Desperate

"Nanay," breathed B as he thumped up the stairs, "I'm desperate."

I did my best to keep up behind him, anxious to learn what he meant by "desperate" and where he had learnt such a grown-up word.

"What does desperate mean, B?" I asked.

"It means," said B, opening the stairgates and rushing through the first door on the landing, "that I need to go to the loo."

And without a backward glance, he was shutting the bathroom door behind him, leaving his nanay silently giggling with mirth.

Homesick

B, as usual, climbed into bed with me as he woke up this morning. He was happy and cheerful, at first, but as he listened to me and O talking about some of our relatives back home, he grew silent.

Then, after a pause in the conversation, he turned to me and said earnestly, "Nanay, I still miss all my friends in the Philippines." Then his little face crumpled in emotion as he tried to hold back his tears, to no avail. Then, an appeal: "Can you please give me money so I can go back and see them again?" He then sobbed freely on my shoulder, each shudder breaking my heart into tiny little pieces.

I tried to console him as dry-eyed and as best as I could, not wanting this to be the start of his day, which was gloomy, stormy, windy and grey enough to begin with. I tried to make him tell me the names of all his cousins and friends, and to say a prayer for each one. Doing this always used to make him feel better in the 14 homesick months we have been away. But, today, this time, he was inconsolable. He kept asking me when we can go home to see our friends again.

I bit my lip. I felt homesick, too. But I knew we couldn't save enough to afford the trip this year. So I did what any sensible mother would do in that situation.

I said, "Go down and ask your tatay."

Tee hee hee :D

Cheaters?

"How was drama club today, B?," I asked on our usual walk home. "What did Mrs Day ask you to do?"

"It was fun, " B offered, eager to share his day with me. "She put us into groups. First there was SPACE. Then there were the CHEATERS. Then the INDIANS. Then ICE."

This jolted me out of my reverie and made me bring E's pushchair to a screeching halt on the footpath. Then I caught myself and took a step forward, trying to sound casual as I asked, "Cheaters? There was a group of CHEATERS in drama club? What kind of cheaters?"

"Cheaters," said B patiently. "The ones that run really fast and look like big cats."

Ohhhhh, comprehension dawned. CHEETAHS, he meant. Except that here in the UK, people often end words like this with "er" instead. Like, look at the way Simon Cowell calls Paula Abdul as "Pauler." The "ah" becomes an "er." I'll give other examples in another post.

So I set to work. "It's CHEETAHS, B, not CHEATERS." And thankfully, this time, he didn't argue with me but simply accepted what I said as gospel truth. An increasingly rare occurrence nowadays, especially since Miss N and his other teachers have taken precedence over Nanay in the knowledge category, well, as far as B is concerned anyway. Sigh. I know it's a phase, but it's still quite hard to accept, that's all.

Then B went on chatting about what the drama club groups did-- the SPACE group rode a spaceship to the moon and took pictures for the whole drama club to see, the CHEETAHS raced around the hall as fast as their feet could carry them, the INDIANS said woowooowooowoowoo with their hands over their mouths and the ICE group (which B was a part of), well, they just slid and glided around on this searing hot summer's day.

Very nice, very creative, and so much fun, this after-school drama club.

Pixie Dust and Other Questions I Probably Didn't Answer Very Well

"Nanay," B asked as he watched Disney's Peter Pan on DVD, "Can I have some pixie dust, please? Because I would like so much to fly."

And I thought to myself: Wouldn't we all, B? Both your Tatay and I dreamed of flying as little kids, and it's a dream that one never quite outgrows, really. Glad you've joined the club at last!

But actually, I was so surpised and pleased by his question that I didn't know what to say. Obviously, I would never have the heart to tell him what them grown-ups know all too well--- that pixies and fairies don't exist (oops, did I just kill a fairy? Sorry, Tink!), but where was I to get this pixie dust that he wanted? So I asked him that, and he said, "That's easy. We'll just get some from the pixie store!"

***

One time, we were in the bathroom getting him ready for bed when he casually enquired, "Nanay, how come you don't have a pitoy?" He was referring, in Cebuano dialect, to the body part where his wee comes out from.

I silently panicked. Where, oh where, was his Tatay to be found? How come these questions come on MY shift??? I decided to do my best.

"Ummm, because I'm a girl, and girls don't have pitoys."

"Why?," he persisted.

Oh, dear Lord. How to explain this to a boy who just turned 6?

"Er, ahh, I don't know, B, but I do know that both boys and girls are special, whether they have pitoys or not. God made all of us special, even though we're different from each other."

That seemed to do it, I think. He was quiet for a while. And then, "Nanay, is that why you don't stand up when you do a wee-wee? Because you don't have a pitoy?"

He had seen me?? He had seen me!! I picked myself off the floor where I had fallen, dusted myself off, smiled feebly and simply said yes.

***

O brought home a DVD of Annie (the 1982 classic film version of the musical) on Friday evening. By the next day, B had memorised most of the songs. And he had, as you can imagine, even more questions on his little mind: "Where are Annie's nanay and tatay? Why did they leave her? Why is Miss Hannigan so mean to the little girls? What's an orphan?"

***

And to think--- just a few years ago, just after B was diagnosed and he was talking purely in incomprehensible jargon--- to think that I had despaired of ever hearing him ask me a single rational question, or say a straight sentence. I had so much wanted to teach my children, to have them ask me Why, Nanay? How? What? What for?, that to be told that I had a son who might never look into my eyes, or ask me questions, or show interest in other people, or even just call me by name, was devastating. And now, now that B has proven medical science wrong, I find myself utterly unprepared for all his wonderful, observant, overflowing curiosity about the world and about people.

How fantastic to be caught by surprise by God's work!

Creative Juice

We were walking home today when B said, "Chinese, Draggy, Lees, Fern and Lucy went with me to school today."

I presumed that those were the names of his new circle of pretend friends. I'd heard him talking to them up in his room the last couple of nights. So I let him talk, enjoying his creative energy.

B continued, "We walked there together and they sat on the carpet--- like this." And he proceeded to show me exactly how they sat, right there on the muddy sidewalk.

As Homer Simpson would say, D'oh!

Later on, this new circle of invisible friends took care of him as he went to the bathroom, which he had previously designated as a "spooky" place in the house. (FYI, as far as B is concerned, "spooky" is anywhere on the first floor of the house when the whole family is on the ground floor, no matter what anyone says.)

