The first step backwards

Mummy wanted to tell you we were going to see a nice lady today. I wanted you to know that you were going to see a nice doctor. I don’t really know why. Something in me wants you to work with us on this. I don’t want to trick you into all the achievements you make. And I want you to see that doctors are going to help you so much and they are all nice people. We are going to need lots of them and lots of help.

We parked in the back of the house Mummy grew up in, Sheshet Hayamim 14. We put the car in the car park behind the building where she used to play when she was your age. It is ugly and dirty now, a skip for the supermarket wide open at the back with poor people coming raiding it for only partially-rotten fruit they could buy for a shekel across the road in the market and not risk disease. It made me think that somewhere in all this we were very lucky. You have a mum and dad who love you more than life itself. We have a bit of money and an ability to pay for the best treatments and advice. And you have a daddy who will do whatever it takes to give you everything in this world. The same as I planned to do when I came here to bring you up on the beach with kites and sandcastles and football in the park. We’ll still have all those things, and I’ve just become more determined than ever to stick to that plan.

We walked to the clinic and you stopped in front of me and ask me to “go up”, so I lifted you on my shoulders. You buried your hands behind my neck so I could never lift you down again. Very sly. Then when you saw the clinic you dismounted, sliding down my back like I was part of your playground and you ran to the door. I’m glad you liked it that much the first time, and you ran around like a madman counting the numbers on the doctors’ doors. I was impressed that you remembers that there was “five alef” down the bottom of the stairs. Quite a memory, but I suspect just the tip of the iceberg. You found the play room at the back and grabbed the sponge ball. You kicked it for a bit, and then picked it up and ran over to the basketball hoop, slammed it in the hole and exclaimed with joy “miskhak kadursal”. In all of this, you’re just a little boy who loves football and basketball like his daddy. We’ll have a lot of hoops to shoot in future, and if you think I’m going to cut you any slack, well that would be just plain foolish.

The psychologist covered pretty much the same topics as before with Dr Pozner. You loved the room, there were so many toys and you flitted back and forth, they all ended up on the floor but you were such a good boy. I tried to play with you, the psychologist saw you putting a little boxing glove on so she said we should play fight. I even told you for the one and only time in your life you could punch me on the nose. But you didn’t, and I think I need to remind you that the offer have been removed. You were just as good as before, but tired, and when we had to go you went into a little tantrum. The doctor offered you a balloon exchange for the big toy you were trying to steal, but I sensed a nightmare ahead. You and balloons always end in tears, you try and burst them, then you ask me to put them back together. I’m good, but not that good. We blew up the balloon and let it fly off for a bit and you thought it was hilarious, though when we really had to go you went into meltdown mode. You wanted an orange balloon and all the way home we had tears rolling down your face.

I was rattled by the psychologist. As positive as I was after the doctor on Tuesday, I was deflated after seeing her today. She just asked all the same questions as Dr Pozner, though she didn't try and interact with you herself very much, she just let me do it. She's got two more sessions to work through a big checklist. I'm not sure whether it was the fact that you were very tired after the lack of sleep last night, or the fact that she seemed to say we wouldn't get a nursery place till the next school year in September, or the fact that I want to get started helping you and I don't have any tools.

After your tears in the car, I was a little shaken when I came home, a little down. I called my mum and told her that some books were coming to her and that she should read as much as she could before putting a package in the post for me. I told her about the meeting with the psychologist, and said I didn’t know if I wanted her to catch you on a good day or a bad one. Did I want her to find you as wonderful as I do, or did I want her to see a huge manifestation of problems that only appear occasionally so we can have the full weight of the health service thrown at us? I guess my head sees the latter as more helpful. We’re going to need everything we can get our hands on at this stage.

We picked mummy up from her new office today. It’s much closer to home and that will help us no end. She spoke to her boss again today and explained how important to her you are and how she will do everything to help you. He agreed. I hope Mummy's boss doesn't get upset when she needs to do the things she needs to do to help you grow up into a little smasher.

Mummy has been reading the first few pages of the book and she has said how hopeful she is about everything. She translated a few bits for me, about how the DIR/Floortime method needs to be tailored to each child, and how the results can be amazing. She read me the story of David, who was diagnosed just a little younger than you, who had similar symptoms, though I suspect is more severely affected. She explained the huge progress he made with special attention, and you are going to get lots. I’ve got a lifetime to give.

She explained to me how people used to think that people diagnosed with autism couldn’t love, couldn’t form human attachments, couldn’t empathise. We looked at each other and we knew what the other was thinking. You know exactly what love is. You love me so much, more than any kid I have ever seen love his daddy. If that is not love, well, as your mummy says, then I’m a cookie-jar. And if that love you show me is a blip for the statistics, or one in the eye for the theorists, so be it. And you love your mummy as much as she could ever dream of too. I’ve no idea how, since you are supposed to be unable to attach to people. And when we leave, you are so sad. You call out for us to come back, you cry tears of love, not anger. You run to me and say “Mummy gone, where's Mummy, Mummy where are you?” like you might never see her again. Then she told me that they now think that some children do form attachments and it is entirely comparable to children without autism.

I went to the basketball tonight. I was going to talk to Eyal, the person you first smiled at when we were at the Final Four in Prague, a big beaming toothless smile as I sang you Beatles songs. But just for a couple of hours I fancied talking about Maccabi’s brilliant offense, laughing and clapping and cheering and singing. I thought of you in your Maccabi t-shirt, and the game this morning in the clinic where you just kept dunking and saying “Accabi Vishy”, and tonight in the car when I told you I was going to the game, and you said “Accabi Tel Aviv”, you said it properly. I was so proud. My brainwashing is certainly working. We’ll go together every Thursday soon, a couple more years and we’ll get you a season ticket. You can go and sit with all the crazies in Gate 11 though. I saw you at the football, running around clapping like a lunatic. I’ll be far too stressed to sit next to you, just buy a drum and go sit with the Ultras.

Mummy said you were an angel walking home from Safta’s, she didn’t need a buggy. She told you that you needed to go home and you didn’t run off, didn’t drop to the floor and dangle. You just came home like a good little boy. And then, when you got to the door and opened it to see I wasn’t at home you cried and cried. You called for me, you asked for me. If that isn’t love, well, I’ll take it any day of the week.