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"This story is dedicated to my brother Hunter"
—
Sean, 9 years old
 About
five years after I was born, I started thinking about my brother Hunter
who has autism. I thought about how autism would make a big mark in my
relationship with my brother and how he would never have friends or get
married. I thought about how he really never started talking but made
a lot of sounds. And then I felt like crying. So I thought some more about
my brother and hoped that we could make a pill that can get into his DNA
and make it so he could talk. We would then be reunited as brothers. But
I thought about how long it would take to make this pill and I really
felt like crying!
Then I ran into my Mom's room. I sat down and asked her, "why can't
you teach Hunter's brain to talk? WHY?" "Well", she said,
" we started off thinking that we had 2 healthy boys and that there
wasn't any disability in our family. But when Hunter turned 2, Dad and
I noticed that there was something wrong with him".
I remember the first thing we did was take him to the hospital. We asked
the doctor, " what's wrong with Hunter?" He said, "Hunter
has a disease called autism." When the doctor first told us that,
I thought autism was contagious. But it wasn't. I let out a long breath
of air.
We got home and everyone was crying. It was that day that inspired me
to write this story and I will never forget it. I just wanted to do something
to cheer up my brother. I ran up to him and said, "Hunter do you
want to go jumping?" He followed me out to the back yard and we had
a great time jumping on the trampoline. We looked up and saw our parents
smiling from the upstairs window. I waved to them and told Hunter to wave.
Hunter and I ran and hugged each other. And that really is the end of
this story.
— Sean, CA
Technicolor Boy
I
refer to my son, Harrison, as "Technicolor Boy", as he lives
life HUGE and vividly. He seemed like an advanced little guy, physically,
when he was less than a year old, but when he hit eighteen months things
changed. He never really was a touchy, huggy little guy — no, he
much preferred to play alone. He never played "patty cake",
or "peekaboo", but would become engrossed in this obsession
he had with vacuums.
As I said, after eighteen months of age, he would run instead of walk,
enter a room full of people, not regarding them, rather choosing to check
out their vacuums. He would never give eye contact or speak. He would
leave the house (our "fortress") and walk down the main road
— he needed constant supervision to not hurt himself because he was
so impulsive and uninhibited. One summer around four years ago, he broke
his arm, nearly drowned, and fell into the campfire (twice!). Before the
age of one, I had to call Poison Control because of his curious mind and
mouth. Two years ago, Child Protective Services had been called on our
family, apparently by an unaware neighbor, because our son had been seen
riding his bike w/o his helmet. The social worker was embarrassed after
meeting all of us, lamenting how it all had been a huge waste of time
and taxpayers money because it was obvious we were a loving family to
a busy, challenging child.
I am happy to report that our little guy is now almost eight years old,
has been given the diagnosis of "Asperger's" which is on the
Autism Spectrum, and is given a lot of love, support, and educational
considerations to make his life a full one.
Carpe Diem, Technicolor Boy!
— Robin Moore, MI
I Am Autistic
There are many things about me that seem pretty average at first glance.
I have my own apartment. I drive a car. I work in the computer services
department of a hospital. I manage my own finances, and hope to make the
big step of buying a house soon.
But I am also autistic, and these normal things are very big accomplishments
for me. Most autistics never live independently, don't learn to drive,
and don't hold "normal", unsheltered jobs. On closer inspection,
there is much about me that is very classically autistic. I don't interact
with people much outside of work, and at work I keep my focus on the computers
when I must speak. Sometimes when I am over-stimulated, speech fails me
and I must Sign. I avoid going to crowded, busy places, and choose to
run errands early on Tuesday mornings so that I avoid busy times. I live
from obsession to obsession, and the most dangerous time for me is when
I am between "special interests". At those times, I am very
vulnerable to suicidal depressions and massive anxiety, self-inflicting
injury, and becoming unable to speak when I do not have the wonderful
highs of my obsessions. To an autistic, these obsessions are better than
drugs, being in love, and sex! They make life worth living.
My obsession with computers has become my career and has let me live independently.
At 26 now, I manage well enough. I will never be a social being, but I
am content with my life as it is.
— Sara
HFA/AS adult
"Your Kid is Weird"
Jimmy and I grew up in Lincolnwood, IL in the 60's and 70's. Jim was autistic.
The official diagnosis of that time indeed indicted and accused the mother.
In addition, there were very few resources available to parents. My own
family exhausted $10,000 in savings in 1966 dragging Jim from specialist
to psychiatrist trying to find answers. Those were dark years. My mother
said that the saddest day of her life was when kindergarten began, and
all the kids in the neighborhood started school except Jimmy. Some mothers
said "your kid is weird" and kept him excluded. Others reached
out and showed compassion. But mostly, Jimmy was a burden, a lovable child,
but one who required round the clock care to prevent him from running
away, destroying dishes, starting fires. He eventually went to Rimland's
school in Evanston and our family was befriended by caring teachers and
social workers there. But as Jimmy turned into a teenager, he became a
screaming, strong, and physically out of control child. It was exhausting
and futile to try and keep him in our house. Today he lives in Pennsylvania
in a group facility. Refrigerator Mothers is one of the most poignant
documentaries I have ever seen because in its simple testimony it depicts
the ultimate sacrifice of love and life which these great women performed.
— A. Hurvitz, CA
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