Intrigued by his newfound confidence in the "presence" of these creatures, I asked B, "Who are these friends of yours anyway? Where did you find them? Did you read them in a book or did you think them up in your head?"

"Oh, Nanay," he replied, "they're not my friends. They're animals. Chinese is a dragon, Draggy is a monster, Lees is a crab, Fern is a girl elephant and Lucy is a chicken. I didn't read them in a book. I rescued them from the forest and the tunnel and the seaside and the countryside and from the farm! Because I wanted them to be part of our family."

"We're very lucky then that they don't each much, huh?," I joked. "And how do you spell Lees' name? Is it L-E-E-S?"

"No," B explained. "It's L-E-Y-double S- and silent E."

Ohhh, I thought. Leysse. Not Lees. Where does he get these names? He has a backstory for each of these characters, too, I bet.

Someday, when B grows up, if computers and the internet don't go obsolete first, he will read this blog and see all these wonderful things you are reading about him.

Oh, B, what a gift you have! The worlds and colours and characters inside your busy little mind-- they astound me. Nothing I've ever thunk has come close to what you are creating.

As your Nanay, let me say that I'm so very proud of you.

And as a fellow dreamer, let me just say, I like your style.

Go on, B. Dream. Create. Imagine.

According To B

"You know, Nanay," B said as we were walking home this evening from anticipated Mass. "Jesus has a judging book."

"A judging book?," I replied. "Is that where He puts the good boys and girls on one page and the bad ones on another page?"

"Yes," he said. "We're all in Jesus' judging book... That's what we learned in school. And also in church."

"That's marvelous, B," I said, and my thoughts went back to last night's bedtime routine.

Last night, as we got him ready for bed, B had spontaneously sung me two songs they had sung in church that morning for the Feast of the Sacred Heart, and I had silently praised God for putting B in such a good school, with good academic teaching, but also with a great spiritual ethos. Today, reflecting on how B pays attention at Mass and what he had just shared with me, I thanked God yet again.

Then I decided to pursue the matter a bit further. "But what does it mean to be good, B? What should good boys and girls do to get into Jesus' judging book?"

"It means," B declared without hesitation, "being polite."

Well, I did try to convince him that loving and caring and sharing also had something to do with being good, but now, as I reflect about his answer, I'm inclined to think he got the basics right. After all, when we are polite to God and to others, we think of not hurting their feelings. We try to put their needs first before our own. We try to say nice, encouraging, positive things. We try to make them feel good and safe and at ease, we are hospitable and friendly, we pay attention to them and not take them for granted.

You know, in his own simple, childlike way, I really do think B has got it right.

B at 6

"Stop panting, Nette," Dra Z instructed me. "Time to start pushing with the next contraction. Okay?"

She had barely finished saying this when the next wave came, and I pushed.

"Not quite good enough, Nette. But it's crowning. You need to push harder."

O was by my side, supporting my shoulders, camera in hand. I mustered up all my remaining concentration after 12 hours of slow labor and focused on my breathing, my diaphragm. And when the next contraction came:

"That's it, Nette. This is very good. Very effective. Keep pushing! Almost there!"

And then-- a pop! A whish! And a cry!

And suddenly, O and I were faced with our first baby-- a boy. Upon hearing our voices, he immediately stopped crying and looked into my eyes. It was a blessed eternity. A beautiful child. I loved him even before I saw him, but when I finally did see him, I loved him even more.

When we got back to our hospital room, O and I started crying and bawling out of sheer joy. We hugged each other tightly and praised God for His gift of life. The life of B. A life to be filled with miracles and surprises, with victories and triumphs, with sweetness and light. A life of purity and joy, of affection, touch and laughter. A life just beginning, but which has already touched so many others. A life of learning, and of sharing lessons learned.

We prayed for him as he woke up this morning, and he said, "Am I six now?"

And I smiled and said, "Yes, you have six-year-old eyes, six-year-old hands, six-year-old feet!"

Happy sixth birthday, our dearest, beloved B. Nanay and Tatay love you so much. Muah!

Peace and Happiness

A week ago, we visited with a family who are long-time members of Antioch, the ecumenical community we are part of here in England. Both of their children have specials needs, and the older one has Aspergers, which is what B is suspected to have.

It was refreshing to be with people we didn't have to explain ourselves to. They knew how it felt to be told that one's child has an incurable pervasive developmental disorder. They had felt the same grief, faced the same fears, withstood the same pain. But they also shared our hope, our joys, our toil, our gratitude to God for His unending miracles. We have been loved and consoled by family and friends, yes, but it is different to be with parents who share what we go through each day. There is so much to be said, but also so much that need not be said.

As we swapped stories, we watched the four children playing in the garden, bouncing on the huge trampoline, sliding onto a paddling pool, playing football and riding kiddie cars. We could see nothing wrong with them, really. They played with each other really well. They did pretend games, talked, laughed, got silly with each other and shared toys. It was amazing. It was as if they somehow KNEW they were akin to one another, that they BELONGED together, that they could relax and not be afraid of being teased or of being different, that they were meant to be FRIENDS. It was an astounding thing to see.

And we shared our reflections on God's power in our children's lives, how He had really proved textbooks and doctors wrong, how our experience of ASD/Aspergers had affected our whole paradigm towards parenting and what really matters, what we REALLY want our children to learn from us. We were inspired by this family, this couple who trust God with their children's future, no matter what. They have a peace that just diffuses from their faces. They just quietly shine with a glow that says, We will not be moved, we shall not be shaken, there is nothing that is too big for our God to handle. Their peace moves me. When my world is shaken again, I hope I will be lucid enough to remember this couple's serenity, and to draw strength from their witness.

Some weeks ago, B was visited by an educational psychologist, a Mr Ashton-Jones. Among other things, he assessed B's emotional status, how B perceives himself emotionally at this point in his life. Mr A-J showed us a drawing of a tree with several stick-figure children on it, doing different things, in different parts of the tree, with different facial expressions or body positions. He had asked B where he was, who he was in the tree diagram, and B had readily pointed to a child standing halfway up the tree, not at the top, not at the bottom, but right smack in the middle of the vertical axis. The stick-figure he chose was standing on a stable ledge, with both his feet securely planted on a level surface on the tree. It was happy, with a smiling face. Mr A-J said it meant that B saw himself as right in the middle of the group as far as his peers are concerned, not at the top but not at the bottom, either. And that he saw himself as standing on safe ground, stable and secure. And that he was happy with his life, happy in school, happy with himself. This was more than enough to move me. I felt tears welling up but I managed to keep them in.

