It Used to Be Fear

Posted on September 16, 2015 by findingmykid

Over Labor Day weekend we visited Dr. Zelinsky, near Chicago. It was an easy day trip. Martin and I caught a 10:30 a.m. flight from LaGuardia to O’Hare. My friend Chris picked us up at O’Hare, we had a delicious brunch at Prairie Grass Café, Chris worked nearby while Martin and I were in Dr. Zelinsky’s office, and then we stopped at a playground on our way back to O’Hare.

Dr. Zelinsky had many perceptive observations about Martin’s development and brain functioning; she always does. Enough said. This post isn’t about Dr. Zelinsky. It’s about the playground.

The playground was random, selected by me and Chris from Google Maps as we drove. It turned out to be lovely, tucked in a wooded suburban acre. While Chris looked for the parking area, Martin and I walked a path to the swings and slides. He asked whether other kids would be at the playground.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe.”

Martin has long avoided kids he doesn’t know, especially in contexts like the playground, which can be overwhelming. Playground kids clump and run together, and Martin can’t keep up. I assumed he was worried and wanted the playground to himself.

One girl, it turned out, was there, sitting on a swing.

Martin investigated some climbing equipment. After just a moment, he walked over and sat on the swing next to the girl.

“Hi there,” he said. “I’m Martin and I’m seven years old. How old are you?”

The girl was seven too. She asked Martin where he goes to school. He responded—she didn’t recognize the name, of course, since we were in Chicago and Martin goes to school in New York—and then he asked where she goes to school.

That’s right. A reciprocal question.

“The Ryan School,” the girl answered. Or something like that. It was hard to hear her.

“Where?” Martin asked, then, when she repeated and he still didn’t get it, “Where?”

The girl’s dad, who was seated on a bench near the swings, turned to me and said, “She’s got a bit of a lisp that makes her hard to understand. We’re working on it.”

It’s not you kid. It’s mine. First time anyone’s said that to me.

“He’s not going to know the school anyway,” I said. “We’re just visiting from New York.”

We shared a laugh. The kids said a few more kid things, and then some sort of who-can-swing-higher competition ensued. Or at least Martin treated it as a competition.

Around that point, I realized something: Martin hadn’t asked whether any kids would be at the playground because he wanted to avoid them. He’d asked because he wanted to play with them.

The realization was confirmed the following week, when I took Martin to an indoor playscape near our home and he said, “I’m going to look for some kids to make my friends.”

The girl in Chicago eventually lost interest in Martin, and he didn’t succeed in finding any kids to make his friend at the playscape.

Nevertheless, he was seeking kids out, instead of avoiding them. That’s progress.

Progress.

Martin at the playscape, looking for friends.

Okay, this wasn’t taken at any location described in this post. But I couldn’t resist! It’s Martin and a buddy at an amusement park.

Money

Posted on September 5, 2015 by findingmykid

I call myself a fiscal conservative and social libertarian. I support capitalism. I think that, ultimately, the self-interest that capitalism engenders moves “the group whole” forward. Capitalism isn’t an ideal system, but we don’t live in an ideal world. Altruism, community spirit, and a peaceful life unfortunately don’t provide sufficient motivation. Instead, we—we humans—like to compete. A properly regulated and administrated capitalist system should enable workers to choose how they want to profit: financially, with free time, through notoriety or renown, in job satisfaction or altruism, &c. A properly regulated and administrated capitalist system, I think, functions best on the shoulders of an educated populace, and a profit engine that responds to its demands.

I’ve said before: I’m wildly simplifying. A blog post allows only so much depth.

One particularly American notion that I like is the marketplace of ideas. An arena for vigorous debate enables participants to consider and reject, to separate the (non-glyphosate, organic) wheat from the chaff, to ponder what makes stupidity stupid.

Congress shall make no law . . . abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances. Boo-yah.

I also believe that what’s happening to our health, to the immune systems of our children, to the neural functioning of our elderly, results from profit motivation. From greed. Glyphosate, genetically modified organisms, inadequately scrutinized vaccines, a world blanketed in electromagnetic radiation—some part of these developments might arise from a desire to feed the world or protect health or push us forward, but the greater instigator is financial advantage. (Don’t go all frenetic on my implicating this partial list of immunity bandits. I’ve admitted that I don’t science. I’m figuring out what I can, from the resources I have. I’m working on a blog post that lays out my own understanding of glyphosate and its role in autism rates.) Profit-seeking is running amok and trampling the vulnerable. Not the traditional vulnerable, like the poor and migrants. The newly vulnerable victims of our own success.

Run Away from Autism Recovery! It’s Like the Plague!

Last month I invested ten minutes reading a blog post titled “Autism: Whom to Trust, and Whom to Run from Like the Plague.” The author’s thesis is that autism is not treatable biomedically, and that any organization that supports treatment of autism is suspect. More than suspect, actually. TACA, AutismOne, Generation Rescue, they are all really, really bad. Like, plague bad.

The blogger implicates even Autism Speaks, which is a gigantic and wealthy organization that does not advocate biomedical treatment of autism. Autism Speaks concerns itself with raising money and “awareness,” as if, with ASD rates what they are, we need “awareness” more than research. The blogger’s beef with Autism Speaks is that “Only recently, Autism Speaks reversed its stated position on vaccines. For two years prior, they claimed that there was a connection between vaccines and autism.” In a move that marks the blogger as a likely outsider to the autism community, she mis-cites the slogan “Autism Speaks doesn’t speak for me.” She apparently attributes that slogan to (1) “actual autism advocates” who are angry that Autism Speaks, once, mildly, gently, suggested that vaccines may play a role in the development of ASD symptoms, or (2) persons on the spectrum who self-advocate against treatment. Quite the contrary: “Autism Speaks doesn’t speak for me” comes from families like mine, the ones who are angry that Autism Speaks raises the lion’s share of resources but doesn’t address health or cure.

The blog I’m talking about is called Dawn’s Brain and written by “Dawn Pedersen,” who describes herself as “a science advocate, web designer, educator, artist, and mommy.” Her qualifications are “a BA in fine art, an MA in education,” and “an AS in biology” that she will “complete . . . this fall.” As you know, I’m not a medical professional or an autism authority. Still, I (Martin’s mom) am, um, a “science advocate” (when it comes to the science behind immune disorders that manifest as autism), an “educator” (when it comes to addressing the immune disorders that manifest as autism), a lawyer (no asterisk; I just am), and a mommy. I have several impressive-sounding, albeit functionally limited, degrees: a B.A. in religion, magazine writing, and German literature; a master’s in religious studies; an M.F.A. in writing. I have a somewhat-more-useful juris doctorate, and have passed more than one bar exam. Plus, even though I don’t science well, I am smack in the middle of a Ph.D. in autism recovery studies from the University of Martin and His Doctors. I therefore declare myself even more qualified than Dawn Pedersen to talk about autism.

