The Discovery

I remember staring at the light pouring in through the blinds of the small room. My son, Jacob, sits across from the therapist who is asking him a series of questions he does not understand. A child's wooden table separates them. The therapist takes a crayon and draws a simple shape upon a piece of paper, a circle. She then hands the crayon to Jacob and asks him to draw another circle. When the crayon touches his hand he allows it to fall. He then ignites with energy as he bounds from his chair. He giggles to himself as he heads towards the light and to the blinds.


Jacob has no interest in responding to the therapist's gentle suggestions. He has found rapture in pulling up and down on the blind. He continues this play despite her attempts to call his name. I too call his name and there is no response. I knew there would be none. There are several moments of silence except for the sound of the rise and fall of the blind. The therapist's eyes meet mine briefly and then she looks away. I can see her visibly shrinking.


I ask my question with a cool deliberation. "Is what we are seeing today, could this be caused by a problem with his hearing?" Already knowing the answer, my heart is sinking into my gut. "No," she responds quietly but clearly. It is the moment of no return. It is the time where I am forced to face the reality that this is no hearing loss or simple speech deficit.
This is something far more serious than even my imagination will allow.


Shortly after his third birthday Jacob is diagnosed with autism.


There was a period of time following the diagnosis where I had tore-frame everything I thought I had known. I felt like we had been living some great lie. Where was the child who existed in my mind's eye? Where was the boy who would call out "Mommy" when he needed a hug? Where was the boy who would squabble with his brother or pick me a dandelion bouquet? These had been but fleeting images in my mind, expectations of how Jacob might grow and develop as any other boy.


But Jacob is not like any other boy. Jacob is different. And even before the diagnosis I had sensed this. When he was a baby I would look at him and think, "He sees the world in a different way from everyone else." I would look into his eyes searching for clues as to what I was instinctually sensing. I knew there was something. I just didn't have a name for it. I wondered what unseen thing would capture his unbreakable gaze. Lights and colors seemed to dazzle him to the point of such intense focus that his eyes would cross. He seemed perpetually in awe of his surroundings, so much so, that at times he looked straight through me. I believed he was seeing a beauty that nobody else could see. I wanted to see it too. I wanted to gain entrance into his world. But how? The answer would come from a most unexpected source.


I kept re-playing the scene from the testing room in my mind. Jacob had failed to respond but did that necessarily mean that he was incapable of doing what he had been asked? There was a part of me that was desperate to see him draw that circle. I wanted some tangible proof that he could grow beyond the confines of this aberrant label. It was selfish but I wanted to feel hope, not just for him but for me. Iwanted validation for what my instincts told me about my son, that he was capable, that he could learn, and could respond. In my great needto find the truth about my son, I began to read voraciously. When thehouse was still and everyone was asleep, I read everything I couldabout autism. It was during my late night reading binges that I found a gateway to understanding my son. I read that some people with autism hide their talents and abilities. I had seen this very trait in Jacob.


When Jacob turned two, he began to recite the entire alphabet, seemingly out of the blue. I caught him saying it to himself while facing the door to his closet. I had no idea he had been learning and practicing, as I had never heard him say a single letter. Even more astounding is the fact that he only had about ten words in his entire vocabulary at that time.
This skill seemed to emerge out of nothingness. He was learning, even if I was not there to witness it. Yet why would he not wish to share his desire to learn with the people who could help him? When he finally did share his ability, he did so by burrowing his face into my lap so Icould not see his face. Only then, when I could not look at him, did he recite the alphabet in my presence.


As I thought about it, it made sense. My efforts to connect with Jacob were often thwarted by what I felt to be his fear of exposure. Looking into my eyes seemed more than painful for him. If I reached out to touch him, he would recoil or run away. Sharing himself in any way caused anxiety and the creation of physical and psychological barriers. There was no intent on his part to cause others pain from this seeming rejection of human contact. Jacob was only protecting himself. I surmised that for him, typical human connection was like shining a strong light into his eyes, rather like some sort of interrogation. Anyone would instinctively shield their eyes and turn away to avoid the blinding glare.


I kept reading, absorbing the information, but more importantly, searching for ways that I might reach my son. The literature is full of examples of children with autism who hide their talents and capabilities. But how could I reach Jacob? Then I found a passage describing one mother's solution. She would present her daughter with a task and then leave, allowing her child to work alone. It was when her daughter knew she was not being watched or observed that she would demonstrate her knowledge and skills. My mind began exploring the possibilities of seeing if this would hold true for Jacob as well. I was determined to try. I would wait until morning and we would try the circle test again.


Armed with paper and pencil in hand, I drew four circles on a sheet of paper and showed my efforts to Jacob. I shook my head negatively, thinking that there was no chance that Jacob would understand or care to oblige me by drawing another circle. I prepared myself for disappointment. I gave the paper to him while he was sitting in a big easy chair, his small legs dangling. I placed the pencil beside him and gave him the directions to draw another circle. I left him, closed my eyes, and waited for about three minutes. It was all I could stand.


I came back and he was still sitting there staring and making babbling sounds as though he had not looked at all at the paper. My heart was sinking until I looked. And there it was! My hope! That fifth circle was there! I just about cried. I swooped him up like some Tiny Tim and I hugged up his resisting body. I am sure he was unaware of themeaning of his small but magnificent gesture.

He could draw the d*mn circle.

------------------------------------------------------------part two...coming up!

Guest writer today is Diane, mother to almost ten year old Jacob.
Thank you so much for sharing!

JulieB