The Little Bang Theory

I’ve been lying around all day, sick with a cold, and I made the mistake of spending most of my time cruising the internets. I spent at least an hour searching for Chinese New Year party favors and another hour trying to figure out how to put better ads on my blog (and succeeded at neither). Then I really asked for it. I typed in: kid repeats words whisper.

For the last few weeks, Newt has been doing this wacky thing where he’ll say something and then repeat it — in a whisper. The first time he did it, I almost burst out laughing because I’d just seen a creepy little boy do the exact same thing on that new sitcom, The Middle. Since then, I’ve asked Newt, on several occasions, if he knows he’s doing it. At first, he didn’t. It was like a Homer Simpson, “Did I say that out loud?” moment (okay, now it’s starting to sound like all I do is watch TV, and I really don’t). As time’s gone along, he’s noticed that he’s doing it, and I think it’s happening less often.

When this first started, I reported it to Tenzin in my usual, suppressed-hysteria way, knowing there was a better than average chance that this behavior fell into the “autistic behaviors” category. He responded with what has become one of the many fire extinguishers used on this towering inferno that we’ve finally gotten under control: “You know, Einstein used to repeat things to himself when he was a kid.” All I can say is, thank god I turned down all of those other marriage proposals.

Let me explain. When the overpriced, apparently under-qualified, “best-in-the-city” psychologist charged us 2,500 bucks to tell us our kid was going to be a doorstop (okay, she actually said he was either high-functioning autistic or Asperger’s, and he might be able to live on his own some day, but don’t count on it), we posed the hypothesis that he was simply a quirky, late-talking kid like Einstein. Tenzin, refusing to give up hope, had read The Einstein Syndrome, by Thomas Sowell, and we fit the profile. And I mean really fit the profile. I personally didn’t think it was that weird, but it turns out not every family is comprised entirely of scientists, mathematicians, and musicians. Poor Newt didn’t stand a chance. I still don’t know how Elfie escaped.

“No, no,” said our esteemed, well-dressed doctor. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” We were those parents in denial. Deluded. Depressed. Demoralized. And then we got the kicker: our next step would be Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA). Forty hours a week, with a therapist, at our house. It was the only proven therapy. Just a mere $20,000/year. Without tax.

I remember sitting in that office, trying really hard not to break down, and getting this strange vibe that the psychologist was waiting for me to cry because she almost took a tiny bit of pleasure in breaking the news to me (If it wouldn’t cost $250, I’d take Newt back in to see her, just to say, “Whatta ya think of us now, bee-atch?”). I remember driving home, thinking about how this would change our investment plans because now we’d have to make sure Newt would be taken care of for life. And how I didn’t know how to tell my parents. And how terrible I felt for Elfie.

Of course, now that we’re mainly putting out small fires that come up now and then, it’s actually inspiring to look back on that horrible time and see how we came through it. It wasn’t pretty. If you think passing health care looks like sausage making, then you didn’t know us between 2004 and 2008. But that’s another story for another time. Today, after typing those four little words into Google search and, of course, coming up with a bunch of autism sites, I found a documentary called Autistic-Like: Graham’s Story. From what I can get from the trailer, there may actually be some other rational people out there. Tenzin and I have held fast to the belief that thousands of kids are being misdiagnosed as autistic. That there are a bunch of kids, like Newt and apparently Graham, who just need a little more time and a lot more help. And that this is an epidemic that might be “cured” by people interacting with their kids (let the hate mail begin).

So I’m excited to see this movie (and I never see movies — I haven’t even seen Avatar yet). Between their story, our story, and who knows who else’s stories, maybe, just maybe, this crazy idea will eclipse the “One in 110” people. Maybe it’ll go from a little whisper to a big bang.