We Are Polarized

Given that Dawn Pedersen seems to be an outsider to the autism community, whose major qualification for assessing that state of autism research is working toward an associate’s degree in biology, it is fair to ask what’s motivating her to deride promoters of biomedical recovery.

I read through the comments to the “Avoid Like the Plague” post. Consider—

Comment from a Reader Named Carmen:

I’m sorry, whoever in the world does not think that gluten/dairy are inflammatory foods that in turn have a negative neurological effect on humans in general but even more so on Autistic people [is] in denial and not looking at the evidence. . . . My 3 year old is autistic and I have seen [LEAPS] and bounds improvement with his overall happiness with these diet changes. . . . Maybe it doesn’t work for every kid/person and it certainly doesn’t “cure” autism but it absolutely eases some of the undesirable (for my son) symptoms. I could go on and on. I guess you’re also saying that refined sugar, chemicals in our food, dyes and gmos don’t make things worse[—]asinine!

Reply from Dawn Pedersen:

All our foods are made of chemicals. Refined sugar breaks down into glucose in our digestive system like any other carbohydrate. There is nothing wrong and everything right about genetically modified foods.

Do you have a plausible explanation for how nutrients can travel backwards in time, to reverse differences in cognitive development in the womb?

You are promoting the very nonscientific explanations I am decrying. You’re promoting ideas that are victim-blaming, and without evidentiary merit or plausible mechanism.

More comments pile on, criticizing Dawn Pedersen for dismissing the experience of an actual autism parent, asking Dawn Pedersen if she’s heard of the CDC’s William Thompson, thanking Dawn Pedersen for her list of organizations to avoid like the plague because it actually provides a handy chart of good resources. To these comments, Dawn Pedersen doesn’t respond.

Her blog, it seems to be, represents a trend: polarization through outright dismissal of any view that isn’t our own.

Polarization: No Open Exchange, No Transparency

Polarization is the opposite of transparency and open exchange of information and ideas. I heard a commentary on NPR opining that it is dangerous and unnecessary even to present vaccine-safety concerns, because the CDC’s vaccine views have no valid counterpoint. NPR is wading into paternalistic reporting, discerning what Americans need to hear and disregarding the rest. (Sorry to pick on NPR. Every mainstream outlet does an abysmal job covering vaccine safety. Investigative journalism? Not. There is even a TED talk arguing, in part, that parents with vaccine concerns should not be heard.) According to recent polling, 52% of American adults are unsure whether vaccines can result in autism, and another 6% say that vaccines can result in autism. If 58% of Americans believed that or were unsure whether the earth was flat, I would want to hear their views. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t win me over, but I would listen. Today, any journalist who dares mention that Gardasil seems to be leading to injuries and deaths, or that unvaccinated children might enjoy better health overall, or that the Vaccine Injury Compensation Program does compensate children who develop autism faces public excoriation. We’ve left open exchange in the dust.

What about transparency? What motivates Dawn Pedersen? Is she just really, really fired up about quashing any hope of autism recovery, even though she doesn’t seem to have a child on the spectrum? A SeaWorld employee was recently found to be posing, for years, as an animal-rights activist and trying to incite violence within peaceful protests, to make the activists seem dangerous. Monsanto evidently has a behind-the-scenes department devoted to “debunking” science that suggests glyphosate or GMOs are harmful. With all the subterfuge in our world, I wonder what is guiding Dawn Pedersen.

Is it just advertising revenue? The advertisements that popped up when I visited Dawn’s Brain included OceanSpray, Fairmont Hotels, Walks of New York, WayFair.com, intuit QuickBooks, Lexus, University of Phoenix, Hedwig and the Angry Inch on Broadway, and RoyalCarribean International. That’s an impressive list. Dawn Pedersen must be able to show plenty of hits to Dawn’s Brain for ad revenue like that. (And here I come with my little post, stirring even more traffic. Sigh.) Dawn Pedersen, “science advocate,” also has other sites like Kids Busy Book and Draw to Learn, which she promotes on Dawn’s Brain. So she has the motivation to draw visitors to those sites, too.

It’s apparent, at least, that Dawn Pedersen gets a lot of web traffic by promoting the mainstream. By insulting those who peek beneath the surface. She has her sights set on easy targets, like parents trying to recover their children or fighting for healthier foods. Because why? Views are mainstream when most people accept them. People like to hear their views confirmed. People reassure themselves by insulting those disagree with them. People enjoy reading blogs that promote their own opinions. (If you stick with Finding My Kid, it’s a fair bet you think autism recovery is a good idea.) There is much to be gained through dismissing alternative ideas, and I wager Dawn Pedersen is happy to be profiting by doing so.

Always Figure in the Profit Motivation

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no Pollyanna. Dawn Pedersen not the only one profiting off, in this instance, autism. Autism recovery, while achievable in many cases, is so complicated to navigate, and autism can be so devastating for families, that desperation is running rampant. Desperation invites charlatans. One walk through the sponsor corridor of an autism-recovery conference shows as much. Remember what I posted about AutismOne? The guy with magic salts and vibrating machines? He’s not the only one. Vendors hawk antioxidant sweeteners, nutritional shakes, bracelets and amulets to block electromagnetic fields, CD’s of brain-calming sounds, pressure-point stimulators, you name it. Conference sponsors pay for their spot on the floor, and they want to recoup that investment. Parents who’ve found nothing that helps will buy anything.

It is easy to see why some families choose to write off the field of autism recovery altogether.

Beyond the snake-oil salesmen are practitioners making money off what actually works. Take hyperbaric oxygen therapy (HbOT), for example. I believe (despite lack of mainstream confirmation) that it can improve cognition and neural function in children with autism. But it is very expensive, and the gains sometimes don’t seem to stick after the child stops using the HbOT chamber. Thus, although HbOT “works,” it may not justify the tremendous expense (up to $10,000 for a series of 40 dives). Likewise are the controversial ionic footbaths, said to help detoxify the body. They really do seem to help, a little. But they can cost thousands of dollars, and similar results might be achievable through clay or Epsom-salt-and-baking-soda baths. Rest assured, we have no shortage of entrepreneurs ready to sell you an expensive footbath or HbOT therapy. Autism families will pay dearly for any help: vitamin B12 shots, signaling devises to find children who bolt, special combinations of vitamin supplements.

