Excerpted from the Book

"Autism, Heartfelt Thoughts from Fathers"

I remember sitting in a hospital room, staring down at a linoleum floor, while a cold voice says the words, “your son has autism.” I see my son, strapped into a booster seat in our living room, a wooden shape toy on its tray. I’m kneeling before him, urging him to connect. “Hey Buddy!” I say, hiding a mounting panic. “Look at me! Where are my eyes? That’s it. Good job!” I see a school administrator talking at me, my boy no more than a line item. I want to lash out, but heed our attorney’s advice. “Never raise your voice. Ask questions. Gather data.” The stress is unbearable.

I’m pulled from my trance when my wife returns home from a get-together with friends. I ask her about the party; she recounts a story from a woman whose brother had recently returned from a tour of duty in Iraq and was having a difficult time re-adjusting to civilian life. Apparently, he could no longer relate to those who were not there, who didn’t understand what it was like to come so close to the edge, day in, day out. Her brother, she said, was a different person, distant, humorless…a stranger.

And there it was, the experience of raising a child with autism. It is war, struggling to stay sane in a world that has gone insane, and watching yourself slowly eroded from the strain of it. It is knowing that the life you once knew has been blown away, replaced by one in which you fight constantly, for your child’s life and your own peace of mind; fighting insurance companies, school systems, unethical practitioners, bullies, even friends. It is trying to hold it together while people who have no idea how hard you’re fighting give you answers without knowing the questions. It is the awful realization that you’re alone, banished, different, adrift in a sinking rowboat, watching the world pass by on yachts, waving and wishing you luck. It is an urgent, desperate need for justice and retribution that you know will never come.