Wampum

Today is my older son's thirteenth birthday. "Beware, there is a teenager in the house," my wife warned me this morning. Happy Birthday, J.D. You are a great son and we are very proud of you.

In addition to being his birthday, today also marks the 4,748th consecutive day that either my wife or I (or both) have been on diaper-changing duty. That streak is intact because my younger son, Bobby, now eleven, is autistic and is not yet toilet trained. With the kids nineteen months apart, we never got a break from the diapers.

Bobby, attends a public school for autistic kids. There are 118 students at his school ranging in age from five to twenty-one. We recently learned that the school, originally built in the 1920's and expanded in the 1950's, contains lead-based paint. Much of that paint is in poor condition. It is a health hazard.

The intersection of autism and heavy metals is a location with intense emotional and neurological content. With studies showing that exposure to even small amounts of lead can result in substantial reduction in IQ, and other studies suggesting that heavy metals may have some involvement in the etiology of autism, parents of autistics take the presence of lead paint in their kids' school very seriously indeed.

After learning that Bobby may have been exposed to lead at school, we made an appointment at the doctor's office for a lead test. That test was also today.

I felt reasonably confident as Bobby and I entered the Doctor's office. I had carefully explained the situation over the phone and they have dealt with Bobby before. During my phone call, I was assured that the test could be done with blood taken by finger prick. Bobby has had finger pricks before and we know how to do them.

When we were called back to the lab for the test, I noticed that the technician did not have a lancet for a finger prick but, rather, had the equipment needed to draw blood from a vein. I inquired and was informed that the test did, in fact, require that blood be drawn.

The technician asked if that was a problem and I responded that we would need reinforcements if we planned to put a needle in Bobby's arm. The technician told me that he was very experienced and was sure that it would be no problem.

Ten minutes later, no blood having been drawn, we were having a powwow about how to draw the blood. I noted that we usually employ elements of the Powell Doctrine in similar situations. That is, we clearly define our objective and then apply overwhelming force to accomplish it.

With Bobby sitting on my lap with my legs around his ankles (to immobilize his lower body) and my arms around his torso, one nurse holding his right hand and arm, and a second nurse holding the arm from which blood was to be drawn, the technician was able to locate a vein, draw the blood on the first try, and apply alcohol and a band-aid. That was accomplished with a minimum of disruption and no injuries to Bobby or others. I was very pleased. We should have the results of the test in a few weeks.

As we were leaving, one of the nurses asked, "if he is autistic, what is his special gift?"

Clearly, she thought Rainman was a documentary of the average autistic. She thought Bobby must be able to calculate the square of her telephone number in his head, or count a multi-deck blackjack shoe, or play a Mozart piano concerto perfectly after one hearing, or perform some other feat of savant brilliance.

I have been asked that question many, many times and I gave her the stock answer. A fair number of savants are also autistic but very few autistics are savants. Rainman is just a movie, a good one, but just a movie. Bobby does not have a special gift, he is just a boy trying to cope with a neurological condition.

She seemed disappointed. I think she expected Bobby to calculate the area under the curve of the examining table in his head on the spot.

On the way home, I alternated between bemusement at the popular misconceptions about autism and outrage that a health care professional in whom we trust the care of our son could be so ignorant.

Suddenly, I realized that she was right and I was wrong. Bobby does have a special gift.

Bobby is a sweet, loving but vulnerable and needy child whose neurological defects make it impossible for him to have normal interactions with the world. He literally can not speak for himself. He has no judgment whatsoever concerning his own health, safety, or needs. He needs help and direction with the most basic of life skill such as brushing his teeth, bathing, donning clothing, and other aspects of personal hygiene. He can not plan or prepare for his future. He can not protect himself from people or nature. He can provide for himself none of the basic needs of life.

Caring for Bobby has become a central focus of my life. I bridled at that role for a long time, but have come to accept it. Now, I can think of no better use of my time, intellect, energy, and talents that to simply be Bobby's Dad. It is the purpose for which I have always been destined. Being Bobby's protector, advocate, helper, teacher, and Dad is a very fine thing to be.

That is Bobby's gift to me. He allowed me to find my life's purpose. It is a very special gift indeed.