And then he told us that he had asked B which child he wanted to be in the picture. He wanted to know what B wanted for himself, what he was hoping for. Mr A-J showed us B's choice: a child happily, crazily swinging on a swing which was tied to a branch of the tree. And he told us, B just wants to have fun, he wants to be happy, he simply wants to enjoy his life. My heart just swelled with joy upon knowing that at his age, B knows what's important-- it is not to be at the top, or to be famous or popular, or to be really good at everything he does. He just wants to have fun, like a child on a swing, no fears, no cares, no complications. He wants to go through life laughing, with joy and abandon.

I fought to keep my tears at bay, but had no such luck.

To My Unborn Child

Five months and already you are kicking like a horse. Sometimes I wonder if you can hear me sing to you at night, or if you feel the quiet depth of our love for you when your Tatay hugs and kisses you in my tummy. Five months a miracle. Five months a gift.

You are a child of love, friendship and unity. Your Tatay and I were wed in a beautiful chapel overlooking Mt. Batulao in Caleruega, Batangas on a perfect day in May 1999. When your Tatay and I looked in each other’s eyes and promised to love one another, and be partners and bestfriends forever, we also promised to love and care for the children God will bless us with. You are our first blessing, Anak.

Five months after our wedding, your Tatay and I felt the need to get away from the pressures of work and study by going on a quiet, peaceful second honeymoon. I had been feeling tired and queasy the past days, and as we boarded the early morning flight to Kalibo, my eyes were watery from trying not to puke on your Tatay. We looked at each other, neither of us willing to voice out the hope which both of us were desperately wishing for. It was on our first night in Boracay when we decided to use the pregnancy test kit we had brought from Manila. We took the one-minute test, and since neither of us wanted to look first, we both closed our eyes, counted to three and peeked at the same time. And there it was. I never knew that a little pink “+” has such power as to move two reasonably sane adults to laugh and weep themselves silly at the same time.

In between headaches and frequent visits to the bathroom sink, I watched my body change as you grew. One time, as I prayed for you in my womb, God led me to Psalm 139: “You created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made…My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body.” And I felt tears well up inside as I felt God say to you, Anak: “I know you, because I made you. Even now, while you are still inside your nanay’s womb, I see you, and I love you.” You are His child, Anak, just as your Tatay and I are. And He loves you more than we ever could. He thinks about you all the time, too.

God has been teaching me a lot during my pregnancy. About me, about your Tatay, about you, about Us. And now, while you are still inside me, Anak, I feel God leading me to make this covenant with you:

1. I love and accept you unconditionally, with no ifs or buts, for who you are, and who you are yet to become. You will never, ever have to earn or merit my love.

2. I will let you be who God wants you to be. I will not stand in the way of His love for you, for God has no grandchildren, and you are yourself a child of God. Let Him call your heart as He pleases.

3. I will let you be different from me. I will not pressure or manipulate you to be like me, or to be who I think you ought to be. I will let you be yourself. I will not smother your identity as a unique person in this world.

4. I will allow you to get hurt sometimes, for I know you need a little pain every now and then in order to grow. I will go through the pain with you, but I will not deprive you of your growth.

5. I will be generous to you and provide what you need, but I will also take care not to impose or cultivate unnecessary, artificial needs in your sense of values. I will teach you to live simply and to desire less, to be grateful for what you have, and to be generous with your blessings to others who are in greater need.

6. I will be consistent in how I relate with you, so as to spare you from confusion and distress. I will pay attention to how I behave in your presence. I will seek harmony and integrity and wholeness, so that you need only relate to ONE nanay, and not three.

7. I will listen to you, even when I want to interrupt or advise or react. I will hear you out, and empathize, and understand.

8. I will not tolerate, ignore or cement dependencies in our family relationships. I will teach you what I have learned about “being separate together,” and I will strive to make my relationship with your Tatay a model of healthy interdependence.

9. I will cut the umbilical cord not just physically, but psychologically, when the appropriate time comes. I will do this while keeping my arms open for you. You will always be welcome to be child-like with me, even when you already have children of your own.

10. I will play with you.

11. I will hug you very often.

12. I will be your friend and companion, your mother and mentor.

13. I will explore life with you and help you face your fears, even as I continue to face my own.

14. I will let you make mistakes in freedom. I will counsel you, but I will not judge you when you err. I will be generous in compassion to you, even when your mistakes hurt me or the ones I love. But I will also be firm against wrongdoing or malice. I will not be silent about sin or displeasing God.

15. If you have to be punished, I will make clear to you why what you did was wrong. I will never strike you in anger. I will discipline you with tough love and firm conviction, in a way that would never undermine your self-worth or dignity.

16. I will let you love me. I will accept your service and affection with joy and gratitude.

17. I will rejoice in your personhood and delight in your identity.

18. I will laugh with you, and never at you. I will share jokes with you and create an atmosphere of laughter in our home. I will caution you against taking yourself too seriously.

19. I will read you stories at bedtime no matter how old you are. I will sing to you and teach you to love music and words and images and stories. I will nurture your innate creativity. I will encourage you to learn.

20. I will be honest with you, and even be vulnerable to you. I will tell you when I do not know the answer to your questions, and I will be humble enough to admit that I am not perfect and do not know everything.

21. I will trust you. I know that you will not deliberately hurt me or be dishonest with me. Whether you are six or sixteen, I will trust you.

22. I will be quietly, privately proud of you, and I will make certain that you know it. But I will not embarrass you by showing you off to my friends or gloating about your accomplishments. We will celebrate your victories as a family, and we will share your dreams with you. You will never be treated like a trophy.

23. I will love myself in a healthy way, so that I am better able to love you and your Tatay selflessly. I will maintain my identity and not ride under the shadow of yours. It will be my service to you to preserve who I am, so that you can also be freely assured of who you are. I will always aim for personal growth.

24. I will endeavor to lead you to know God in a personal and intimate way. I will pray with you and help you become a citizen of heaven.

25. I will always keep in mind that you are not mine, but God’s.

Your Tatay and I want you to know just how much we want you, and how much we love you. We can hardly wait for the day when we will finally hold you in our arms.

And though it sounds desperately trite, I still choose to say it, for it is the truth:

Anak, our precious little one, your Tatay and I love you very deeply, as we have never loved anyone else before. Our love for you will never change, nor waver. And Anak, just as our own Mama & Papa and Mommy & Daddy have done in their time, so will your Tatay and I gladly give our lives for you.

