When my son, Ethan, who has autism, was four years old, he managed to consume a substantial portion of a foam puzzle while I was in the shower. Upon my return, he looked at me with his big, blue eyes, seemingly unfazed by his actions. My immediate reaction was one of panic. “Why did you do that?” I asked, my voice trembling with anxiety.
His response was simply to tilt his head, seemingly indifferent to my distress. “Do you think you are a goat?” I questioned in frustration, but he remained silent, his expression unreadable. It was in that moment I realized that he couldn’t verbalize his thoughts due to his condition.
I firmly shook my head at him. “NO!” I exclaimed, pointing at the remnants of the puzzle. “NO EAT!” To my surprise, he mimicked my headshake, repeating it multiple times, but his imitation did little to ease my worry. I quickly bundled him and his brother into their snowsuits and drove to the Children’s Emergency Room.
The doctors assessed the situation and concluded that the foam wouldn’t cause him significant harm, but they admitted him for observation. Perhaps they recognized my need for support, as a pregnant mother with two toddlers—one with autism—was clearly in distress. I hesitated to mention my six-year-old daughter waiting for me at school, a thought that added to my anxiety.
While at the hospital, I requested a psychiatric consultation. Initially, I expressed my need with frustration, but I eventually resorted to a more composed approach when I realized others were watching. Luckily, the resident I spoke with was able to arrange a meeting with a child psychiatrist.
Since Ethan’s diagnosis at age two, we had engaged with various therapists, psychologists, and community mental health professionals. I often felt overwhelmed, worrying that I wasn’t doing enough to support him. My days were often spent in a state of paralysis, grappling with the task of managing his behaviors. I crafted elaborate therapy systems to address his challenges, but I had never consulted a child psychiatrist before. With the possibility of another incident like the foam puzzle looming, I had many questions.
The psychiatrist was straightforward but compassionate, providing us with a mixture of clarity and discomfort. For the first time, someone spoke frankly about Ethan’s autism, a condition that was becoming increasingly prevalent in public discourse. “Your son has classic autism,” the psychiatrist informed us. “There’s no cure. Anyone claiming they’ve ‘cured’ their child of autism likely never had a child with autism.” Instead of feeling disheartened, I experienced a sense of relief.
I realized I had been battling an invisible adversary, one that was consuming my energy and focus. It wasn’t until that moment that I understood the futility of this struggle. Something deeper weighed on me: Ethan didn’t seem troubled by his autism. In fact, he appeared genuinely happy.
From that day forward, I shifted my perspective. I stopped trying to change who Ethan was. This did not mean I abandoned therapy or support; I continued to seek out the best resources for him. I believed in the importance of therapy and discipline, especially during moments when he would disrupt family activities, such as jumping excitedly while others were watching a movie.
What truly changed was my approach to expectations. I started to appreciate Ethan for who he was, focusing on helping him become the best version of himself. I accepted autism as a part of his identity, just as I embraced his blue eyes and his peculiar fondness for foam.
In essence, rather than waging a war against autism, I welcomed it into our lives with the understanding that it was a part of Ethan. This approach significantly improved my emotional state. I recognize that for other parents, this acceptance may feel like defeat; however, for me, it was a path toward peace.
It’s essential to acknowledge that diverse views exist within the community. While some parents may feel empowered by advocating against the diagnosis, I believe that finding common ground is crucial. We share the experience of raising children who may exhibit behaviors that attract attention or misunderstanding. Our collective focus should be on supportive resources, such as those found at Mount Sinai’s infertility resources, and on practical solutions, like home insemination kits.
In conclusion, my experience taught me to accept Ethan’s autism, recognizing it as a facet of his identity while still providing him with the resources he needs to thrive.