If you've ever seen the movie "Megamind," no doubt you're familiar with the character of Megamind, the villain-turned-superhero and his dolphin blue bulbous head. Even before Matthew was diagnosed with autism, my head felt about that size. His dad and I knew something wasn't right in spite of the assurances from the doctors we took him to. What little speech he'd had which was pretty much babbling, was gone by the time he was two. He didn't play with his brother; he played beside his brother. While his brother was busy pushing his toy fire truck across the floor, Matthew was carrying around the ladders that came with the fire truck. Rather than pushing his toy cars and trains across the floor, he would hold them to his face and spin the wheels. Before I could even get him ready for bed, he would circle the living room as though he were chasing his shadow. These were the days of VHS and Matthew would run his tongue along the bumps on his videos. When I would go to hug him or tell him I loved him, he would pull away and either run down the hall screaming or throw himself to the floor and hit himself in the head. I took it personal, not yet realizing that there were sensory issues going on inside of him that I had yet to understand. In my ignorance, I just figured he hated me!
Unlike his dad, who was getting his own education through his job at a home for physically/developmentally disabled individuals, I was not ready to accept what I felt gnawing at my insides. The internet highway was at the top of its game and I took to the "open road" as it were, researching every site and source I could possibly find. All arrows pointed to autism and each time my eyes fell on it, my heart sank and my stomach twisted. What else could it have been? His dad and I were not buying the "boys-develop-slower-than-girls" adage anymore, especially when by this time Matthew was regressing more than progressing. After a hearing test ruled out a hearing loss--his hearing was actually off the charts--he was referred to a pediatric speech/language therapist who, after observing him, referred him to a pediatric neurologist who confirmed that our son was indeed autistic. I should have felt relief--instead, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.
Every parent, whether they'll admit it or not, has hopes and dreams for their kids. They hope and pray that their kids will take a higher road than they did. They pray for families and success and happiness for their kids. When a parent receives a diagnosis of autism (or any disability) for that matter, those dreams seem to come to a stop. I used to say it was like being in "Invasion Of The Body Snatchers," where an alien intruder broke into my home, took my son, and left behind a shell that merely resembled him. I grieved. And I cried. I couldn't even look at pictures of him as a baby or a toddler without breaking down. When did I stop crying? What day is it?
Back to the computer...back to the research...back to the Megamind sized head!
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