It’s accounting season. Adrian’s assistant has prepared a summary of what our family spent last year on recovering Martin. Supplements, therapies, unreimbursed doctor bills, plane tickets to see specialists, that sort of stuff. It does not include expenses associated with Martin’s restricted diet, like buying only organic or making weekend farm visits for meat. Nor does it include my kitchen make-over, continually purging plastics and aluminum in favor of glass or stainless steel.
Even without the foods and cookware, the total is a large number. Not astronomical. Not bank-breaking. But large.
“Did you think it would be this much?” Adrian asked me.
I replied, “I’m looking at it like this: If someone told us last January, ‘Give me this amount, and within a year Martin will respond to his name, will make eye contact consistently, will interact with friends, will move like a neurotypical child, and will speak in complete sentences,’ we would have written that check, right?”
“Of course,” Adrian said.
He seemed mildly offended that I’d asked the question. But I was on a roll.
“And if someone told us last January, ‘Give me this amount, and within a year Martin’s lethargy and toe-walking and aimless drifting and low muscle tone and sleep problems and clumsiness will be gone, and his echolalia will be nearly gone,’ we would have written that check, right? Because that’s where we are. That’s what’s disappeared.”
Adrian waved his arm in agreement, putting an end to my roll. “We would have paid ten times so much. You know that.”
“So let’s keep it going,” I said.
And we fist-bumped.