How can you ever be sure? You can’t. Here I will wade into controversy (ha! as if I usually don’t): I never trusted the late Dr. Jeff Bradstreet. He is such a big name in the autism-recovery movement, and many parents insist that Dr. Bradstreet was everything to their children’s healing. Still, Dr. Bradstreet rubbed me the wrong way. At an AutismOne talk this spring, he said that parents “owe it to their kids” to try MRT for at least a week, because it’s “not much money”—only $1,000 in MRT fees, several hundred dollars for a consult with him, travel expenses to Atlanta, and a week’s worth of hotel lodging and eating out, all for a treatment that, by his own (optimistic, it seems to me) prediction, might help 50% of kids. He said “not much money” to a roomful of autism caregivers, many of whom had probably blown their families’ vacation budgets for the year on getting to the AutismOne conference. I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Thank you for your work and research, Dr. Bradstreet, but please don’t advise these parents to give you their last dime on a wing and a prayer, and don’t tell them they ‘owe’ that to their kids.”

I am, however, and of course, grieving that Dr. Bradsteet is among the many alternative health practitioners (many rumored to be proponents of GcMAF) who’ve recently gone missing or died under questionable circumstances. I haven’t looked into this issue much. I’m suspicious about Dr. Bradstreet committing suicide. I mean, who wades into a river to shoot himself in the chest?

For me, any high-profile doctor presents a dilemma. On the one hand, I don’t want to penalize anyone for his/her success. If a doctor is helping children recover and earning plenty, good for him/her. On the other hand, becoming high-profile often requires more self-promotion than attention to individual patients, and sometimes involves selling miracles, like Dr. Bradstreet with his Bravo yogurt or Dr. Zach Bush with his Restore supplement. For me, for my own peace of mind, I prefer lesser-known doctors and practitioners to treat Martin. Otherwise it’s too easy to get lost in hype and lose perspective when it comes to evaluating results. As a biomed parent, I already feel like I have to take a stand against the mainstream world every day. If every other biomed parent says Dr. X or Dr. Y is the super-best, and I end up in disagreement, do I trust myself enough to stand against the biomed world, too?

I Say: Let Everyone Speak, and Prod Them to Reveal Their True Motivations

My husband’s employer has a generous foundation that matches charitable donations. The foundation recently announced a new policy: It will no longer match contributions to organizations that oppose marriage equality or full rights for LGBTQ persons. I, personally, would not donate to any organization that opposes marriage equality or full rights for LGBTQ persons. I, personally, support marriage equality and full rights for LGBTQ persons. Let’s face it—I’ve got bigger concerns in life than your gender or whom you love. Nevertheless, I can’t say that I approve of the foundation’s new policy. The policy quashes debate. It says, “This issue is so settled that we won’t listen to the other side.” When it comes to LGBTQ rights, I think the issue should be settled. I think. Others disagree. I wouldn’t silence their voices.

Decades ago, when I was deciding where to attend law school, I visited Yale Law School and asked about its Career Options Assistance Program. COAP repays the student loans of graduates who choose lower-paying jobs; the law school is expensive and doesn’t offer scholarships, so unless they get some help, its graduates are likely to funnel into big law firms or other high-paying jobs. At the time of my visit, I was smarting from being told, by another school, that I didn’t qualify for a public-interest scholarship because I wanted to work in animal protection, and animal protection isn’t “public interest.” At the Yale roundtable, I asked a dean whether availability of COAP funds depended on the type of work a graduate performed, as opposed to just the amount of money s/he earned.

“No,” the dean answered. “COAP is based strictly on income. We have no interest in dictating which fields our graduates enter.”

That’s the way it should be. We should encourage advocates to get out there and fight for their viewpoint, regardless of whether we agree. There is no value in not bothering even to engage minority positions. There is no value in browbeating others into silence. There is no value in hiding who is (or what funds are) really behind that browbeating. I shouldn’t have to wonder what motivates Dawn Pedersen to decry autism recovery, whether she is just driving traffic to her site, or whether some sponsor is buying her keystrokes.

I have no issue with money used to promote a viewpoint, especially when the source of the funds is acknowledged. I take issue with money used to pretend there is no counter-viewpoint, especially when the source of the funds is not acknowledged.

Does Progress End?

I launched this overblown post by stating, “I think that, ultimately, the self-interest that capitalism motivates moves everyone forward.” In the alternative universe of autism recovery, I find myself rethinking whether we’re still moving forward. We made it to a pretty good place here in these United States. The standard of living is high, chronic hunger affects few (though still too many), the stores are stocked, most everyone can read. We have labor laws to protect our children and zoning to neaten our urban spaces. We have choices.

But we’re chronically sick. Our marketplace demands cheap food, so we skimp on production. Our fertilization methods deplete the soil biome. As a result, the crops are less nutrient-varied. Then we compound the problem by processing the food. We meet the demand for over-consumption of meat by abusing animals on an industrial scale, in ways even our bear-baiting ancestors couldn’t have envisioned. Intensive confinement of animals requires such reliance on antibiotics that many are losing their value.

Even by official statistics, rates of asthma and allergies are increasing. That’s on top of the skyrocketing rates of autism, ADD, ADHD, and other childhood health problems that result in behavioral challenges. We’re raising the first American generation expected die younger than their parents do.

Dawn Pedersen, “science advocate,” might believe, or might profit from asserting, that we’re headed the right direction. As for me, the direction that we are heading is enough to make this capitalist wonder if she’d prefer to move off the grid.

No sponsors were involved in the creation of this post. None of my many degrees includes the art of self-promotion to advertisers. Of course, if you’d like to send me a check, whoever you are, I’ll take it! Party on, autism warriors.

Falling Near

Posted on August 1, 2015 by findingmykid

Parents enjoy identifying ways their children are like them, right? That’s why we have expressions such as “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” and “chip off the old block.” When I was growing up, I knew a boy so like his father that everyone just called him “Chip.” I don’t even remember his given name. Daniel, I think.

