I have been feeling more and
more uncertain about the Prince’s future lately. I think it is the reason I have not been blogging
here very much. I have always had a philosophy
of hope. And I still am hopeful, but we
are on the brink of the teen years and the differences between the Prince and
his peers are becoming more noticeable.
He is a little boy in a big boy’s body.
Of course I know how fortunate
we are that the Prince responded to all the therapies and is now able to speak
and that for the most part, has ok adaptive skills. At age 10 we are still working on certain
elements of personal hygiene and tying shoes, but in the scheme of things, that
is minor. He’ll get it eventually, and
if not, there is always Velcro. He is toilet-trained,
which I will always consider one of my greatest achievements. He still stims--
jumping, pacing, wringing his hands—and he has some verbal tics--but some people
bite their nails or have equally
annoying habits.
I cry for my friends whose
children are the same age as the Prince, but have not yet heard their child’s
voice and I feel blessed. I feel for my
friends whose teenagers with autism are not toilet trained. I really do know that the Prince is lucky and
our lives are easier than those whose kids have more classical, Kanner’s autism;
that is, if the Prince has to have autism at all, at least he has responded to
treatment. Although I am beginning to
think he has plateaued and that scares me.
With “high-functionality” (I
will always hate those terms, high and low functioning) comes a certain
awareness of “being different” that has already led to OCD and depression in
the Prince. At various times when
anxious he has pulled out his hair, or his eyelashes. I see in my friends whose children are in high
school and are high-functioning how prevalent anxiety and lack of self-esteem
are. My son is already on two medications
for this. What will happen when he gets
older and his social world gets even more complicated? Right now, his classmates who have known him
since kindergarten are sweet to him, sort of protective, like they would treat
a little brother or sister. They love
his echolalia, “Do Toy Story,” they say or “Do Cars,” and he does. But what will happen in middle school next
year?
The Prince has a terrible time
maintaining focus on anything other than the lovely thoughts in his beautiful
mind. It seems to have worsened over the
years. He escapes into the safety of his
inner world whenever he can. His eccentricities make him very likable,
especially with adults. Even his
teachers, who have to work really hard to keep him on task, find his special
interests to be charming. But the
ability to repeat facts from the NASA website will not get him his dream job
working at the international space station—or even working at our local
grocery, Publix, which employs many people with disabilities--unless he can
master division, or sit still for more than 30 minutes, or maintain a two-way conversation.
Although the Prince has been
fully-included with SPED support since kindergarten, we have always felt he
needed a para. But we were repeatedly told
“he is too smart, he will become dependent, the other kids won’t like him.” Fast forward to 3rd and 4th
grade, and his poor over-stretched
teachers finally saw the need for a para too.
Now in 5th grade, after two years of jumping through
bureaucratic hoops and the assistance of a professional advocate, the para is
on the way. The Prince will never be
able to navigate changing classrooms next year without one. I wonder if school would have been easier for
him had we pushed earlier for a para and I feel guilty.
We are trying to help him
become independent, but giving him supports too. That is one reason we got Annie, his autism
service dog. She is a companion, a
kid-magnet who forces him to be social with other children, and she is a helper
for the Prince and for us. Our current
rounds of therapy involve teaching the Prince to control his internal impulses
and his thoughts. It is hard for him and
for us.
My beautiful boy goes through
life with intoxicating visions of supernovas and asteroids flashing in front of
his eyes. I love him so much. And I
worry about him so much. Will he ever be
able to work, or live independently, or drive?
Will a girl ever fall in love with him?
It’s hard to know how to plan for his future with so much
uncertainty. As a cancer survivor
(almost 4 years and counting!), I have learned to live with uncertainty for
myself. But accepting the uncertainty
for my child is harder.
These have been my feelings
for the last several months. But today I
watched a video of Katy Perry and a beautiful little girl on the spectrum, Jodi
DiPiazza, perform Perry’s song, Firework. It made me cry. The words are so beautiful, “after a
hurricane, comes a rainbow.” Watching
this touching performance made me realize I should not focus on the future, but
on the present. To enjoy those flashes
of color that brighten the moments of darkness we may feel from time to time,
and to realize that I can see the unique ways my son can light up the sky, if I
only look hard enough.






