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Sparkle (0)
For the first time in a very long time, it felt like things were okay. Good, even. Things were going to be great, in fact, and once I got the kids settled in to our new town, new house, new life ... things would only get better.
So there I was in the office of the one and only psychiatrist in town our new health insurance would pay for, who would also see children younger than twelve. My son was only seven, but for the past year, he'd done well on an anti-depressant to help control his anxiety. I'd had reservations about medicating him -- of course I did -- but it helped. It helped a lot, actually. All I needed from this doctor was a new prescription for the medication that we already knew was working fine.
I'd brought his medical records and his neuropsych evaluation results. In answer to the doctor's curt questions, I explained that he'd been a colicky baby but then a charming, social, active toddler. By the time he entered preschool he never cried; he loved school, adored his friends, and other than being a little clumsy, and maybe just a little more sensitive than the other kids, he appeared to be perfectly normal. It wasn't until kindergarten that the tantrums began. And it wasn't until first grade that a kind teacher asked us if we'd ever heard of Sensory Integration Disorder, and recommended we have him tested. Testing bore out her suspicions: He had a pretty classic case of SID, combining both hypersensitivity to touch (the slightest brush against him could result in wounded howling of "You hit me!") and large proprioceptive deficits (he struggled with balance and just generally knowing where his body was in space).
I explained all of this to the new psychiatrist. I detailed how we'd tackled the issue on all fronts; in addition to medication for the anxiety, my son had been receiving regularly occupational therapy and attending talk therapy, as well. He was doing better. Combining all of those things together, I told him, he was practically back to the old version of himself, the one who was all smiles. To punctuate my point, my son -- who'd been sitting next to me, fiddling with a couch cushion this entire time -- turned to the doctor and flashed him a wide grin.
The doctor took notes and nodded and asked a few more questions, and then asked to spend fifteen minutes talking to my son. I agreed, but when I didn't move, he added, "Alone." Embarrassed, I headed back to the waiting room, hearing my son launch into a detailed explanation of his favorite Pokemon character as the door closed behind me.
When fifteen minutes had passed, the doctor walked my son back out to the waiting room and asked him to wait for me, then invited me to come back in without him. Back inside his office, the door clicked shut as I settled back down on the couch. "Did you learn a lot about Pokemon?" I asked, trying not to laugh. It was my son's current obsession and I knew he'd given the doc an earful.
"Oh yes," he laughed. "More than I ever knew before! He's quite the charmer."
"Thanks," I said, smiling. "I think we'll keep him!" That had always drawn a chuckle whenever I'd said it before, but the doctor merely made a note on his pad, expressionless. Then he set his pen down, looking up to lock eyes with me.
"So," he said, then. "Your son has Asperger's Syndrome." He said it as though he wondered why I hadn't told him.
"What?" I said, sure I'd misheard. He was still looking at me, taking in my flustered response. "He ... no, he doesn't," I continued, briefly wondering when it had gotten so warm in his office. "He has Sensory Integration Disorder. He was just tested last year. That's all. Sensory stuff. He's not autistic."
"Why do you say that?" he asked me, cocking his head to the side. I stared back at him, baffled into silence. "I mean," he continued. "You seem ... almost offended."
"I ... uh ...," I groped for words. "I guess I am a little offended?" It came out as a question. I tried again. "You just spent less than an hour with him. His testing last year didn't say anything about that. He's extremely verbal.