When your child happens to have autism, the process gets reversed. You start looking for ways in which you are like the child. Autism has a genetic component and, like other immune disorders, tends to run in families. Hey, I find myself thinking, do I have autism? Maybe just a little? Is there a reason I’ve always liked to be by myself, a reason I was an awkward child? (Okay, fine. I’m still awkward.) Does everyone trace patterns on wallpaper? Does everyone count the number of steps she takes on each sidewalk square or section of parking lot? Does everyone need to locate all three cats before she can start the washing machine, just in case the 14 times she checked to make sure no cat was in the washing machine were inadequate? Does everyone inspect her front bumper upon arrival home to confirm she didn’t run anyone over, even though she surely would have noticed if she’d run someone over? Or is that only me?

I see so much of myself in Martin’s behaviors, the same behaviors we blame on autism.

Martin dawdles. I dawdle. I seem incapable of moving efficiently from task to task, or focusing on one task. As a corollary, I run late. Virtually always. When I absolutely need to be on time (say, to a deposition or hearing), I comically overshoot the mark and end up half an hour early, hanging out in a random hallway.

Martin remembers numbers and dates precisely, but his episodic and short-term memory are subpar, along with his desire to pay attention. He knows every train station between our home and Midtown Manhattan, the number of moons Jupiter has versus Saturn, the order of his classmates by height, and exactly what we did on November 17. Yet he has no inkling where he left his socks, or what I said we are having for dinner.

Martin has favorite times on the digital clock. They are 1:11, 2:22, 3:33, 4:44, and so forth. If he happens to see one of these times, he makes a special sound, a delighted “haaaw!”

I recall a conversation once, when I was eight or nine, about the length of movies. I said that Superman (referring to the original 1978 version with Christopher Reeve) was two hours and 22 minutes long. My mother became chastised me, saying I was making that up and could not know the length of Superman off the top of my head. But I did. As part of our subscription to HBO, my family received a booklet each month with the program line-up and a description of each movie. A year or two earlier, Superman was a full-page write-up in the booklet, followed by “(2:22).” The same number, three times. I wouldn’t forget such a thing.

Martin has informed me that, on the digital clock, 4 has four lines, 5 has five lines, and 6 has six lines. I already knew all that. I knew that because I count line segments on the digital clock, have for as long as I remember. 1:11 has the fewest total segments, six. 10:08 has the most, 21. Digital 6 minus one line makes 5. Digital 6 plus one line makes 8. Digital 6 with one line moved makes 0 or 9.

In November 2014 Martin informed me that first Saturday and final Sunday stood alone. He told me this from his bathtub, and although no calendar was nearby, I didn’t need to ask him what he meant. On the paper calendar, November 1 (a Saturday) and November 30 (a Sunday) were each the only date in their respective rows. In February 2015 Martin told me one week was empty. Again, no explanation needed: The last calendar row contained no dates.

I get frustrated with Martin when he doesn’t pay attention. That’s so unfair of me. When I was in first grade, I took dance class. I never knew any of the steps, because I didn’t pay attention to learn them. I didn’t pay attention in baton, either. I faked the moves and occasionally got caught. Once, at an assembly for baton, a special drawing was held, with much fanfare. I was present but didn’t listen at all. When my name was picked for a prize, I had no idea what I’d won, or what to do. Until someone poked me, I didn’t even realize my name had been called. Did I have autism? Do I now? Maybe just a little?

Should I be treating myself with diet and supplements?

Will I be satisfied if Martin grows up to be like I am now? Or do I want him to be better?

Maybe just a little?

The prize I won, all those years ago, was a fancy new baton, which I was supposed to report to a table to retrieve. I carried it proudly but still never learned the moves.

And you probably will have guessed this already: I just went on imdb.com to check what that website says about the length of the 1978 version of Superman. According to IMDB, the movie was 2:23 long. Wikipedia says the same thing. Ha. That’s what they say. The HBO guide listed Superman at “(2:22).” I can’t find that guide on-line, but I still can see the numbers in my head.

Remember these things? I searched on-line but couldn’t find an image of the one featuring Superman. Any collectors out there?

Fledgling Attempts

Posted on July 30, 2015 by findingmykid

Berkeley, California, last month. We have a couple hours free, so I bring Martin to Codornices Park to play. After a few trips down the 40-foot concrete slide, which he abandons when a rowdy group of unsupervised boys arrives, Martin wanders to the swings. I’m sitting on a nearby bench, kind of zoning out in the pleasant Pacific breeze. When I look up, Martin is talking to a boy on the swing next to him. I hear Martin say he’ll be seven in three days and ask the other boy’s age. The boy says he is already seven and asks Martin where he lives. Martin looks for me, waves, and yells, “Mommy, I’m making this boy my friend!”, and then tells the boy that he’s from New York. The boy asks what Martin is doing in California.

Martin replies, “We are going to visit my mommy’s client. She has one daughter and two sons.”

We are indeed going to visit one of my legal clients. The woman, however, has only one child, a daughter. Martin added the part about two sons because he thinks it is funny to lie.

The boy on the next swing starts to ask another question. Martin interrupts and says, “No, she doesn’t have any sons!”, and then starts laughing.

The other boys asks, “Why did you say she had two sons?”

Martin continues laughing, and doesn’t answer. The other boy gets off his swing and walks away, watching Martin over his shoulder as he goes.

Laguna Beach, California, last month. My brother Rudy is working, so Martin and I have time to kill. I take him to the main beach playground. Two other boys are there. I would guess them to be about six and eight years old—chronologically speaking, one on either side of Martin—and they appear to be brothers. They are supervised by an older woman, maybe their grandmother. I hear the brothers speaking English to each other; the grandmother calls to them in a Slavic-sounding language.

The younger brother begins to follow Martin, trying to engage him. At first, Martin pays him no mind and goes about climbing alone. The boy is persistent. He wants to play with Martin. He even ignores his older brother, who keeps tagging him and running away while yelling, “There’s no way you can catch me!”

Eventually Martin accepts the younger brother’s overtures, and they start playing together. At least, they’re engaging in the same activities: trying to climb over each other on the rope bridge, balancing on the logs. I don’t hear them speaking. The older brother continues trying to get the younger brother to chase him instead, to no avail. The younger brother is hooked on Martin.

Martin waves to me and yells, “Mommy, I’m making this boy my friend!”

I half-ignore the inappropriate declaration and whip out my iPhone to snap a picture, which I text to Adrian with the caption, “We are at a playground, and I think Martin has made a friend!!!”

The iPhone rings. It’s Adrian. “Tell me more,” he demands. I tell him that Martin is engaging in cooperative play with another boy. I promise more pictures as available.

