If I heard the word “low” one more time to describe my son’s cognition, his potential, the outlook for his future – I was going to scream. I balled my hands into fists and dug my nails into my palms to release some of the mounting tension I was feeling.
This was the moment, I could sense it coming – I waited for the doctor to say that word, that magical word that would crush me… “Autism.”
And she did.
And I was okay. No, I wasn’t okay. But I wasn’t crushed either. I wasn’t diminished, and I wasn’t going to let this one word diminish him either. I was pissed. I wasn’t going to let a word take anything away from my boy, our family, our life. Suddenly, the word “low” turned into fuel for my anger, for my resolve to protect my son.
Instead of saying “Why him, Autism?”, I said “Screw you, Autism”.
CONTINUE READING IN THE FAMILY ROOM