Denial is a powerful thing. But denial does not ultimately serve us well. It may keep the pain of truth away for a period of time, but it only serves to make the truth harder to bear once we face it. The most dangerous aspect of denial is that it keeps us from moving forward on a journey that we must ultimately take.
I knew something was wrong with my son. But having nothing to compare the experience of raising a toddler, being a first time mother at 46, I did not fully grasp the extent of the problem. And no one – the pre-school teachers and administrators, his pediatrician, other mothers of toddlers around me – ever mentioned the A word. Autism was a topic I had once covered as the executive producer on a daytime talk show. I remember being vaguely interested in the topic, as I was still childless, on my way to becoming a super nova in the world of television, and thought the topic had nothing to do with me. The panel was made up of mothers who believed that vaccines had triggered autism in their children. Little did I know that one day I would become one of those women.
The first year of our son Wyatt’s life was blissful. He met all the developmental markers. He not only talked and walked on schedule, he was ahead of the other babies. He was literally running around so fast at a year that he was moved up in his “Mommy and Me “ playgroup. In a world that marketed such video titles as “Baby Genius”, “Baby Einstein” and “Your Baby Can Read”, I was beaming with pride. Then somewhere along the time of one or two years of age everything changed.
After my son had his MMR vaccine, he had a very high fever. Shortly after that the baby boy that my husband and I knew began to disappear. Do I believe that vaccines cause autism? No, I do not. What I do believe, and what I have learned from some of the leading doctors and scientists working in the field of this complex neurological disorder, is that environmental factors –toxins, pollutants, and drugs (vaccines are powerful drugs) — can TRIGGER a neurological condition that mimics classic autism. There are also genetic factors that play a role, and often a compromised immune system. This is what is now known a “regressive autism”. It is very different from classic autism, where the infant never develops properly, which affected around one in three thousand children around twenty years ago. This newer form of regressive autism has been growing steadily since that time, and now affects at least one in 110 children in our country alone. It is an epidemic. There are also genetic factors that play a role, and often a compromised immune system.
I was to learn all this later, after my son turned three. But first I was to spend two years in hell. Two years of my life and my son’s life that could have been different, if only someone had grabbed me by the shoulders and had the guts or the knowledge to tell me my son had autism.
The change that happened was gradual, which made it harder to grasp. At around two, I noticed he had completely lost the flow of words that had seemed to come so effortlessly at one. My call to the pediatrician was met with “Boys often have delayed language, we’ll wait and see.”
So between two and three years of age, I put him in private speech sessions. But his language barely improved. And his behaviors got worse. The tantrums started happening. Violent tantrums that left me sick with fear and confusion. Like a battered wife, I did not want to admit that there was a monster in the house. In my case the monster was not a grown man, it was my two and half year old son.
And like a domestic violence victim, I hid the telltale signs. I started covering up the scratches and bite marks with make-up. Shattered glasses and plates were quickly swept away and thrown in the trash.
Then he put his head through our kitchen window. Twice.
My call to the pediatrician was met with “Sometimes children bang their heads when they are frustrated by not being able to talk.”
Of course, I was relieved with the response. And in fairness to my pediatrician, I always downplayed the severity of the tantrums. Things weren’t so bad, maybe it was the terrible twos after all. My husband kept telling me that there was something dreadfully wrong. I turn furious and defensive at his comments, and a wall developed between us. It became Wyatt and me against the world. Having grown up with a brother with Down Syndrome, the last thing I wanted was to have a life like the one my mother had. In my mind, she had sacrificed her own life for the life of a child. And in my mind, it had almost destroyed her.
A friend had told me her son was so badly behaved at two or three that they nicknamed him “Damien.” One solution that had snapped him out of his tantrums was squirting him with a water bottle. It seemed cruel, but I was desperate.
I don’t remember what set my Wyatt off the day I decided to use the water spraying technique. We were alone in the living room of the house. Once the tantrum started I ran to the kitchen cabinet and grabbed the spray bottle I had stashed under the sink. I squirted him full on in the face. He became enraged and his screams became louder. He started flinging toys and then ran around the room, grabbing items off low table tops with his tiny little hands. Glass was breaking everywhere. Then he ran for the front door. He had been eloping like this with alarming frequency, often times heading straight for the street, which in our neighborhood was mercifully quiet. I tackled his little body to the floor in the hallway, arms flailing and legs kicking, pulling my hair and scratching my chest with a fury that I couldn’t believe. His strength was astounding for such a small child. I pulled him into my lap, but after getting his hands under control he started head butting me and biting my shoulders.
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” I was screaming so loudly my throat was raw.
Wyatt wailed like a hurt animal. I was hyperventilating, but I held onto him. We were both soaked with water and tears, I had bleeding scratch marks and bites all over me. My shirt was torn.
Where had this dream of having a baby to love, turned into this nightmare? What was happening to my life, and to my precious son?
Sitting on the wet hardwood floor, I rocked my little boy in my arms, and told him how sorry I was. I started to pray.
God, if you help me find out what this thing is that has taken my child, I swear I will do anything you need me to do. Just give me the answers.
The answer was yet to come. The answer was autism.
Nancy Alspaugh-Jackson is the Executive Director of ACT Today! (Autism Cares Treatment). A former television producer turned author and activist on the subject of fearless aging and autism awareness, she co-authored Not Your Mother’s Midlife: A Ten Step guide to Fearless Aging and Fearless Women: Midlife Portraits. Alspaugh-Jackson is an Emmy-Award winning television producer for a number of network and nationally syndicated programs, including the long-running NBC talk show, LEEZA. She has been honored with the United Press International Award, the Associated Press Award, the Gabriel Award, the Genesis Award, as well as having been named one of the Hollywood Reporters “Women to Watch.”
Alspaugh-Jackson feels her most important assignment came after her adopted son Wyatt was diagnosed with autism at the age of three (Wyatt is now 8 and making tremendous progress). She saw an urgent need for families to have somewhere to turn to for advice and assistance when dealing with this devastating disorder. Nancy is married to FOX SPORTS television executive Read Jackson. When she is not running the activities at ACT Today!, she runs marathons and spends time with her family and their menagerie of animals — one Bernese Mountain dog, two Jack Russell Terriers, and three and a half horses (one miniature). For more information, go to http://www.act-today.org and http://www.causes.com/causes/482004.