Love,
Nanay

{Written 17 March 2000, while awaiting the birth of B}

Your Comments

Before E and I dash off to B's school, may I just say thank you to those who've kindly left comments on some of the entries on this blog, and on my other one, as well.

I've just been able to read them and reply back today. I do hope I didn't miss anyone's comment! Let me know if I have.

It's always a joy to hear from those who come and visit my thoughts. :)

See you soon. More later.

TCVs: Forgiven But Not Forgotten

My husband O and I have now come to terms with the part which TCVs (Thimerosal-Containing Vaccines) may or may not have played in triggering our son B's autism. This doesn't mean we have resigned ourselves to the past, but that we have found blessed and empowering peace amidst the violent turmoil of our recent discovery. Peace that, as Scripture says, "transcends all understanding."

We have decided that, no matter how much we may regret or feel badly about the past, we simply cannot change things just by wailing about it, and any more undue anguish would be a complete and foolish waste of energy and emotion on our part. Our conviction now is that we have been serendipitously led to this bit of crucial information in order to help share it with other parents, to perhaps prevent more children to be affected by TCVs as our son has been. So again, once more, we find ourselves focusing all our thought and power into doing what we can within our circle of influence. Instead of merely feeling bitter and vindictive, we have decided to do something constructive and mitigating about it.

First off, contrary to what I said in an earlier entry, O was quick to point out that at the time he first told me about TCVs, he hadn't yet read any medical journals, just the one that he saw on http://www.commongroundcommonsense.org/forums/index.php?showtopic=31674, so he wanted me to correct that here on the blog, in case anyone was misled. But what HAS happened since then is that he NOW HAS already researched medical and scientific journals on this topic, reading through research abstracts and emailing authors asking for a complete copy of their research findings. Within the same day of his request, many authors graciously sent him a copy of their work!

So now we DO have copies of these medical and scientific articles in our possession, thanks to the generosity of the authors. We are in the process of reading and understanding them, and believe me, the jargon's not too easy to get past. As much as we want to post them all on a website and make these findings available for everyone who wants to read them, we need to consider: 1) getting copyright permission from all the publishers first, 2) how to go about putting up a website dedicated solely for this topic , and 3) if it would be pointless to post the articles as they are, since they wouldn't make much sense to the ordinary parent, or if it would be better to "translate" it, so to speak, into common layman's terms before posting them, or to make both versions available on the website. To have FAQs or something, with questions like "But why does the FDA or BFAD allow it to be distributed?" or "What do we have to look for on vaccine labels?"

Another thing I've realised is that, if we're going to wage war on TCVs, emotions and rhetoric are not exactly the weapons of choice. We have to get hard facts, straight science, solid evidence, credible research. We have to be careful not to sound like rumor-mongers or hysterical parents paranoid about speculative fears. Otherwise our words will simply echo in the vast wastes of cyberspace as just one of those crazy forwarded emails which we too often get in our inbox each day. And more children would remain under the TCV threat, as this happens.

No, we've decided to be smart about this, to plan things out, to be thorough. To channel our anger and disgust into something effective and credible. As Barbra Streisand and Dionne Warwick once sang, "we won't waste another tear..."

And we won't be doing this for ourselves or our sons, really, as here in the UK, parents already have the freedom to choose non-TCVs when having their newborns or toddlers immunised. We will be doing it for all those children and their parents who are at risk from TCVs, in Third World countries, probably, where these supplies must be easier to dump, and where TCV-alternatives might not yet be available. We will be doing it so other parents would not have to go through what we went through. But I won't cry about it anymore, not here on this blog, anyway. Any offers of moral support or help or advice are welcome, by the way.

When I think about what may have caused B's autism, what triggered it, what pushed him into the spectrum, I'm more and more drawn towards the theory that it wasn't one single event or stimulus which was to blame. Rather, drawing from what I have learned in studying the environment, I am more inclined to study the whole system, the whole picture, holistically. There were things in B's system which perhaps already predisposed him or made him vulnerable to autism, but there were probably many other outside factors (TCVs? Measles at age 8 months? Other environmental toxins?) which helped him coast along quickly over the edge, tipping things over from predisposition into reality. All of these, taken as a whole, resulted in B's autism.

So if I have seemed to move on, be thankful for me, because I have. I have moved on and forgiven the monsters behind TCVs, made peace with my son's kidnappers and abusers. I have moved on and moved forward, determined to act, to tell, to fight. But I have not moved on and forgotten what TCVs may have taken from me and my family.

For as long as B is here to remind me, I will not forget. Ever.

On Walls and Thimerosals

I hope I've pulled myself together enough to write about what has disturbed my peace the past few days... See, this is the life of a parent with a special-needs child; it ain't never clean, it ain't never sanitized, it ain't never predictable and it ain't never heartbreak-free. The times my heart gets tortured, pierced, dragged into the mud... oh, I dare not count. But each experience mercifully ends with lessons learned, vision clarified, strength renewed, wounds healed or being healed. So it's good, it's all good, but still, I wouldn't wish these experiences on my worst enemy.

My relationship with my husband and life-partner O has been crucial to my fingertip-grip on sanity throughout times such as these. As is my relationship with God, Who knows that He also has a special-needs child in ME, and that I depend on Him to teach me, strengthen me and give me hope, just as B relies on us.

At these times, I've learned to force myself to reach out, to tap people who love me on the shoulder and say, "Hey, I'm not doing so okay here, can I borrow your shoulder for a while?" I say force, because it goes against everything inside me to admit that I hurt, that I need, that I rage, that I can't see very far ahead no matter how I try. And autism is a disease that not only affects children or individuals, but their families, as well. Autism isolates. Autism separates. Autism disconnects. There is a silent, impenetrable wall that goes up around a family with ASD from the moment of diagnosis. A wall of fear, of shame, of pain. A wall that needs to be torn down, brick by heavy brick, to free those inside from despair, to free them up to receive love from others, to free them enough to feel for others, as well.

Having learned this the hard way in the past, I had vowed to fight this deadly, isolating wall of silence by building a support group of loving friends around me-- people who don't pretend to know what I'm going through, who don't imagine that they know everything, who don't deluge me with solutions and logic, who don't even try to make me stop crying or hurting, but people who care, who listen, who know that I need to go through this anguish, who know that when the dust clears, I will still be standing. Battle-worn and wounded, perhaps, but on my feet, ready to move, ready to help others just as tired, confused and weary as I am. Take and receive. That's the cycle, that's how it goes.

