“Autism.” The word pops from her lips as casually as if she’s recommending pizza for lunch, but it sits heavy like a ticking time bomb in my lap. “I’d like to test him and get him diagnosed. Early intervention is crucial. Now, I noticed there’s a good portion of his medical history missing.” She flips open the folder, scanning the forms I struggled to complete. “Is there a reason for that? Or did you run out of time?”
“No. I . . .” Autism. I don’t know anything about it other than it’s something you’re born with? Or maybe it’s developed? Damn. Is this my fault? Or something that happened when I was fighting for custody? God, I feel horrible at my ignorance, especially now when this doctor came to the conclusion within a few minutes of meeting my son. Autism. It’s the same word Cora mentioned weeks ago, and now I have to wonder . . . did the entire world see my son in ways I was too proud to notice?
“Let’s start at the beginning.” She clasps her hands on her lap. “How long has he been non-verbal? Did he speak and then regress or has he never attempted to communicate verbally?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Her brows shoot up with surprise.
“His mother kept him from me for the first year of his life.” There’s a pang of hurt that comes from speaking the truth aloud. A little guilt and regret too. As if I should have known part of my heart was living outside my body. “I found out after she was in jail and he was brought into the foster care system. It took another year to prove paternity and earn custody.”
“Oh.” Her gaze holds mine and in her open stare I find compassion. “That must have been really challenging.”
I swallow back the memories. “That’s why I can’t answer those questions.” I nod toward his folder. “I don’t know.”
“Is there a way you can contact her if I give you a list of questions? Maybe the state too, to ask his foster family?”
“I can try.” I haven’t reached out to Emily, not after what she put David through. “The environment she had him in wasn’t good. There was drug use. Violence.” I swallow against the guilt, thick and heavy. “I don’t know what trauma he experienced.”
“Okay.” She nods, her stare acknowledging the possibilities. “You wrote down he goes to an in-home daycare.”
“Yes.”
“Are there other children there? Any his age?”
“Yes.”
“How does he engage with them? Are there behavioral issues in a group setting?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Like if another child were to sit next to him now and moved the cars, or took one and started imaginative play, how would David react?”
The conversation with Kathy yesterday flickers in the back of my mind, but my gut reaction is defensiveness. “He’s a good kid.”
“Of course, he is.” I want to find her tone patronizing, but as protective as I feel, there’s nothing but empathy in her expression. “I want to understand your child. Help me do that and I promise I will help you.”
Help. It’s all I’ve wanted for David. I press my lips together, emotion crashing like a tidal wave. Could there be help for him? For me? I sniffle back the urge to cry. I’ve waited so long for someone to see my son and meet us with understanding. It’s too much. Unable to stop one from falling, a tear escapes and slides down my cheek.
Dr. Williams slides a box of tissues across the table.
“Sorry.” I take one out of politeness, embarrassed to break down in front of a stranger.
“Don’t apologize. This can be a lot to process. It sounds like you’ve had a long road to get here, and we’re going to help you. Give you the tools you need, both of you. He’s a beautiful boy.” She smiles at David, who’s playing with his cars as if neither of us is here. “You’re here because you want the best for your son, and that’s something my team provides. If we can’t, we know who can.”
“Thank you.” I barely get the words out before more tears flow. The hundred-pound weight I’ve been shouldering for the past year lightens. My vision blurs with the sheen of moisture. It’s as if I can finally take a full breath. “He hasn’t said one word in the time I’ve had him and I know that’s not normal. But he’s perfect to me.”
This doctor, a complete stranger, is giving me something no one else has been able to offer. Hope.
A sob bursts from my lips. God, I’m a mess. I reach for another tissue and hold back the urge to cry more. “This is all really hard.”
“Of course it is.” She sits and waits for me to pull myself together. She listens and asks questions as I tell her about my son. I have to give her credit for not rushing through our appointment and moving on to another patient.
When I’ve shared everything I can think of, I ask her the question I wonder about most. “So, what’s next?”
“We’ll get him diagnosed which will open up a host of services and therapies.” She scratches a few notes into the folder.
My stomach lurches at the potential cost. None of this will be cheap.
“The system can be tricky to navigate, but there are resources, parent groups, blogs, and financial assistance. We will connect you with a few places to start.”
My head is already spinning, but I’ll figure out a way. I always do. “What about his speech? How long will it take to get him talking?”
Her features still and she sets down her pen, leveling me with her complete attention. “Isaac, I’m going to be honest with you because I sense you are a person who respects that.” She pauses, just for a moment, and all the hope I had before disappears before my eyes. Like a cruel magic trick, maybe it was only an illusion in the first place. “He may never speak or communicate like you and I are doing now. You need to be prepared for that reality.”
Maybe I’ve always known those words were coming, but they hit like a punch to the gut. As if all the air is knocked from my body, I struggle to form a response.
“I don’t deliver false promises. I’m not a miracle worker. But I will do everything in my power to get you the tools you need to learn to communicate with him. It just might not be in the way you expect.” She leans forward in her seat, her passion for what she does apparent in the intensity of her words. “Are you on board for that?”
“I’ll do anything to make his life better.”
“Good. Now first, we need to get you some financial assistance.”
“I didn’t come here for that—”
“Stop.” She holds up a hand. “We have programs, and they’re meant for people to use. If you qualify, which I think you will, this won’t be an additional burden on your family. I’d also like to run a few tests. Do you have time to stick around?”
“Yeah.” I have all day. A lifetime, really. I wasn’t being dramatic. I will do anything for David. I pray it’s enough.
“Good.” She pushes to her feet. “One of my assistants will be in shortly to get you started.”
“Doc?” I say before she reaches the door.
“Yeah?”