The Day our World Changed Forever: Chapter 1

Its not often that a person has to remind themselves to keep breathing, but I know that as unlikely as it seems, it really does happen. Because it has happened to me.
I was sitting on the floor in a small gray office of our county's Regional Center when I heard the news. Aidan was screaming. It was a blood curdling scream, his face red, tears streaming down his cheeks. Like a maniac I was pulling things out of his Sesame Street backpack, madly trying to figure out what he wanted.
Elmo? No. Juice Box? No. Picture Book? No.
Aidan screams got louder. He wouldn't point or give me any indication to what he might want, he just screamed.
I pulled out a Ziploc baggie full of Cheetos. Finally Aidan stopped screaming and climbed into my lap. His tiny body relaxed as he reached his hand into the bag and started pulling out the Cheetos one by one. Thank God I had by chance, figured out what he wanted. Sweating now and completely embarrassed I looked up at the two psychologists who were supposed to be evaluating my son that day.
"Did you hear what I said?" the older one spoke calmly to me, almost condescendingly.
"Oh, no, sorry...." I stammered
"I said," she paused, "Your son has Autism."

I continued to sit on that cold floor with Aidan. Everything was still and quiet except for the crunching of Aidan's Cheetos inside of his small toddler mouth. Why wasn't anyone saying anything? I glanced up at my husband who was sitting there staring at me. I could hear my heart pounding and the blood rushing in my ears. A million thoughts raced through my mind, so many that I couldn't think straight anymore.

Just breathe, just breathe...I repeated this to myself over and over.

Autism.
Was I shocked? I kind of knew already, didn't I?
Of course, that's why I was here in the first place.
Why then did this news feel like a knife in my heart?
I suppose no parent is ever really ready to hear this news.

It was in fact true that we had been worried about Aidan for several months by this point. He had been losing speech, which had been replaced by these horrible, screaming tantrums. There were other signs too, but like many parents, I could always find a way to justify these behaviors...
When I saw him jump from toy to toy, not really playing with any one of them correctly, I would say, "he must be bored with those", or "he needs new toys". Of course any good mother knows she should stimulate her child with new educational and entertaining toys.
Frequent tantrums would evoke my repertoire of responses such as; "he must be tired, bored, coming down with something, afraid....." oh, the list of excuses was long.
When he would become panic stricken when we took him for a haircut or anywhere new, it was because he was just a little "shy" or "overwhelmed".
Yes, I really did have an excuse for everything. Yet all along, my gut was telling me it was something more.

I suddenly was very aware of the cold floor underneath me, the stillness in the room was oppressive. "What do we do now?" I heard a voice say. It sounded hollow and far away, and I vaguely recognized it as my own.
"Well, you can put him in a special education preschool soon," the skinny red-haired psychologist replied, "and you better teach him some sign language because there's a good chance he will never talk, there's really not much you can do."

Oh, how I wanted to jump up and punch her. I could picture my hands around that scrawny neck of hers, squeezing until she turned blue.

Never talk? Nothing we can do? Preschool?

Just a few months ago this little boy was saying "Hi Daddy" and "I love you"...when did that stop? last month, the month before... I couldn't remember. But it had to still be in there somewhere, right? and preschool? He was only 2 1/2, a baby for Gods sake. What in the world would he do in preschool? Scream all day because no one would have the time to figure out what he wanted?
"There's got to be something more we can do", I choked out
"Someone from this office will be contacting you soon to set up a time to talk about possible services..."

The older one was shoving a box of Kleenex at me, "Here, would you like a tissue?"
"No! I don't want a fucking tissue! I want answers! I want help! I want someone to help my little boy!" I screamed it all inside of my head, but out of my mouth came a whispered "Yes, please".

When we got into the car that day, I realized I had left Aidan's Elmo toy on the floor of that horrible office. Too emotionally drained to go back and get it, I just sank down into the passenger seat and waited for my husband Christian to start the car. I realized it wasn't just an Elmo toy I left behind in that office; it was also all of my hopes and dreams for Aidan. College, friendships, girlfriends, career, marriage...it all seemed so out of touch now. Things that were meant for some other person's child, not mine.

A few months ago I had a silly little toddler, giggling, singing, getting into everything. Today I had a withdrawn, disconnected child. A child so unpredictable there was no telling what would set him off, when those horrible tantrums would come. And now I have been given a label for it. Autism. But what good is this label if no one could give me any idea on what to do with this new information? Someone or something had to be able to help my baby, and if it was out there, I was going to find it.