By Natalie Jaro

One of my favorite lines from a movie is when Gregory Peck, who plays Atticus Finch, in ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’, tells his temperamental and compulsive daughter, Scout Finch, that she’ll get along a lot better with ‘folks’ if she only tries to step inside their shoes and walk around in them.  A nugget of truth that we as educators and parents start to teach our children from early on.  It isn’t because children  are ‘bad’ or ’selfish’ but it is part of their natural development to be self-centered—for young children this is merely a scientific fact.  Despite his later criticism, a pioneer in childhood development, Jean Piaget, found children up until the age of seven, unable to deductively reason from anything other than an egocentric position in the so-called ‘concrete-operational stage’.  For example, if a child sees a bug on the floor, he/she assumes everyone else in the room can see it too even if they aren’t looking down or are half as close to the floor as they are.  Studies do show that even young children show empathy early on, however, I am speaking merely on a developmental level.  It is this particular oddity that makes autism unique, the cornerstone of what my autistic son struggles with—to be able to put himself in another’s shoes, per say.  Ironically, after watching, ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ for the first time with my son well near to being born, full and round in my stomach, I made the decision after the movie ended, to name him Atticus.

Maybe my son, in the end, will be my reminder to see the world again through eyes I once knew, but have forgotten, and to discover the wonder of it again.  Coming to terms with my son’s autism diagnosis has been a unique journey, one filled with the sweetest of smiles but also with the bitterest of tears and frustrations. I have had to work through the initial concern that something was wrong to heading out in search of what was wrong (no easy task in this case), to learning and accepting his problem and then discovering how to adjust to it.   The unsurpassed love I have for my son has compelled me forward to continually seek help and hope for the both of us.   The stories of other parents and people involved in the lives of children with autism are always helpful, each word sheds a touch more light onto a road we do not walk alone.  The stories often begin the same, but are never quite our own, stories that beg to be told.  This is my story, but mostly, it’s about Atticus.

Autism, it is a word that has mystified the modern-day world, a condition I don’t remember twelve years ago when I first began a career as a Montessori educator in early childhood.  The focus of my training was on the normal stages of development and everyday I moved more ahead in both theory and in practice in my understanding of young children.  I worked full-time in a school in Lake Forest, California.  I trained on weekends, evenings, and over a summer until I was certified and began teaching for many years later.  Within those years I watched many children come and go.  I observed them, I taught them and they taught me most of what I know about them.  During every school year there were always a few children I’d notice in the class who had differences.  For example, the repetition of certain behaviors, like body movements, tics or habits, difficulty relating to peers or socializing, developmental delays, confusion, agitation or aggression.

It broke my heart, I wasn’t trained to help these children, I did not know how to help.  I’d read and try to learn, but I was discouraged from implying to parents that something was out-of-sync with their child.  It was only under more extreme cases that we’d then meet with the parents with more than one teacher and representatives from administration.  What was even harder was when we’d have parents who’d do nothing once they were told to investigate the concerns we saw—without their help what was their future to bring?

My teaching was then interrupted when Atticus was born in the Fall of 1999.  For the first years of his life I stayed home with him.  It was around the age of one that I began to notice some unusual behavior.  For one, he moved constantly, a normal trait of children entering into toddlerhood, however, this movement was more frantic than most.  I wasn’t the only one that was exhausted, I could see how disorganized he was, how hungry for rest, only involving himself in a few choice activities and doing them again and agin.  He strewed things everywhere and never hesitated from winding a dizzying path in his wake.  He stopped taking naps and didn’t like to be held nor could he sit in my lap for more than a few seconds.  Then he started doing something that was particularly upsetting, he started head butting me, hard.  It hurt.

It was then that I began telling people closest to me about the red flags I saw.  I was deeply wounded when everyone around me did not see what I saw.  All my family members, including Atticus’ father, even the pediatrician, did not share my opinion.  I felt very alone during this long year from ages one to two.  I had no choice but to do what I could as everyone around pegged me as an overly concerned parent.  The confidence I had earned from my years as a teacher began to wane as I wondered and doubted myself.  I decided to delve in whole heartedly with Atticus and try to compensate. I set up the basement of our home like a Montessori classroom and began working with him for 30-45 minutes a day, teaching and observing his natural behavior and trying to come to a conclusion.  I worked with him both at home and out in public places like the park and with friends.  Many of my days ended in tears and frustration.  I’d take him to the grocery store or on errands, I had so many looks from other parents and comments like, ‘Why don’t you control your child’.  It was exhausting, he never sat still and grabbed onto everything and did not respond to consequences or even mild punishment like time outs or taking away privileges.  I began to notice that he’d ask me a question and I’d answer it but then he’d continue to repeat the question, again and again.  Was the answer being processed?  He began to get very disconcerted about any kind of variation from the order of things, if I drove another way home he’d be in an uproar and in tears.

