After you were born, I worried about your mother. I would call every day and ask her how you were, and every day she would say the same thing: "Sam is perfect." And that made me worry.
Sam, nobody is perfect. Each of us has imperfections that make us different from anyone else. I was afraid that if Debbie went on believing you were perfect, she would be hurt someday when your different-ness, whatever it was, became visible. And I was afraid that you would be hurt too.
That's why I struggled when I first noticed some unusual things that were happening in your development. You were about fourteen months old when I noticed that you weren't yet talking. You didn't seem to be paying attention to us when we talked to you. I thought there was a problem, but I didn't know how to tell your mother. What if I was fretting about problems that didn't exist? If I conveyed my anxiety to Debbie, I knew she would take my concerns seriously. But was that really fair? Why worry her unnecessarily if, in fact, I was just imagining things?
Despite these reservations, I finally did tell your mother about my concerns. Of course, she and your father had both felt something was wrong, but like any parents, they hoped that they were just imagining things and that you would be fine.
At first we thought you might be deaf. I actually hoped that was the problem, because the other possibilities were so frightening: this could be a brain abnormality, mental retardation, or -- autism. We banged pots and pans when you weren't looking, and often you did not turn around. But when we had your hearing tested, we found out it was just fine.
Then there were intelligence tests, behavior assessments, physical exams. Of course, we went to the best professionals we could find. The label they came up with was PDD -- pervasive developmental disorder -- which places you on the autism spectrum. The label alone didn't tell us much, but at least it gave us an explanation for the way you were acting. And though there are many things we do not know about this disorder, there are some things we do know.
Sam, you are adorable. I mean off-the-charts cute. Your smile can melt anybody's heart, and you are most capable of giving and receiving a great deal of love. All of these things will help you in your life. I also know how much you love me and how much you like to sit on my lap and ride with me in my wheelchair. These things will help me in my life! So now we know that you have your own personality, spirit, and soul, and that you improve the lives of those around you.
But we need to know more.
When you were first diagnosed, your parents and I did everything we could to find out about PDD and autism. We learned that this disability inevitably steals something from children. We also learned that PDD would interfere with your ability to be flexible and to pick up social cues, as well as your fine motor dexterity. And we saw that you would have difficulty with too much stimulation. You would need some things in perfect order so that you could feel safe.
Autism has the power to steal opportunities for contact, intimacy, and love. In a strange paradox, if your autism were more severe, the opportunities you lose might hurt you less. But because your autism is not so severe, you may realize that you lack important skills for connecting with other people -- you may be aware you are different, and that awareness may cause you pain. And because you have wonderful parents and family who love you, they will share your pain. Already I see the hurt your parents feel when you behave differently from your playmates.
So why do I tell you this?
Sam, I want you to know that being different is not a problem. It's just being different. But feeling different is a problem. When you feel different, the feeling can actually change the way you see the world.