When I get off the phone, I see that the older brother has given up trying to steal the younger brother from Martin, and all three boys are together in the playground’s covered structure. Better yet, I hear them talking. Names are exchanged. The older brother says something I don’t catch. Because Martin still lacks voice modulation, I hear his answer clearly: “My dad comes from South America!” That’s true. I hope it’s relevant. I hope Martin has asked what language the boys’ grandmother is speaking, and that one of the boys has told him that their mom or dad comes from somewhere, and that Martin has responded by saying where Adrian comes from. I hope.

The grandmother calls the brothers, and they leave without saying goodbye. If Martin is disappointed, he doesn’t show it. He returns to playing alone.

The last time we visited Laguna Beach’s main beach playground, two years ago, Martin ignored everyone and had a potty accident. Progress!

Laguna Beach again, two days later (the intervening day having been the Disney trip). I take Martin to a newer playground, at Aliso Beach. We’ve never been to this one before. It starts weird: Martin removes his shoes and runs onto the sizzling sand, which burns his feet. Instead of running off the sand, climbing on something, or dancing, Martin stays put and screams for me while his feet continue to roast. I get some Crocs on him, and the weirdness passes.

Two little girls show up together. Martin tries to engage them. He says hello and follows their lead, climbing where they climb. The girls acknowledge Martin but don’t return his interest. They continue playing together. Martin hovers nearby, plainly looking to be included.

More kids show up, until seven or eight total are playing. The bigger kids, the ones around Martin’s size, start running as a pack, chasing each other, kicking a ball, shouting instructions and comments. Martin gets left behind. He goes instead to a swing. Although he is capable of pumping his legs to propel himself, as high as he wants, he calls me to come push him.

When Martin is rejected, Mommy is his safe place.

Slide at Codornices Park. Martin is the top kid on the stairs, carrying cardboard in his left hand.

Poor photo quality, because I had to zoom in from afar. Main beach park, Laguna Beach. Martin is on the right. His new friend is behind him.

Wait—That’s Bad?

Posted on July 25, 2015 by findingmykid

In the post about Martin’s disastrous Disney morning, I also mentioned buying him a black coffee, hoping it would help.

In my effort to present an honest picture on this blog, I keep my readers abreast of my application for Autism Parent of the Year. Remember when I started my kid on glasses and Heilkunst the same day, then couldn’t figure out which made him puke? Or when I denied him the chance to connect with a boy at church? How about when I vacationed in Jerusalem while Martin pined and threw tantrums at home? Way to go, me!

Let’s add coffee to the list. Months ago, Martin asked to sample an iced coffee I was drinking. I drink my coffee black: There wasn’t any soy milk or commercial almond milk or carrageenan or whatnot to worry about, so I let Martin try a sip. I thought he would hate the taste. Instead, a practice began, wherein Martin drank my coffee. More and more coffee each time, until finally I was buying him his own black iced coffees and giving him hot coffee at home.

My reasoning? Brewed coffee is GAPS-legal, and the stimulant effect seemed to do Martin well. He seemed more focused. No harm done, right?

Not so much, is MAPS doctor informed me when I mentioned the coffee habit (and convinced her to believe me). A stimulant isn’t really so good for Martin, and I should stop with the coffee, ASAP.

Which was my honest intention, until things ran amuck at Disney. Coffee! I told my brother Rudy. Grab some coffee! It helps!

Except when it doesn’t.

Want to Know What Terrifies Biomed Parents?

Posted on July 20, 2015 by findingmykid

In my last post, about Martin’s disastrous Disney morning, I mentioned a nasty insect bite on Martin’s foot that’s had me worried.

I suppose many parents worry about insect bites. They’re itchy. They can become infected. Some folks have allergies; I myself react so badly to mosquito bites that I have to rely on antihistamines. There is West Nile Virus to worry about and, elsewhere, malaria.

For many of us in the autism-recovery community, I think, bites provoke a special, heightened fear: Lyme disease.

Lyme disease, which is transmitted by ticks, primarily deer ticks, has become endemic in many parts of the United States. Lyme disease is also implicated in the issues that many children on the spectrum have. Worst of all, because Lyme disease is so hard to diagnose, and can mimic other problems, it is difficult to get proper treatment.

In November 2012, a test showed Martin slightly positive to Lyme and one of its common co-infections, bartonella. We treated him with a course of takuna and other antimicrobials, and later tests showed no indicators for Lyme. But who knows? I dread/fear another infection, or one already present and unable to be diagnosed. When Martin plays outside, I spray him with a combination of essential oil in witch hazel or apple cider vinegar. I’m not going to use the chemical repellants, and I need something to keep the bugs away.

When Lyme disease is transmitted, a tick bite often will form a “bull’s eye” rash, a spot surrounded by a red circle. Can you imagine how I freaked out when Martin’s babysitter, Samara, sent me this picture of Martin’s foot, accompanied by a note that the bite seemed to be bothering him?

In retrospect, “freaked out” might be an understatement. I exited a business meeting to research Lyme onset and how long the rash should last. I posted the picture to an ASD group on-line, seeking advice. Within ten minutes or so, Samara sent another picture indicating that the bull’s-eye-like rash had faded already into a more traditional insect bite.

That seemed to be good news; from my quick research, a true bull’s eye would last longer. Also, Samara reported that the bite was now itchy; according to the moms who weighed in on-line (sometimes trustworthy, sometimes not), a bull’s eye usually doesn’t itch.

These developments calmed me enough to stay at work and not demand that Samara bring Martin to meet me at the pediatrician’s office. I did email the photos to Martin’s MAPS doctor, who recommended additional anti-microbial drops as a preventative measure, and told me to visit the pediatrician or emergency facility, for antibiotics, if we noticed any other symptoms. We didn’t, thank goodness. We stayed on the extra anti-microbial drops, in case.

When the Disney morning from hell rolled around, my mind returned to the bull’s-eye-cum-mosquito-nibble. Sometimes ASD recovery feels like a continual series of freak-out moments.

Or maybe that’s just what parenting feels like.

Passing Storm

Posted on July 9, 2015 by findingmykid

Last Wednesday, my brother Rudy and I took Martin to Disney in Anaheim. Rudy and I talked the day up: the characters we would see, the rides we would ride. Because one of Martin’s current interests is marching bands, and Martin always has enjoyed live music, Rudy mentioned that we might see a marching band too.

