping, from low muscle tone to good muscle tone, from lethargy to energy. Nothing so monumental has happened for a few months. Since before I started blogging, in fact.

For my own sanity, I need to talk about what’s heading in the right direction. We’ve got the answers to open-ended questions, as I posted yesterday. At Martin’s bedtime this evening, he and I exchanged a few words in a manner that mildly resembled a “How was your day?” conversation. His joint attention is flourishing; frequently he checks my face to see if I’m listening. (When he wants me to be listening, that is. Often enough he chats for his own amusement, no audience desired.) His relationship-understanding may have improved lately. He’s taking better notice—I won’t claim obedience—when I speak sternly (“No! No going in Mommy’s office.”). And earlier today, I took advantage of the Muppet Honkers performing “Honk Around the Clock” to make up a silly dance. Martin diverted his gaze away from Sesame Street (victory!) to me (victory!), understood that I was joking (victory!) and laughed (victory!).

Amidst these tiny successes, what bothers me is the big deal: the lack of general attention. Name responsiveness remains low for the moment, and Martin is rarely “with you” unless it’s a one-on-one situation. His teachers say he needs constant monitoring to stay focused in class. When he and I are playing, I find him about half the time talking to me, and about half the time just talking.

Over the past couple days I’ve sensed some inkling that the attention might be changing direction, maneuvering ever so slowly. It’s too soon, though, to get my hopes up, so I’ll just leave that notion on the table and follow up in a later post.

Remember the movie Titanic? Bill Paxton’s character Brock Lovett says something like, “The ship’s too big with too small a rudder. It doesn’t corner worth a damn.” We’re caught these days in oceanic currents of environmental toxins, EMF’s, chemicals, induced labor, processed mush disguised as food. And here come Adrian and I, trying to divert all that with our little toolbox of therapies, supplements, and organic foods.

It feels like steering a cruise ship with a rowboat paddle.