After a year of various diagnostic exams (and one visit to a quack), the only school on Staten Island that taught ABA had a spot open for my son. I just needed an official diagnosis, and we could start battling the autism monster that was hiding him from me.
I called a pediatric neurologist for an appointment but was told the next available date was the 29th. Rather than sit on my hands for a month, I asked the nurse, "Can you put me on a waiting list in case of a cancellation sooner?" She said, "We happen to have an opening today at 3. Can you make it?" It was 2:15. They were an hour away. I had 45 minutes to get to downtown Brooklyn in the winter, and no one was dressed to leave the house. I dreaded driving the Gowanus worse than dentist appointments. Despite my nerves, I said, "I'll take it" and ran about the house, pulling the boys away from Disney TV and into snow suits. We made it in time, and 10 minutes after meeting the neurologist, we had a diagnosis: PDD-NOS. At last my enemy had a name.
On the first school day in 2000, I put my tiny 3 year old baby boy on a bus and cried as it drove away. He's now 16, tall, handsome, kind, bright, thoughtful and funny, and anyone who's met him, loves him. Maybe waiting 28 days wouldn't have changed anything, but I like to think maybe it did.
Norristown, PA