When Martin woke on Wednesday morning, at my brother’s home in Laguna Beach, he seemed—okay. Not great. Not particularly enthusiastic about the daytrip to Disney. Just okay. I fed him Treeline cashew cheese on flax-seed crackers for breakfast, and then we stopped for second breakfast at the Penguin Cafe, where Martin ordered a hamburger patty, fruit, and “bubbly water.” He ate slowly and seemed distracted. His voice modulation was subpar. “Indoor voice, bunny rabbit!” I reminded as he shouted his order at the waitress. “Use your indoor voice!”

The real trouble started in the parking lot when we got to Anaheim. “I don’t want to go to Disney,” Martin said when we exited the car. “I just want to go back to Uncle Rudy’s.” I wasn’t sure how seriously to take his words; Martin often reverses what he wants to do and doesn’t want to do, and his hesitations can be fleeting. I persuaded him to get on the shuttle from the parking lot to the park. On the shuttle Rudy engaged some kids who presented themselves as experienced Disneygoers and gave advice on rides and performances. Martin sat silently. He opened his mouth only to answer, with additional prompting, when someone asked him how old he was.

On the plaza outside the park, Rudy picked up a schedule of events and, trying to rouse excitement, told Martin that he would be able see a marching band (parade) at 4:30. Martin completely freaked. He did not want to see a marching band. He did not want to go to a park with a marching band. I took him to the restroom, had him sit on the plaza with Rudy, and finally negotiated an agreement that we would enter California Adventure, Disneyland Park’s companion. We would not see a marching band, I said. We would not enter Disneyland.

We made it inside California Adventure. I headed straight to the “Chamber of Commerce” to request a special-needs speed pass. The agent who helped us with the pass also put us on a list for the Monsters, Inc. ride ten minutes later. We didn’t make it, because Martin panicked at the idea of attending any attraction. He was full of anxiety. He walked aimlessly, crying and not crying and crying again. He couldn’t stop asking about the marching band, whether we would hear the band, whether we would go to the other Disney park. He fixated on 4:30, the time when Rudy had said the marching band would play (in the other theme park). He didn’t want this. He didn’t want that.

“Hey, I’m happy just to be here, walking around with you guys,” said Rudy, who had taken the day off work to accompany us. “Let’s go with it. Maybe he’ll find something he wants to do.”

Alas, Martin didn’t find anything he wanted to do, at least not then. I bought him a black coffee, hoping that might help. Nope. I bought him a box of organic apple juice as a treat, hoping that might help. Nope. Martin couldn’t bear to be still, couldn’t be held. He moved, whined, and panicked. As the situation became ever more challenging—“Mommy, will we see the marching band? Mommy, what time is it? Mommy, I don’t want to go to the Disney park. Mommy, can we hear the marching band? Mommy, is it 4:30?”—I considered throwing in the towel. I wondered if I should return to the “Chamber of Commerce,” explain that my usually stable son was having anxiety meltdowns that precluded our enjoyment of the park, and ask to return and use our $300 tickets the next day. Finally, when I ran out of ideas, Rudy saw openings at a nice in-park restaurant, asked about special-diet options, and guided us inside.

Martin managed to listen to the food options and order, interspersed with getting up to run around. Then he sat long enough to eat an entire order of boiled calamari, followed by a plate of gluten-free pasta with clams. (It was barely noon. Remember, he’d had two full breakfasts before we left Laguna Beach.) Rudy and I drank wine with our lunches. By then, alcohol was necessary.

By the end of lunch, Martin seemed a little better. He still was having trouble sitting still, but the crying eased. He went to the men’s room by himself. He didn’t get upset when I couldn’t find a dessert that he could eat.

After lunch he asked to enter one of the eight million stores. Thinking that something to clutch would ease the anxiety, I told him he could pick out a stuffed animal, and he chose an eight-inch Donald Duck. When we exited the store, Martin seemed calmer. He looked at a ride, a kiddie attraction with jellyfish that rise into the air. I asked if he’d like to go on the ride, and to my surprise, he agreed.

From then on, the situation turned. The anxiety didn’t disappear completely, but Martin asked about the marching band only every 10 or 20 minutes. The restlessness decreased. He tried half a dozen rides, including the Goofy’s Sky School roller coaster, despite his professed dislike of roller coasters. He asked to enter a courtyard and listen to a Raggae-style band. Rudy and I exchanged what-on-earth-is-happening? glances, and when Martin was out of earshot, verbalized those glances. In the end, we stayed at California Adventure until nearly 7:00 pm, and finished off the day waiting patiently in a long line, at Martin’s request, to meet Minnie Mouse. Once we were headed back to Laguna Beach, Martin skillfully introduced Donald Duck to his friend Chicago Bear, who had spent the afternoon guarding Rudy’s car.

We had one kind of morning, and a different kind of afternoon.

I’ve asked myself repeatedly what could have caused Martin to have such a disastrous morning. The full moon? Traveling? Lack of sleep because of jet lag? A nasty insect bite on his foot that’s had me worried? A healing reaction?

I suppose I will never know, which is unnerving. I’m glad it didn’t last.

When Martin, feeling better, said he doesn’t want to go back to Disney anymore, I decided to honor his wishes.

Who Gets to Join This Fancy Club?

Posted on July 7, 2015 by findingmykid

Last night I had the pleasure of dining with an old friend from law school. Our discussion turned to Rachel Dolezal, the woman who resigned as president of Spokane’s NAACP chapter after it became known that she was born white, not black. My old friend is now a law professor; her research includes issues of race. She talked about three ways of identifying with a community (in Dolezal’s case, identifying with the African-American community): documentary, like checking the box that says “Asian-Pacific Islander” or “Hispanic” on a form; biologically, like asserting, “My grandparents came from Ukraine, so I am Ukrainian”; and aesthetically, like adopting traditions, tastes, customs, &c. commonly associated with the group. My friend opined that a person who chooses to claim a social identity, even if s/he does so only aesthetically (say, in hairstyle, language patterns, and manner of dress), should not be rejected if s/he also assumes the burdens associated with that identity: If Dolezal claims blackness, and willingly endures the discrimination that black women in the United States face, then her lack of biological identification does not disqualify her from the African-American community.

My friend the professor owns that theory: Any flaws in articulating it are mine alone.

