warning, started screaming. The man in the seat immediately in front of the Kid reacted as though he had been slapped in the back of the head with a shovel. People wearing earbuds, blasting music into their heads, heard the shriek and turned to look. It was a scream of both pain and terror so powerful that it set off ancillary, less resonant cries from the other toddlers seated near us. Everyone on board under six started crying.
The Kid fought back against the Powers of Chaos. He bit my other arm, giving the jacket matching holes. He attacked the wall of the plane as hard as he could, using his head as his weapon. He managed to do this at least half a dozen times before I was able to get an arm around and restrain him.
For the next hour, the Kid alternated his behavior between hysterical, nausea-inducing, gasping, sobbing tears of helpless rage, and ear-splitting shrieks of rage that didn’t need any help. He grunted, barked, and hissed.
Then he bit himself. He latched onto his own hand, shaking his head like a pit bull with a shih tzu. I wrapped one arm around him and pulled him to me as tight as I could, while with the other hand I reached over and pinched his nose. He had to open his mouth to take his next breath, and I got his hand away from him. I held him while he gnashed at me, until with a great sigh he fell back against the seat. He was instantly asleep.
My heartbeat returned to normal. I was exhausted. In prison, I had seen a huge man go berserk in the yard one day. He moved through the crowd, punching, gouging, and kicking. He seemed to pick men up and throw them. I didn’t see what had set him off, but found myself staring at him, mesmerized as though watching a distant tornado. Then he suddenly veered in my direction and I was sure I felt Death approaching.
The guards stopped him with repeated charges from a Taser. The relief I felt as he fell at my feet that day was nothing compared to what I was going through as the Kid fell asleep.
I put my head back, and in seconds I was asleep as well.
A half-hour before landing in New York, I awoke to find the Kid slumped next to me, his head pillowed on my arm. It felt good.
—
THE KID SPENT the week visiting Park Avenue doctors, early-childhood specialists at Columbia and NYU, and school admissions officers—public and private—in three boroughs. I trotted behind, writing checks.
By Saturday afternoon, he was enrolled in school—private and specializing in teaching autistic children—and his trust fund had dropped by an equivalent of more than two full years at Harvard. He had a host of doctors, all of whom gave me variations on the same theme—the Kid might improve, he might not, have hope, not expectations—and all of whom charged as much per fifteen-minute visit as I was going to be earning in an hour. And he had Heather.
Almost as round as she was tall, tattooed and with more facial jewelry than the entire front row of a Marilyn Manson concert, Heather was the Kid’s shadow, his minder, his behavioral tutor. A wizard. She was finishing a Ph.D. program at Columbia in early-childhood development and was glad to get firsthand experience working one-on-one with an autistic child. She was so glad, in fact, that she was willing to work twenty hours a week for a mere forty-eight dollars an hour. She was my guide in the wilderness that was my son.
Meanwhile, the Kid and I were discovering each other’s boundaries and needs. The days of the week were marked by what was allowed for breakfast, and what color scheme was acceptable for the way he dressed. Blue was reserved for Monday. Yellow never. Beige was best on Wednesday and Saturday, Friday was always black. No plaids. Ever.
Eggs were scrambled, never fried. Pancakes must be served with corn syrup, not maple, and only on Friday and Sunday. Mustard, he had convinced me, was an abomination, never to be allowed anywhere near his food. He called it “Poo,” a word he would scream very loudly in any
The Kid fought back against the Powers of Chaos. He bit my other arm, giving the jacket matching holes. He attacked the wall of the plane as hard as he could, using his head as his weapon. He managed to do this at least half a dozen times before I was able to get an arm around and restrain him.
For the next hour, the Kid alternated his behavior between hysterical, nausea-inducing, gasping, sobbing tears of helpless rage, and ear-splitting shrieks of rage that didn’t need any help. He grunted, barked, and hissed.
Then he bit himself. He latched onto his own hand, shaking his head like a pit bull with a shih tzu. I wrapped one arm around him and pulled him to me as tight as I could, while with the other hand I reached over and pinched his nose. He had to open his mouth to take his next breath, and I got his hand away from him. I held him while he gnashed at me, until with a great sigh he fell back against the seat. He was instantly asleep.
My heartbeat returned to normal. I was exhausted. In prison, I had seen a huge man go berserk in the yard one day. He moved through the crowd, punching, gouging, and kicking. He seemed to pick men up and throw them. I didn’t see what had set him off, but found myself staring at him, mesmerized as though watching a distant tornado. Then he suddenly veered in my direction and I was sure I felt Death approaching.
The guards stopped him with repeated charges from a Taser. The relief I felt as he fell at my feet that day was nothing compared to what I was going through as the Kid fell asleep.
I put my head back, and in seconds I was asleep as well.
A half-hour before landing in New York, I awoke to find the Kid slumped next to me, his head pillowed on my arm. It felt good.
—
THE KID SPENT the week visiting Park Avenue doctors, early-childhood specialists at Columbia and NYU, and school admissions officers—public and private—in three boroughs. I trotted behind, writing checks.
By Saturday afternoon, he was enrolled in school—private and specializing in teaching autistic children—and his trust fund had dropped by an equivalent of more than two full years at Harvard. He had a host of doctors, all of whom gave me variations on the same theme—the Kid might improve, he might not, have hope, not expectations—and all of whom charged as much per fifteen-minute visit as I was going to be earning in an hour. And he had Heather.
Almost as round as she was tall, tattooed and with more facial jewelry than the entire front row of a Marilyn Manson concert, Heather was the Kid’s shadow, his minder, his behavioral tutor. A wizard. She was finishing a Ph.D. program at Columbia in early-childhood development and was glad to get firsthand experience working one-on-one with an autistic child. She was so glad, in fact, that she was willing to work twenty hours a week for a mere forty-eight dollars an hour. She was my guide in the wilderness that was my son.
Meanwhile, the Kid and I were discovering each other’s boundaries and needs. The days of the week were marked by what was allowed for breakfast, and what color scheme was acceptable for the way he dressed. Blue was reserved for Monday. Yellow never. Beige was best on Wednesday and Saturday, Friday was always black. No plaids. Ever.
Eggs were scrambled, never fried. Pancakes must be served with corn syrup, not maple, and only on Friday and Sunday. Mustard, he had convinced me, was an abomination, never to be allowed anywhere near his food. He called it “Poo,” a word he would scream very loudly in any
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