To me, one of the greatest sorrows of this whole "autism spectrum" business is that it can so easily color your perspective on even the simplest things. Back in October, Isaac went through a very difficult behavioral phase. Normally a happy kid, he suddenly started lashing out at us, having tantrums--basically acting like a real pill. We were worried, but not overly so, since even typically developing kids can hit the terrible twos at three, or even later. So we figured we'd grit our teeth and get through it.
Then one night his behavior took a dramatic turn for the worse: he refused to go to bed and instead went into full-scale meltdown, thrashing around on the floor, screaming and crying and hitting everything in sight. This went on for a few terrifying, sleepless nights. We tried to imagine what it could be, with no success. He didn't seem sick, nothing particularly stressful had happened, no big changes in routine. We thought we'd give it another day, then call the doctor. But the main thing running through my mind was "Sudden, dramatic personality change? Not good."
On the third or fourth morning, I scraped myself together and went to meet with two new clients. Luckily, they also happened to be mothers of young children. I let them know that my son was ill and that I might need to answer a call on my cell phone. They asked me what was wrong, and without mentioning anything about Isaac's developmental delays, I told them about the behavior: the screaming at bedtime, the tantrums, and that this morning I noticed he was rubbing his ears quite a bit.
"Ear infection," they chimed. And, when I stared back at them completely dumfounded, one smiled warmly and asked, "Now don't you feel like the worst mother ever?" It was all I could do not to break into grateful sobs then and there.
Long story short: it wasn't some kind of horrible autistic regressive episode, it didn't mean that my sweet boy's personality was gone forever: it was Isaac's very first garden-variety nonautistic universal kid ear infection, and it, and the behavior, cleared up as soon as we started the antibiotics.
***
Yesterday morning we heard the unmistakable barky cough that always signals a trip to the emergency room and a long night ahead. But for some reason I convinced myself that, since it had been two years since Isaac's last croup, this must just be an allergic reaction to all the pollen at the park. Duh. Back to urgent care last night, where they were surprisingly ill-equipped to deal with a frightened preschooler with special needs. The doctor seemed to think that speaking very quickly and loudly while waving her stethoscope around would convince Isaac to let her examine him, but he had other ideas. And I found myself in that familiar, horrible position of having to explain for my child. And I hate that, because it always feels like such a betrayal. And it makes me resent these people who are basically just trying to do their jobs, see as many kids as quickly as they can, but who still seem so completely at a loss around my son. And I can't help but think: if with all their training they can still be so stiff and awkward around a child with special needs, what can we expect from the rest of the world?
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