Out of the Woods
When our son, Johnny, turned 10 months old on Mother’s Day, he babbled his first words to us: “Mama-mama-mama.” It was the most exquisite Mother’s Day gift ever.
But soon after that, silence. No words. His pediatrician had detected fluid in both ears, and we theorized that might be the cause. Because surely—I hoped as I lay awake in the middle of the night, my thoughts boiling like a disturbed ant bed—it was only a speech delay and not an indicator of something more serious.
Months later, though, still no speech. And there were other red flags. Not a total lack of eye contact but nothing sustained either. An interest in watching the ceiling fan whir. Not waving when someone waved to him.
I remembered once driving from our one-story tract home in East Austin down Burleson Road through the industrial district to take Johnny to preschool and seeing a billboard for the organization Autism Speaks. On it, a giant puzzle piece and a call for parents to look for symptoms. My stomach clenched, though I’d been reassured by his doctor, and by others I trusted, that he was far too young for such a diagnosis.
Finally, at his 15-month well-check, I pressed his pediatrician: Do you think he’s autistic? Her normally calm manner turned distressed.
“It’s too early to say for sure, but at this point,” she said, her face turning the faintest shade of scarlet, “I’m not comfortable with taking a wait-and-see approach.”
She wanted him to begin speech and occupational therapy, but we were on a tight budget. My husband, Chuck, was a full-time server at Salt Lick BBQ, and I hadn’t returned to work since my pregnancy, staying home with Johnny and