So, sorry to dash whatever hopes you may have had, but it's not always triumphant, coherent, maturely-processed, inspirational pieces that you're gonna get from me here. I'm human--- only so but fully so--- and many times I need as much help (or more) as I'm typically willing to give in turn. When will people realize that parents of special-needs children have special needs themselves? My life as a special-needs parent is real, it's not all stained glass and roses, with its frequent ups and occasional downs; and when I'm up, I'm up, but when I'm down... well, I'm not gonna lie about it. Especially to myself. I know better than that, I hope.

Finally, what's been causing the crying bouts and earth-shattering tremors in my otherwise-peaceful life? Two letters sum it up: Hg.

Hg, or mercury, and all its compounds are useful but highly toxic to humans. I won't bore you with a lecture on all its uses and its health effects, which you can find in websites such as http://www.greenfacts.org/mercury/mercury-element.htm, anyway.

Last Friday, my younger son E was given chloramphenicol eye ointment for his mercifully-shortlived bout of conjunctivitis. Since eye ointment is infinitely harder to apply on a struggling toddler than eye drops, I asked O to arrange for a repeat prescription with our GP. He brought the eye drops home, but being the scientist that he is (O has a PhD in instrumentation and analytical science), he read the label before we administered it to E. I saw him frown as he read it, and he immediately went online to read medical and scientific journals-- something which, I hasten to add, only one person in this family does, by the way.

And then he turned to me and said, "Let's just use the ointment, luv. For some reason, these eye drops contain phenylmercuric nitrate, which is a toxic compound."

What?!, I exclaimed. What kind of moron puts mercuric compounds in eye drops? Didn't they know that there are gazillions of blood vessels in the eye? Why put toxins in the eyes, from which they get into the bloodstream? Didn't these people watch CSI?, I thought.

"They use them as antiseptics and preservatives for eye drops and other medicines and vaccines," said O, looking worried.

I patted him on the shoulder and said, Good for E, his Tatay is a chemist. Well done! So we kept using the ointment till we could get a mercury-free brand of eye drops, and for me, that was the end of that.

But for O, it wasn't. Something he had read disturbed him. He pored over more medical journals online, and I knew he was onto something. But he never spoke a word.

That Sunday, on our way to Mass, we were talking with a friend about autism, and O sort of let slip that he had come across an online article which linked mercury in childhood vaccines to the growing epidemic of autism and developmental disorders. He had hesitated about telling me sooner, because he was concerned about how it might affect me. And besides, he said, he still needed to read it in more detail, as he had just skimmed through it the first time.

The next day being bank holiday Monday, he had time to do just that. Halfway through the article, he turned to me, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Luv," he said. "I'm angry. I don't know what to do about it, I'm so enraged! Nagngingitngit ako... "

And this is what he told me: That mercuric compounds (also called thimerosals) had been, until a few years ago, widely and generally used as antiseptics/preservatives in vaccines and other medicine, especially (but not limited to) those multi-dose vials. That big US drug companies had labored to cover everything up, despite the fact that mercury had been directly linked to autism, speech delays, ADHD and other developmental disorders. And these pharmaceutical bigwigs decided, simply decided, to keep this vital bit of information from the rest of the world --- doctors, parents, everyone--- for fear of massive lawsuits (which they would most probably lose) and in order to let them dispose of all their mercury-laden stock.

From birth, B had had all his shots given to him on-time, according to the Philippine immunization schedule, which is-- surprise, surprise-- based on the US immunization model. Did we hug him, restrain him and say "it's gonna be okay" with each jab, as the unseen thimerosals built up steadily inside his tiny body? Mercury, like most toxins, bioaccumulate, which means they aren't flushed out of our systems when we ingest them. They just stay there, and build up with each new dose. Did it reach a critical dose, an activation point which tripped B's neurons and brain functions, triggering his autism and all its related dysfunctions? Each individual responds differently to toxins, some are more vulnerable or perhaps genetically predisposed than others. Who knew what the repeated mercury doses could do to trigger B's autism? Who knew that some people were monstrous enough to put toxins in children's vaccines? Don't we all take for granted that immunizations are supposed to make our children healthy, not sick? That what the needle sticks into our children are good stuff, not poison? Don't we trust drug-makers and their ethics, just as we do doctors and nurses? Who knew that this could happen to us and our children?

Let me tell you who knew: THEY did. They knew, and they sat on their hands, waiting for their faulty stock to run out before they did anything about it. They knew, and they phased it out, instead of recalling their products from the market. They knew, and they kept it from us. They knew, and they lied. THEY KNEW.

So now I want to tell anybody who can listen. Those who have babies or young children still in the process of being immunized. Those who know people who do. Those who care about their nephews, nieces, grandchildren or pre-school/grade school students. I want to shout it out, broadcast it, scream it out at the top of my lungs! Because I don't want any other parent to go through what we have gone through, good or bad, in our fight against ASD. Because every child deserves to be protected from selfish, human greed.

I'm not suggesting that we stop having our children immunized, no! That's very irresponsible and very illogical, as humanity would then be wiped out by disease long before autism is finally eradicated from the face of the planet.

What I propose is that, when someone brings their child in for a flu shot or any kind of immunization, any jab, any medication, just politely ask to SEE THE LABEL of the vial containing the drugs/medicine/vaccine and check that it doesn't contain thimerosals, mercuric compounds or merthiolates. And if it does, to request for another brand of the drug/medicine/vaccine, a thimerosal-free one, even if it costs more, even if it is in single dose form.

The Philippines, being a Third World country, is a great candidate for faulty-drug-dumping by sneaky multi-national drug companies, so be wise. Know what's in the bottle before it's jabbed into someone you love. And it goes for all food products or beverages, as well. Check the labels, ask smart questions, think! If they duped a chemist and a chemical engineer into thinking it was safe for their son to be injected with hidden thimerosals which could and did trigger his autism... well, just don't be as stupid and as thoughtless as we were. It would mean more time or even more money shelled out on your part, but it would be totally worth it.

Because it would cost you more in the end, autism. And I'm not talking about the money you spend on doctors and therapists, or developmental toys, tools, books or materials. I'm talking about a child's future. His potential. His parents' heartache and pain.

Tell your spouse, your siblings, your friends about this. Tell them about B. Tell them about thimerosals. Email them this post or link to this blog, if you wish. But tell them, please.