Then nearing the three-year-old mark, my husband and I put him in a part time morning program at a University child developmental center in Colorado.  I figured what better place than at a University center where much new research and information was going in and coming out.  It was to be the beginning of a long road ahead of schools for Atticus that were not successful or productive places for him.  Before long we were being called into the office to speak with Atticus’ teacher and the principal.  They wanted to bring in a specialist from a non-profit organization created and funded for the purpose of early intervention for children with special needs.  These approaches lasted the rest of the school year at which time we were told that the school would no longer be able to accommodate Atticus because of his aggressive behavior toward other children that involved biting, pushing and head butting.  After many observations and unsuccessful approaches at both home and in the classroom we were encouraged to have a professional evaluation done.

I checked into The Children’s Hospital in Denver and arranged a battery of tests to be done.  It took a few months before Atticus could be seen.  So while we waited to have those tests done I took him to a local child development center where he had a speech pathologist and a occupational therapist evaluate him.  The speech therapist explained that Atticus’ receptive language skills were lacking and so we began weekly speech therapy sessions.  The occupational therapist also felt he needed to make important strides in both his gross and fine-motor developments.  I observed these things as well but it was often difficult to get him interested. He rarely pulled away from the few fixated activities he did, like lining up cars or other objects. The occupational therapist gave me a little brush for his skin intended for sensory-integration. We’d swing him in a swing and I also had a weighted vest made for him to wear—all of which was believed to help regulate his sensory imbalance. By that time I’d read many books on ADHD, sensory integration disorder, early onset bipolar and only a little bit about autism.

Before long it was time to visit the Children’s Hospital in Denver and after a battery of tests—psychological, social, psycho-motor, cognitive and physical—we received the results. All his physical tests were normal and his cognitive tests were better than average.  But, he was diagnosed with ADHD and possible early onset bipolar because of a history of it in the family. Once we had the paperwork we needed, we were able to register Atticus in a neighborhood preschool for special need’s kids.  The program also integrated normally developing preschoolers as well.  During this time Atticus was successful, but by the end of the year they told us that he wouldn’t qualify for special services anymore because his problems were not severe enough to warrant it. I was reluctant at this apparent push from the special needs circuit, but tried to grab onto the positive and trust that more successful school experiences were ahead.  Unfortunately Atticus’ progress was soon thwarted by the ill-effects of two wrong opinions and inappropriate drugs.

The Children’s Hospital recommended a psychiatrist who began Atticus on some medications for his ADHD.  The medication negatively aggravated his emotional state so we changed his medications and doses a few times until we found a combination that seemed to produce only some positive change. We continued to try medications but to no avail. Eventually we went to another psychiatrist who declared Atticus’ condition as not ADHD, by early onset bipolar. We began to try other combinations of drugs, all of which made the problem worse. Finally our son’s psychiatrist admitted he was not entirely clear what the problem was and suggested we get another opinion. Meanwhile, during all these pharmacological changes, Atticus was asked to leave four different schools he attended.  It was all a whirlwind, why we didn’t just put Atticus back in public school I’ll never know.  It was an absolute mistake despite the insistence by special services that he needed a more challenging environment.

It was then that I found a small, private, special-education school for Atticus for the summer.  This went well, and it was here that his teacher recommended a doctor for us to see in Evergreen.  Within two minutes of entering into his office he knew what was wrong, “Your son has autism.”  It was only then that I knew he’d made the cored diagnosis. I then said, “Actually, I’m relieved he doesn’t have bipolar disorder.”  To which the doctor gently replied, that if he had to decide as a parent, for one or the other, he’d chose bipolar disorder. “Autism,” he said, “is much more debilitating.”

A person with bipolar disorder, he explained, is able to experience a wide-range of emotions and, although difficult, can still connect with people. Autism, on the other hand, is like being cut off, in a bubble, and unable to see outside oneself.

I was relieved and devastated all at the same time.  At least we could offer a concentrated effort now that we’d tracked down an accurate conclusion after many years of tail chasing.  I finally felt like I could breathe, we’d begin a repertoire of medications (once again) meant to target the movement disorder.  Lo and behold, the medications finally worked.  They did not eliminate the problem, but for the first time ever, they made it possible to hold Atticus still in my arms, and for him to connect with other people.

By this time Atticus was back in another public school. This school was located on the other side of our neighborhood and had a special needs program that integrated children with autism throughout the school. Most of the teachers were trained to understand and help those student with autism. In the last two years, Atticus has finally become successful in school, he loves to go, and for the first time ever, he has positive support all around him—from peers to his homeroom teachers, even the school nurse.  He went this summer to a computer camp and made it through the course with relative ease.

It has been an overwhelming obstacle to get to where we are now.  I know that many parents of children with autism live day in and day out with much more severe variations of the disorder.  I have listened to them on forums and in classrooms and at lectures.  I have read about them in books, magazines and in interviews.  I have seen them on television and have met them at my child’s therapy. To anyone affected by autism, we owe an ear and a lending hand. For those us who do not have autism, it requires stepping into another person’s shoes.

People always say how loving Atticus is–if you help him with something, he loves you forever. Often he says to me, “Ah, Mom, you’re so sweet.”  Atticus would not be the person he is today without all the help he has received along the way. Even if will never be able to step inside my shoes, the shoes Atticus wears are big enough for the whole world. All the world needs to do is just try them on.