Writing about Autism

By Hal Walter
School is back in session, and this year I am more grateful for that than ever. As the parent of an autistic son, I must admit I have become comfortable with the notion of school as not only a learning opportunity for Harrison, but as respite care as well.

When Harrison is back in school, I have a nine-hour block of time. There’s less of a day care rush. I can work. It’s quiet. I can even take some time to relax.

I’m often told by friends that I need to write more about my experiences as the parent of an autistic child. My stories could make for a great book, they say. The subject is timely. It would be therapeutic, etc. Ironically, I sometimes think dealing with Harrison’s autism has actually made me less interested in writing altogether. I have difficulty sharing these experiences, except in short notes to close friends and family. Perhaps it’s a little bit painful.

Practically anything you can write about the autism experience would tend to focus on the negative, which really are just challenges. Anything else would be like putting a “My Child is an Honor Student” sticker on your car, or the tedious Christmas letter. Sure, I could brag about how well Harrison does in school. His uncanny ability to quickly figure out how to operate just about any electronic device handed to him. His musical and artistic talents. Those things only seem exceptional to many people because he has autism.

I am not a whiner by nature, and perhaps I feel like writing about this experience may appear like so much self-indulgent complaining. I appreciate support and encouragement of friends and family, but I’m not all that interested in other people’s pity or sympathy.

I prefer capturing Harrison in pictures rather than words. In photos he’s not autistic. He runs free outdoors, hiking, skiing and exploring, learning to shoot a slingshot. Nobody knows about the hour it took to actually get him outside, the tantrum over a pebble in his shoe or sticker in his sock. Or two miles of shrieking after a tumble on the trail. The picture is purely him without the autism.

For sure some other parents will read this and respond with the usual “Oh, my kids did that.” Yeah, right. But not every day. Not every hour. Not forever. Parenting is a full-time job. Parenting an autistic child is overtime, with little hope for retirement. Perhaps writing about it does have some value, if only to offer readers a glimpse into the lives parents of autistic children live.

In the summer we regularly go to the Westcliffe Farmers Market on Thursday afternoons. Most of the people at the market know Harrison and generally welcome him there despite the occasional disruption. One such Thursday Harrison’s teacher from the past year was there.

Harrison has had problems in the past processing when he sees people in places where they are out of context to him. For example, he’d see another kid from his class at the park or grocery store and would flip out. It was as if he could not process that these same people could be someplace else other than where he normally sees them. This has improved over time. Now he usually just covers his eyes and laughs in these situations. So I was caught by surprise when his teacher said “hi” and he totally freaked out, flung himself down, pulled his hat over his eyes and started screaming loudly and crying. “She’s a stranger.” “I don’t want to see her.” It went on for what seemed like forever but was probably only a couple minutes.

I didn’t really know how to react. The teacher – without question the best teacher of his entire school experience – was totally cool, though I can’t help but think she may have been a little embarrassed by a student loudly reacting this way at the farmers market.

For several months I’ve been taking Harrison to swimming lessons at Club America. After one lesson this summer he was running around outside while I spoke with his instructor. Suddenly he tripped and fell right on his face on the cement. Cut up his nose, under his nose, lips and mouth. The screaming was almost unbearable as we took him back inside to clean up the damage as best as possible. It echoed in the open room of pool. He continued to scream all the way home, a 25-minute drive in an already noisy Subaru Forester.

Screaming is actually just part of life around here. Often upon awakening, Harrison screams. Anything he feels like protesting – eating breakfast, the battery running low on his iPad, being told not to scream, whatever — he protests with noise. Over time this noise has a tendency to scramble a person’s brain. Trust me. Recently during dinner the noise was so unbearable I picked up my plate and went outside to eat by myself at the picnic table, with only bluebirds, robins and Eurasian collared doves for company.

The day before school started we went shopping for school supplies in Pueblo. What could have been an easy and fun shopping excursion quickly became an epic nightmare with loud outbursts over everything from Angry Birds USB drives and choosing only one pencil box at the beginning, to candy, swiping the debit card and signing the electronic pad at the checkout. He also vanished once in the store while I was looking at something, which was frightening for a few moments until I was able to locate him.

Back at the car, I sat down in the front seat with the door open and my feet still parked on the pavement. I sat that way for quite some time before gathering the energy, strength, courage or whatever combination of all those things to actually pull my legs into the car and drive on. Yeah, I’m a big tough pack-burro racer and all that, but in truth I was simply exhausted.

The next morning Harrison would get on the school bus. I would get back to the job of managing a ranch and mining my brain for words. Some of them would be what you just read. So it goes.