Progress

When the head of the team that diagnosed my son with autism met with my husband and I to report their conclusions, she referred to me as Fletcher's "anchor." She and I both teared up a little as she recalled a moment in the evaluation when he began to break. He didn't know or trust her, didn't want to perform, and he couldn't tolerate all of the changes being forced upon him.

He screamed and cried, and eventually melted into the floor with a red face and crocodile tears. It was awful.

My job for the duration of the evaluation was to act as if I wasn't there until he reached out to me for comfort, and I was successful in this task even through the meltdown. When he composed himself enough to reach out, we made eye contact. I forced a smile and thought, "I'm sorry. I can see this is torture for you. But you are capable and strong, and you have to do this. I'm here when you need me." He walked over to me, laid his head in my lap, and began to calm down. Eventually he performed some for the psychologist, who said: "It was in that moment I realized you are his anchor. He didn't withdraw completely or attach himself to an object. He turned to you, and that's a beautiful tool you need to use to help him."

The compliment and insight behind it will stay with me throughout my journey, but I will not always have that role.

Fast forward a couple of months. We had gone to the doctor for yet another ear infection, and we had to wait for over an hour (a nightmare for any 3 year old). Fletcher fixated on a toy that belonged to another child, and although he was ill, he handled it well at first. But when his efforts of pointing and shouting what he wanted didn't pay off, he became so distraught I couldn't physically remove him without him injuring himself or me. The room was crowded; people were staring in obvious discomfort; and I was helpless.

 Right there, smack dab in the middle of the waiting room, I used a restraint method taught to me by one of his therapists to keep him from bashing his head against the tile floor and mostly protect myself. After several minutes of screaming and fighting me, he was exhausted, so I lifted him off the floor (still restrained) and carried him to our room.

We were both defeated and heartbroken. (There is some trust lost between a parent and a child when the child is physically forced to do something against his will. For me, that is the worst part of this process: seeing the betrayal in my child's eyes when he doesn't understand why but obviously feels violated.)

The symptom, the disorder, the label…all of that b.s. was winning in that moment, and my sadness quickly turned to rage. I looked at my confused, forlorn son, who was again reaching to me for comfort. I knelt down and squeezed him tight, looked at him and, "You, listen! We are a team. We will get through this together! You are amazing, got it?!" That was 3 months ago.

Today I walk with my son, holding hands, in a parking lot, carrying only a remnant of the fear that he may bolt. I watch as he approaches a slightly younger child at a local farm park and strikes up a conversation with her about the turkeys. I hear him express concern for his younger brother when he falls or is upset, sometimes even looking up or leaving an object of obsession. And I see him brave forced changes in his world, coping in ways that are more socially acceptable than tantrums.

The work we have been doing together as a family and with select professionals is paying off, and I am beginning to celebrate the fact that I will not always be Fletcher's anchor. Right now he needs stillness, safety, and stability; much like a ship resting in a harbor. But someday he will sail. He will explore the world unencumbered by me or anything else that would try to hold him. Someday I will instead be his lighthouse--something to help him gain perspective if his world grows dark, and simply here when he needs me.