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Opinion
I have two unique perspectives on autism disorder: one from my role as a pediatric physical therapist working with children with various diagnoses, including ASD, and one as the parent of an adult son with autism (he's 31).
When my son Eric was first diagnosed with autism in 1993 at the age of two, I was devastated. Though I was aware of Eric's change in behavior and loss of language, I never suspected autism. The diagnosis was confusing to me: I thought children with autism were robotic, cold, and did not like to be touched, implying a lack of being able to love or be loved. Eric loved being held, being swung around, and rough-and-tumble play.
After we learned of Eric's diagnosis, I became consumed with reading and researching about this strange condition, absorbing all the depressing and alarming statistics. It was painful to go to work as a pediatric physical therapist and see children happily playing and interacting with others, then go home to see Eric avoid eye contact, spinning pan lids, or sifting sand for hours without seeming to be aware I was with him, while I desperately was trying to interact or make him say even one word.
I tried to carry on with life as normal for the sake of my other two children. Driving from school to school became my time to be with my emotions. I felt as if I had lost my child for much of that...