We also spoke about Martin. I am sometimes asked why Martin—remember, that’s not my son’s real name—has a Spanish name. He is pale and blonde like I am and doesn’t otherwise “look” Latino; moreover, although Adrian, my husband, comes from South America and speaks English with an accent, he does not participate in “Latino culture” as we have (or imagine) it in the United States. (Excuse my sweeping generalizations; a blog post admits only so much depth.) My friend noted that Martin already identifies with the Latino community biologically and documentarily (we check both the “white/Caucasian” and “Hispanic” boxes), and to some extent aesthetically, because he is Spanish-English bilingual and has a Spanish name. Someday, my friend observed, Martin will have to decide for himself how much more he will identify aesthetically with United States Latino culture.

I enjoyed this conversation so much. It was personal, thought-provoking, and invigorating. Even better still, we were discussing Martin, and his future, and the topic was entirely unrelated to autism. I don’t know whether my friend is aware that Martin has autism. Martin was there, present, at my friend’s apartment. As we talked, Martin was playing, awkwardly but more or less appropriately, with my friend’s four-year-old daughter. Adrian and I are not public about Martin’s diagnosis, and I’ve never had occasion to tell this friend. Maybe she knows via the friends-in-common grapevine. Maybe not. Autism isn’t really the elephant in the room when I have Martin with me, not anymore. These days it’s sort of the toy elephant in the room. I can shove it in a pocket or tuck it behind a knickknack and hope no one notices.

That being said, as I sat with my friend and (especially) thereafter, my mind drew connections to autism. Martin has autism. I am part of the autism community. My family is part of the autism community. In terms of biological identification, we did not choose membership. Martin developed autism. It happened. Our entry tickets appeared. In terms of documentary identification, I suppose we do choose to join, out of necessity. If we want special education and other services, we have to check that (sometimes metaphorical) “autism” box.

Yes, I also check the metaphorical box to pre-board airplanes. Guilty.

Which leaves aesthetic identification. As an aesthetic matter, do I identify as a member of the autism community? Yes and no. No, insofar as we are not public about Martin’s diagnosis, insofar as we share on a mostly need-to-know basis. Our primary motivation for keeping Martin’s autism private is that he is getting better, and that one day he will recover, and then we don’t want him seen as “the kid who had autism.” In that regard, we refuse to assume one burden of the autism identity: We try to insulate Martin from the negative stereotypes associated with spectrum disorders.

Yes, however, insofar as autism has worked infiltrated the way I navigate the world, and any insult to the autism community feels like an insult to me personally, and by derivation to Martin. Remember when an ignoramus in an elevator called my friend Natasha’s pre-verbal son a thing? The offense hit me exactly as if he had called my son a thing. Two weeks ago, in a Brooklyn market, a minister—a minister by profession and not, I daresay, by vocation—yelled at my friend Stacey’s sensory-seeking son and then told Stacey to “get [her] son under control before he hurt[] someone.” Though I heard the story only afterward, from Stacey, I felt myself there present, as if the alleged minister had yelled at Martin and said those awful words to me. I identify with every report of a spectrum kid getting bullied, family who can’t afford biomed, or student whose school district denies appropriate special-education services. Regardless of whether we speak out or advocate, I am part of the autism community psychically.

I wonder what will happen when, for the most part, we lose Martin’s biological identification with autism, when he recovers? (I say “for the most part” because I envision him always having some level of immune sensitivity that requires special care.) I remember the episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, when Larry David’s Los Angeles character, who’s always believed himself the son of Jewish parents, discovers he’s adopted and was born to Protestants. Immediately he begins doing stereotypical things like wearing a fanny pack, hunting, slamming beers. When we lose Martin’s biological connection to autism, will my aesthetic identification fade too? Will I ask, “Is autism bullying a problem?” or, “They have adequate social services for persons on the spectrum, don’t they?”

I won’t. I think once a person has experienced what it means to reside with autism, that feeling never goes away. Maybe it’s comparable to PTSD; I once saw a report indicating that mothers of adolescents and adults with autism experience chronic stress similar to combat soldiers. Martin is young still, his autism has never been “severe,” and shortly after we started biomed, he started sleeping regularly (other than stress, lack of sleep was the big threat to my own health), so maybe in my case the PTSD comparison is too dramatic.

Does Rachel Dolezel have a place in the black community? Not for me to say, because it’s not my community.

My old friend from law school has me thinking this: I’m really not interested in policing the membership of the autism community, either. If a person who is biologically and documentarily unconnected to autism wants to assume the burdens of autism, wants to internalize every insult the way I do now, then I welcome that person on board. We biomed parents are striving to reduce the biological autism community. Growing the aesthetic autism community can only help those who remain biologically connected to autism to fare better in this world.

Those Doubts Are Gone. From a Mainstream Perspective, I Get Crazier by the Day

Posted on June 26, 2015 by findingmykid

Remember my doubts about Heilkunst homeopathy?

Heilkunst is about supporting the body’s natural healing power, allowing its own return to health. I had to go through the dreadful process of enumerating, in reverse chronological order, the many insults to Martin’s immune system, from medications and illnesses to vaccines to home remodeling while I was pregnant. For eight months we’ve done a “clear” every two or three weeks, working backward through what might be hampering Martin’s recovery.

Immediately after we began the first clear, which addressed coxsackie, Martin vomited and woke the next morning with a mild coxsackie-like rash on his hands. Since then we’ve seen what appear to be “healing reactions” of all sorts. Itchy neck. Inner-ear swelling. Tired allergy eyes. More vomiting. ROOS. Ugh, ROOS.

At the same time, Martin has been getting better and better. Seriously, he’s having a homerun 2015. I’ve been “reasonably convinced” the Heilkunst is doing what it’s supposed to.

Time to scratch the “reasonably.”

Our last three clears have been MMR, the H1N1 vaccine, and antibiotics we used when addressing SIBO. The antibiotics actually should have been addressed much earlier, in terms of chronological order; I realized only recently, from reading comments in an on-line group, that antibiotics need to be cleared.

I had a hunch that H1N1 clear would be a tough one. The H1N1 vaccine—why on earth did I fall prey to the unnecessary frenzy over that illness?—was the only injection from which I saw a noticeable difference in Martin, beyond the fever-crying-and-blues we are supposed to accept in a recently vaccinated child. He received the H1N1 shot in November 2009, when he was almost 17 months old. (According to his medical records, a “second” H1N1 shot was administered in January 2010. I have no recollection of that.) The shot was not a bad one, in terms of Martin crying or acting out. Instead, he became very quiet and withdrawn, and then, the same afternoon, I noticed him engaging in repetitive behaviors: moving toddler chairs into formation, stacking them, moving them. It was the first time I’d ever noticed such behaviors. Do I know that the onset of repetitive behaviors was tied to the H1N1 vaccine, instead of coincidental? No. But the timing raises red flags. Plants a whole row of red flags.