The bottom line? It was Greed. Disgusting, inhuman, immoral, dollar-hungry, ugly, monstrous Greed.

That's what helped make my son autistic.

That's what stole from my son his right to be normal.

That's what kidnapped my son from us, and guess what?

We're still paying ransom, up till now.

Sorry

Cried half the night, deeply disturbed by these new revelations. Before turning in, I went to B as he slept, and brokenly whispered, "I'm sorry, anak, I'm sorry... You needn't have gone through this, after all... " And then I cried myself to sleep, in deep, torturous pain.

I want to explain, I want to share about this, I want to be sensible and not show everyone what a wreck I am just now... but I'm still too upset to write... I'm sorry.

Maybe tomorrow, I will finally notice how brightly the sun is shining over us all.

Why?

This is probably one of the first questions to cross parents' minds after their child is diagnosed with a pervasive developmental disorder (PDD) like autism, ADHD or Aspergers.

I know it was mine.

Sadly, tragically, this is the one thing no one can tell us. Not yet.

Books and doctors are quick to assure us that PDD is not caused by bad parenting. But apart from that, no one has a clue about what causes it.

For a parent, this is excruciating. To not know what we could have done differently, what we could have done to prevent this from happening to our child, what we could have done to stop it from stealing our children away from us. Or was there no hope from the beginning? Was our child's fate sealed from Day One?

Not that there is any lack of theories out there. Genetics. Toxic materials. Pollution. Fetal brain development. Diet. Vaccines and immunizations. Difficult pregnancies or births. Scientific brains. Having scientists as parents. These have all been linked to autism and/or PDD in general. I've read article after article (even a whole book) on many of these scientific hunches, not knowing what I was looking for. Was I looking for vindication? A chance to lash back at someone for what is happening to my son? Or was I looking for absolution? A way to secretly forgive myself for not being able to protect him from all this?

It's not my fault, I know. But it's never been easy to remember that, especially during the first year after B's diagnosis. Was I to blame? Did I let him down? Could I have prevented this?

And each time there was a new study on the causes of autism, I'd be there, poring through the article, backtracking through related readings, trying to see things through eyes of logic and science while bleeding from an open wound in a parent's heart. It was never easy, this research, this quest to find answers. The legwork itself was not what made it hard. Rather, it was the new arrows that sometimes pierced to the gut with each new read, with each new study, with each new theory. It was rare for me to be able to get through a medical journal or news article about autism without bursting into tears in mid-read.

Thankfully, though, my search for answers was quickly overshadowed by my desire to actively do something for B. The WHY can wait, I said. The WHAT CAN I DO NOW can not.

So my research shifted from autism causes to actual intervention methods, things for both parents and specialists to do. It was a hundred percent shift in my paradigm, this decision to find out WHAT MUST BE DONE NOW rather than WHO DO I BLAME FOR THIS.

And it has yielded results which were even better than we expected; I don't care if medical experts deem my words blasphemous, but I dare to say that our son is recovering, day by glorious day, from ASD. My husband O and I had almost forgotten about our search for the WHY.

Until last Friday. Without looking for it, without seeking it, a fearsome bit of truth came our way. How it came to us was serendipitous-- a blessing from heaven, or just plain luck, I suppose. One of those "bad" things that turn out for good in the end.

It came in the form of this article found on the Web:

http://www.commongroundcommonsense.org/forums/index.php?showtopic=31674

Read it, fellow parents, if you can. Or if you dare. I myself could not bring myself to finish it in one sitting. After several paragraphs, I found myself needing to push myself back from the computer and mentally scream in anger and frustration, like many of the readers who left comments at the end of the piece. If you have a child with ASD or any PDD, or if you know and care about someone who does, read it.

I'm still trying to collect myself right now. My mind is in a whirl. More on this tomorrow.

Excellence vs Persistence

Yesterday, B ran flat out across the school playground towards me, beaming, waving an official-looking piece of board paper in his hand.

"Nanay, Nanay, look, look at what Mrs L gave me at the big school assembuhly!!!"

I took it and read:

S___ H___ Primary School

Certificate of Excellence

Awarded to

B____ A____

for

Putting 110% effort into all homework every week

and consistently

achieving excellent results in spelling tests!

Well done!

[Sgd] Headteacher Mrs L__
Date 7 April 2006

Let me tell you, I hugged that boy till he nearly turned blue.

Not that I don't usually hug him, because I do, certificate or no, about a dozen trillion times a day.

Not that it was the first certificate he ever brought home, but it was the first BIG one, printed on BIG paper, and given at the BIG school "assembuhly" (as B calls it).

As early as July 2005, barely 3 weeks after his first day in SH Primary, he had gotten on their school's "Golden Times Board" (where they put all the names of children who achieved something noteworthy that week) for "Settling in well at school."

A few months later, in October, he got another certificate for "Always being first on the carpet and sitting well."

In January this year, he was praised for "Increased success in daily tasks."

And a month later, he was again recognised for "Working hard all week."

Now, far be it from me to use this blog to flaunt B's successes in school, as all proud mums are wont to do from time to time. Many parents unconsciously drive their children to excel, to be the best in class or to reach for high marks in school, or to get recognition, awards, medals, trophies... And maybe they don't know it, but maybe their children are getting the wrong message. Perhaps it is possible, just possible, that their children feel they have to earn their parent's love and approval with success. And when these messed-up children grow up, that makes for extremely messed-up adults, as well. (But I'm not ready to judge anyone here, no, not me. Judging others is not my style, as I would not want to be judged myself.) But while taking reasonable pride in one's children is forgivable and natural and instinctive, let me just say that pride isn't what drove me to post about it here.

Long ago, while B was still inside my tummy, and long before we had any inkling that some of his brain's neurons were not developing as normal, I had made a covenant with him, making promises about how his Tatay and I will love and raise him. One of those promises is that I will love him for who he is, unconditionally, and not for what he can or can not do. That he will never be my personal trophy, that I will be quietly proud of him and will express my affirmation in private, but that I will never embarrass him by showing him off to my friends. I promised to do my best to let him feel that he is loved and lovable no matter what. That he never needs to earn my love by any kind of success, or any kind of exceptional achievement. I did not want a child laden with medals and plaques, acclaimed by the world, but secretly doubting if he would be loved and accepted by me even without them. I did not want a genius or a child wonder, a gifted prodigy or an Einstein-in-the-making. I wanted to raise a child who could look back on his life and know he was loved, and loved greatly, for himself, for who he was. I wanted a child who thrived on hugs and smiles and cuddles and kisses, not one who needed awards or fame or medals to complete him. I wanted a child who knew what it truly meant to love and be loved, to be accepted and to be whole.