So I went into Martin’s Heilkunst H1N1 clear with trepidation. The clear involves three wafers given over three days, and then a two-or-three-week waiting period while Martin’s system works through the effects of the H1N1 shot.

As to what happened, here is the update I sent to Martin’s Heilkunst practitioner following the H1N1 and MMR clears:

With the H1N1, Martin was crabby for more than a week. He also had trouble sleeping and reverted to some behaviors we haven’t seen in a long time, such as uncontrollable perseveration and also verbal stimming (he says “goo-HEN-duh-may” repeatedly, and tries to get others to say it also, by asking, “What did I just say?” or, “Is ‘goo-HEN-duh-may’ a word?”). One afternoon he was super crabby and tired, and at dinner he said abruptly, “Mommy, I need to throw up.” (I feel bad: I didn’t believe him, because he frequently says that when he just doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to go to school, &c.) Then he vomited, twice, all over the dinner table and floor. After I got him cleaned up in a bath, he seemed to be feeling much, much better. He asked if he could have dessert even though he didn’t finish dinner, and then he went to bed and slept more peacefully. No trouble after that.

I waited another week and then did the MMR. Martin did not get as crabby, but one night after I bathed him, I noticed a bright red, raised rash on one half of his backside. By morning the rash was gone. Also, one day later he was covering his ears and saying they hurt. I put some Hyland’s earache drops in them, which seemed to help.

Overall, Martin is doing very well right now, with a big increase in conversation skills and some in attention. Socialization remains tough.

I should add that the rash I saw on Martin while we were clearing MMR was a mild measles-like rash. I know, because I had measles when I was 12. (I lived in a semi-rural area where, as far as I know, vaccination rates were near 100%. I caught measles despite being initially vaccinated, and later hit with a booster shot. I’m resisting the urge to make this post about vaccines.) In regard to looking like measles, Martin’s rash was clear and distinct.

Let’s agree on this: I don’t have my doubts about Heilkunst anymore. These wafers are doing something.

Let’s follow up with this: I don’t know how Heilkunst is working, or exactly what these wafers are up to. I know that the principle is “energy medicine.” Each wafer delivers a minimized, harmless form of what insulted the immune system, to help the body recognize and expel the toxin. But how does the wafer acquire that energy? At AutismOne, out of lingering curiosity, I crashed the Homeopathy Center of Houston panel discussion and asked questions. We don’t use the Homeopathy Center of Houston, buy hey, same idea as Heilkunst, right? Or close? The lovely ladies of Houston explained about dilution and formulas and administration and many other procedures, and my little brain left the room as uncertain as ever. I may be violating my own policy of comprehending any treatment before we begin; in the case of homeopathy, I consulted as many parents as I could find and also searched online for reports of negative or adverse reactions to sequential homeopathy. Having found nothing substantial or substantiated, I proceeded.

My online searches did yield studies (and straight-up arguments) concluding that homeopathy in general is bunk, just so much ineffective snake oil peddled at high prices. I took those accusations under advisement.

And now I feel comfortable saying: They’re wrong.

Closer?

Posted on June 16, 2015 by findingmykid

Time for another dispatch about church. I write a lot of dispatches about church, because (1) we’re there once a week (or so), giving me a convenient, less-than-daily forum to mark progress; (2) I see Martin with other children, and with adults; and (3) Martin always seems to be engaging in adorable antics at church.

The scene: Pastor has called the children to the chancel for their sermonette before they head to Sunday school. The dialogue: I wasn’t recording, so I’m going to do my faithful best to recreate:

Pastor: “Good morning, children.”

Children: “Good morning, Pastor!”

I distinctly hear Martin’s voice amidst the half dozen children. He calls out clearly, “Good morning, Pastor!”

Pastor: “Today’s lesson was about a mustard seed, a tiny mustard seed. Do you know how some people always think bigger is better?”

Martin: “No, bigger isn’t better!”

The same clear voice, calling out. The entire church can hear him, I’m sure.

Pastor: “You don’t think so, Martin?”

Martin: “No, I don’t like bigger.”

Pastor: “I suppose when I was your age, I also liked smaller better.”

Martin: “I’m six years old, but I’m almost seven.”

Now he’s monopolizing children’s time, still clear as a bell.

Pastor: “When is your birthday?”

Martin: “It’s this month! It’s the last Tuesday of this month.”

Pastor: “So you’ll be getting bigger, like this mustard seed.”

Martin: “Um, look at my new shoes!”

Whoops. Nonsequitur. I suppose Martin wanted to keep the floor but didn’t know how to follow the mustard-seed thought. By now members of the congregation are tittering good-naturedly.

Pastor: “Where did you get those?”

Martin: “At the store.”

Pastor: “It must have been Stride-Rite. Your shoes say ‘Stride-Rite’ on them.”

Martin: “Yes, of course it was Stride-Rite!”

The congregation laughs. The pastor manages to squeeze in another sentence or two about the mustard seed, then dismisses the children to Sunday school. As their little procession passes down the aisle, Martin looks at me, waves, and calls out, “’Bye, Mommy! I’m going downstairs now,” to the ooohs and aahs of those around me.

After the service, as the pews are emptying and then during coffee hour, I am approached by four different parishioners, each calling Martin “adorable” or “cute.” Even better, one woman who knows Martin has autism comments on how much he’s coming out of his shell. Best of all, an older woman with whom I’ve never shared the diagnosis says, “Your son is so articulate!”

Wait. She doesn’t just say that Martin is articulate. She swoons.

Martin, articulate? My son? Glad I happen to be standing in church, because I’m doing a lot of praising God.

Last month at the AutismOne conference, I met this amazing Supermom from Minnesota, who is working to recover her not-yet-verbal 12-year-old son. At lunch one day with other moms, we started sharing pictures and videos of our kiddos. I called up out a particularly strong performance—a video Adrian and Martin taped from bed that morning, telling me what they planned to do with the day—and handed the Minnesota mom my iPhone.

She watched the video, handed back the phone, and said, “I don’t want to diminish the struggles I know you have, but if I watched that video without knowing more, I would think your son was typically developing.”

Right there, at Maria’s Mexican Restaurant behind the Loews Chicago O’Hare Hotel, I started to cry.

Finding My Kid

A parent's real-time blog of autism recovery. Start-point is a diagnosis of ASD. End-point is unknown.

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