Which is why I am happy about all these certificates he keeps getting in school. Instead of praising academic excellence alone (best in numeracy or literacy, for example), they place a premium on hard work, on cooperation, on being capable of adapting, on overcoming one's personal challenges, on pushing oneself to one's limit in a daily way. They make no bones about what they value in that school. They appreciate what truly matters.

Just to make it clear: I have no qualms about excellence. I have nothing against trophies, medals, plaques, certificates or awards. My husband and I have a few of these ourselves and we know how good it feels to be acknowledged for one's talent or work. But I'm completely against making children (and grown-ups) feel that their excellence or their achievements ought to define them or their value, their acceptability, their lovability. No one need be excellent to be worthy of being loved. No child needs to get a medal first to earn a hug.

This is why I am proud of B. Not that he is the best in something, nor that he is gifted in anything-- the innate talents and extraordinary abilities we have discovered in him are clearly a given, and they are there to be nurtured and given room to thrive, but they are not why I am proud of my son, my child who has ASD. What I find most admirable in B is how he never gives up, how he pushes himself, how he works his very darnedest. How he picks himself up after a fall, dusts himself off, and tries again.

Someday, because of his hard work and his perseverance, and despite his present challenges, B may excel, win contests, get medals, awards, trophies, diplomas, degrees or what-have-you, and you know what? I will be happy, yes, and a very proud mum. But it can't possibly make me love B more than he knows I love him now. And if he doesn't excel, if he lives a very ordinary, mediocre, undecorated but otherwise happy and fulfilled life, with good friends and loved ones around him, I will not be disappointed or less proud of him in any way. It will certainly not make me love him less.

From B, I have learned the real meaning of the words tenacity, courage, determination and hope. His persistence and doggedness in daily tasks, his calm ability to surpass expectations leveled at him by textbooks and medical journals-- I see him at it each day and I am amazed.

At 5-going-on-6, B has taught me much more than he can ever learn from me.

Look, Say, Cover, Write, Check

Flashback to September 2005: B's first week in Year One

Found a sheet of paper stuffed in B's bookbag. It was a list of words under a heading which said: "Look, Say, Cover, Write, Check." Baffled, I asked his teacher, Miss N, whatever it was for.

"Oh, Mrs A," Miss N said to me. "You just do EXACTLY as it says, one word at a time. He looks at each word, says it aloud, you cover it-- just fold the paper over, like this-- then he writes it down on the square beside it, then you check it against the original. Takes 5 minutes tops. I assure you, it's a hundred percent guaranteed way of teaching children their spellin's."

SPELLIN'S, indeed, I thought.

So every single evening, for the past 7.5 months, B and I have been doing his "spellin's" religiously, practicing five words a week, to be tested on them each Friday. Children who get full marks get stickers the following week.

Sometimes, though, I'd find it sooooo tiresome, having to do it everyday. How long those first "five-minute sessions" took! Five minutes, hah! Fifteen, more like. And that was on top of homework! How I dearly wanted to squeeze Miss N's neck for adding to my already-full daily schedule. What tedium! What monotony! The same five words everyday for the whole week. When I could be doing something else completely, something way less boring, like finish my Harry Potter book. I admit that sometimes I'd try to weasel my way out of it. What's the use?, I'd secretly think. They're just SPELLIN'S anyway. But B would never let me off the hook. And then, abashed at my own sneaky laziness, so unbecoming in a so-called grown-up, especially in the face of such consistent craving to do the "spellin's," I'd sit down beside him and help him through it.

Sometimes I'd catch B trying to peek at the covered word when he gets stumped, and if it were early in the week, I'd let him have another look, but I always warned him, "No cheating; just ask me if it's all right to have another look." Sometimes, he'd get distracted while writing a word down and ask me, "What was I writing again?" I'd give him a hint (e.g. "It's something you use for eating") and he'd get it.

Then I noticed that B wasn't just memorising the words he spelled but he actually read them (by sounding out each letter) and learnt the meanings, using the words in sentences before writing them down, and I was very glad to see his vocabulary growing so quickly. And the five minutes whizzed by more quickly than I imagined.

Fast forward to 2006:

At a recent parent consultation meeting, Miss N spoke with us about how consistently B has been getting full marks on his "spellin's" each week, and we could tell that she was really impressed. She wondered if they were getting to be "too dead-easy" for B and asked us, "Would it be all right if we give him 10 words to spell, instead of 5?"

I didn't want to push B harder than we ought, but I didn't want him getting bored, too, so we said we'll leave it up to him. I told B about it and he practically clapped his hands with excitement. So, okay, 10 spellin's it is.

Last week, they gave him his first set of 10 words, and Friday being the last day of term, they stuck the stickers on the children on the very same day.

B's sticker read: "Wow! I got 10/10 in my spelling test today!!"

And to think that at this exact time last year, with all his fine-motor skills delays and his difficulty getting his fingers in a proper tripod grasp, B could not even hold a pencil properly, let alone write, draw, colour, spell his own name or take written end-of-term tests in preschool. His handwriting was weak, spidery and ill-controlled. It was painful to watch him struggle, since it used to take forever for him to write his first name, and he complained that his fingers got tired too quickly.

Not anymore. His handwriting is strong, neat, legible and very well-formed, at times even better than some of his classmates' writing. Last 26th March, B wrote me a card for UK Mothering Sunday, and though the "spellin's" left something to be desired, the fact that my son is now finally able to put his thoughts and feelings on paper, to WRITE, overwhelmed me beyond imagination.

B's card said: "I luvn my Mam and dad and my bravo and day lavn me to -B"

(Translation: I love my Mum and dad and my brother and they love me, too -B... "Bravo" is how he says "brother" with his newly-acquired accent.)

So I guess B was right all along. The daily spellin's were worth it. The widened vocabulary, the lovely handwriting, the newly-found ability to write complete sentences and make his mum cry over a badly-spelt Mother's Day card.

Just five minutes a day has made a world of difference to B.

Look Into My Eyes

It was late afternoon in early December. As the developmental pediatrician assessed my son, B, my husband and I looked on with bated breath. At two years and five months, B was hardly intelligible, speaking jargon, couldn’t keep still for two seconds. We watched as the doctor coaxed B into holding a pen. He gripped the pen with his palm, his fingers skewed and totally unable to control it. She tried to get him to build a tower of blocks, but he hardly gives it a second glance before whizzing about the clinic, staying at each task for only two or three seconds at a time.

B had seemed normal, intelligent and healthy until he was 8 months old, when he caught the measles from a girl with a half-wit mother irresponsible enough to let her daughter stay in the doctor’s waiting room with other kids, even when SHE knew that it was the measles. Even now, just thinking about that fateful day’s events still makes my blood boil with anger, frustration and regret.

After his terrible bout with measles, and barely two weeks later, with roseola infantum, B was not the same baby. He seemed less aware of us, he lost a lot of weight and he seemed to be quieter. We thought he was just taking his time recovering from his first real illness, but as the months passed, he began to turn himself upside down and get extremely active. B being our first child, we had no way of comparing his development with that of other children.

Meantime, O and I were both busy with work and other things. It shames me no end to admit this, but I was too distracted by my career to notice that B didn’t respond when he was called, he didn’t know his name or ours, and he still wasn’t making a lot of sense when he tried to talk. Looking back now, all the warning signs passed me by unnoticed.

It had been increasingly difficult for us to take B anywhere. His behaviour was straining our own marriage and testing our parental fortitude. Even though I had breastfed him till age two, I had not had any meaningful eye contact with my only son. My dreams of reading him stories at bedtime, with him sitting quietly and contentedly on my lap, had all but vanished. He could not sit still long enough for me to even tell him I loved him. I was feeling distinctly unloved as a mother, and wondered why other parents had the consolation of being hugged and kissed by their young, when I could not feel even a hint of gratitude or affection from mine. O and I knew something was wrong, despite vague assurances that “boys develop slower than girls” and “he’ll get round to it eventually.” Our voiceless fears brought us to Dr S.

After an interminable hour of tasks and questions, Dr S faced us and spent the next half-hour explaining the different disorders which were usually suspected in cases like this. She wrote them all down on paper so we could see. She looked at us kindly, paused, and slowly circled a word that would change our lives forever: AUTISM.

That was 3 years and four months ago.

This morning, B got up as usual and cheerfully came into my room saying, “Good morning, Nanay!” (Nanay is Filipino for Mum.)Then he went down for breakfast before getting himself dressed for school. As we met at the foot of the stairs, he surprised me by saying, “Nanay, I love you very much.” My eyes strained to cry but I held back my tears. He hugged me and then said as we broke apart, an impish look in his eyes, “Or maybe I love you very small?” Ha, ha, ha, I said. Too late for that, sweetheart.

I sat beside him as he put his shoes on, and he chattered about what he would do later in drama club and asked if his friend J could come over to play again next week. Before we said goodbye, O and I prayed a morning blessing over B and his baby brother, E. This time, for some unfathomable reason, my tears refused to be held back and I told O, I don’t know why I’m crying. Sitting beside me, B looked into my eyes and gravely asked, “What’s the matter, Nanay? Why are you crying?” I’m just gonna miss you today, sweetheart, but I hope you have a happy day in school, I replied, trying not to upset him. He then gave me a reassuring smile and said, “Don’t worry, Nanay, I’ll see you later.” Kisses and hugs all round, then he was off to school with O. With E busy playing, and no one else around, I gave my tears free rein for a few moments.

Autism Spectrum Disorder, or ASD for short, revolutionised the way O and I approached parenting. It transformed our vision for the kind of persons we would mold our children to be. Instead of having them value success or accomplishment in their pursuits, we realised that all we wanted were children who knew how to love and care, to feel, to know what it means to be human. We became very hands-on parents, very open with our emotions and physically expressive of our love for our son and for each other. We taught ourselves to be experts in our son’s disorder. We devoured books as we found them.

And ASD changed the way we view life itself, our appreciation of human emotion, sensory experiences and relationships, the things which make us truly human. B started having weekly occupational and speech therapy soon after his diagnosis, and I put my career on hold so I could transform our home into a fun, safe, 24-hour therapy center of sorts for B. We played games and obstacle courses, played to his strengths, helped him develop his immature skills, guided him through his emotions and gently taught him how to manage them. B responded to all we did, becoming more and more alive, more and more human, more and more PRESENT, by the day.

At four years and ten months, B was discharged from all occupational and speech therapy, with his condition so vastly improved from the initial diagnosis of classic autism that it was declared to be virtually undetectable, except by trained specialists.

Now, just two months away from his sixth birthday, B attends Year One in a mainstream primary school here in England— reading, writing and spelling extremely well, enjoying new experiences and surpassing everyone’s hopes and expectations. He helps around the house and is quite independent: he makes his bed, dresses by himself, sets the table, brushes his teeth, clears away his toys. He is always ALWAYS laughing, smiling, giggling at some joke or prank. His pure, innocent voice fills the room when he sings along to his favourite CDs, and despite his young age and the fact that he has never had vocal training, he is completely on-key and knows all the words! With his innately shy temperament, he still struggles in developing social skills, finding it challenging to make new friends in a new school, a new country, with people talking in strange accents and saying odd phrases never before encountered. Reaching out to strangers and making new friends is a concern for him, but isn’t it so for most of us, as well?

Truth is, I cry for joy today, out of gratitude for this unexpected gift, because B said he loved me. Not because it’s the first time he’s said it, but because it has just struck me how often he has been saying it, and so earnestly. Because he is forever hugging and cuddling and tickling and squishing, and asking to be hugged, cuddled, tickled and squished back. Because he listens, he understands, he speaks, he connects. Because he cares, he empathises, he responds. Because he looks into my eyes and knows he is loved.

All this, when he shouldn’t be able to. All this, when autism dictates that he should not. ASD should have robbed me of my son’s hugs and kisses, of the loving look I see in his eyes when he gazes back at me, of my hopes for his life as a happy, well-adjusted person. ASD could have taken my son away from me, and it should have, but it did not. It has failed, miserably. For my son is here, and he thinks, he feels, and he loves.

This weblog, then, is the story of how B continually challenges and re-defines the boundaries set before him by ASD, how he confronts his fears and limitations, defies expectations, disproves human theory, and attests how foolish it is to put the power of human love and divine intervention inside a box. It is the story of my son’s quiet victories and triumphs, his momentary setbacks and defeats, his courage and his persistence.

I look into his eyes, and he looks back into mine. Each soul mirroring the other.

It is then that I know: We love, and so begin to live.