My Andrew

Chris and I had a wonderful second honeymoon, and while I have done my best to blog about it, I just can't seem to get my son Andrew out of my head as the subject for this particular blog.

Oh, my Andrew. Andrew was born almost exactly nine months after my dad died. I cannot begin to write the extent of what my dad meant to me, and what he still means to me. He was the type of dad that other kids clung to right along with me, and he somehow managed to love and care for them in a way that didn't alienate me from him or from my friends. He was a gentle soul, full of strength, integrity, and wisdom. And he never let me think for a second that I was anything but a beautiful, valuable person, and a daughter whom he was always proud to call his own. He was taken too soon, although I do not begrudge God for doing so. He could not have better company than my dad.

We found out that we were pregnant with Andrew just a few weeks after dad's death, and this news provided us with an unexpected balm to our spirit. I knew that it would be a boy, and I also knew that he would be named after Dad. Stephen didn't seem like the right first name though, so we went instead with Andrew, named both for our friend Andy and for the disciple who I feel was dad was most like.

Andrew Stephen Tiner came 3 1/2 weeks early, my labor starting while Chris was in another state at a youth workers conference. Chris was able to hop on a plane and make it in time for most of the labor and of course the birth. He was a beautiful blond boy, although a little red from being so early. From the start he was a very easygoing baby, snuggly, and full of smiles.

His easygoing nature sometimes proved to be a crutch for me during my months of depression and marital crisis. He didn't ask for the attention that I'm sure he needed, although we later found that this ability to play independently without seeking attention was a strange sign of disability.

People ask me what made us think Andrew was autistic. As an educator, autism is something I have come into contact with on a yearly basis with various students who are on various levels of the autism spectrum. Whether this opened my eyes to it earlier, I'm not sure. But the biggest wakeup call for us was the day we thought Andrew might be deaf. It didn't matter if we were in front of him, or all the way across the house...he wouldn't respond to his name. He wouldn't respond to most words. He didn't notice the many planes that flew over head throughout the day, as we lived near the Fort Lewis air base. He didn't notice dogs barking, or bees buzzing. He didn't notice a lot.

So we had his hearing checked, and I prepared myself for having a deaf child.

But the hearing test came back normal, the audiologist assuring us that his hearing was perfect. As the days went on, we realized that while he seemed deaf most of the time, he would come running when the bath water was turned on, even if he was in a completely different room. He would march to the beat during his favorite cartoons. He seemed to recognize a lengthy list of songs just by the opening measure.

But he still wouldn't respond to his name but rarely. He still had difficulty speaking. He could sign "more", "please", and would say ball if prompted. But he would not name people, even "mama", and didn't understand simple directions unless they were in song form. While he would play alongside other kids, he didn't seem to understand group dynamics, and usually would retreat to another room if too many children were present.

I was told by many people, and rationalized myself, that all of these things could simply be explained by his being a second child born after an extremely verbal firstborn. We got him into speech therapy, which he easily qualified for. After months of no progress, our speech pathologist suggested that we might look into having him screened for autism.

My limited experience with autism, and the stereotypes that society still places on the disorder sent me into a state of panic. I feared for my child, and feared for what the diagnosis would mean.

But as two months came and went, and we saw increasingly more of the characteristics of autism emerge from our darling boy, the diagnosis that seemed inevitable felt more like something to hope for, rather than to fear. And it came quickly. On January 23, Andrew was diagnosed with autism, and my perception of his future was altered.

My beautiful, affectionate boy has so many strengths. He is still affectionate and loves to be held close. His soul is a musical one. His language is song. His movement is dance. He will say "wuv-oo" when I tell him that I love him. He sometimes greets his sister with "Hah, sissy!" He confirms "A-num-num-num-num" when he is eating a meal he likes.

But there are days when his eyes seem clouded, and I know on those days it will be hard to connect with him. On these days, he's more repetitious in his quirks, more picky with his food, more limited in his language, and more prone to run. He flaps more, spins more, and throws more tantrums when change occurs that he dislikes.

But he is making progress. We took a trip to the zoo last year at this time before he was diagnosed and it is was a very troubling experience. Andrew didn't notice the animals. Not the big ones, not the little ones, not the loud ones, not the quiet ones. He didn't notice them if they were up high in the trees, or swimming right in front of him. And he was nearly two years old.

We went just a couple of weeks ago, and I was ecstatic to see that he not only noticed the animals, he was INTERESTED in them! His interest was held the entire time we were there, which was a huge step.

Just now he looked at me and said, "What are you doing? What are you doing?" Both Chris and I stared at him in amazement. I answered, "I'm on the computer. What are you doing?" He answered back, "What are you doing, what are you doing?" And so our conversations go. He will at times say perfectly worded sentences at the correct times, but seems completely disinterested or confused by the response. I feel that he is in there, somewhere, able to hold rational conversations with another human being, rather than just mimicking back what he was prompted with. I just don't know if we have the resources or even the ability to pull him out.

Developmental steps are never a given with Andrew. The spectrum limits some things while opening up wildly advanced talents in others. So we cheer each victory as though it is the first, and pray that we find the door to open for him to reach the next. And we also pray that he doesn't lose what he already has. I hold him closely for fear that the next day he may refuse to be touched. I wonder if he will ever really have a friend.

He is so beautiful, so precious, and oftentimes will reduce me to tears with the look in his eyes. I treasure the times he looks at me, particularly when he repeats back, "Wuvoo."

As a mother, I am torn by conflicting desires in that people would treat Andrew with the same love and consideration that they would treat a "normal" child while sometimes wishing for him to wear an "Autistic" label on his shirt to explain his sometimes bizarre behavior. This I know would be an incredibly cruel punishment to him, but it sure feels like a good idea when I hear other kids calling him crazy, or other parents giving amazingly inconsiderate observations on the overall weirdness of my child. And he's still not three...I have difficulty thinking of what they will say when he's older. I've been told I should use it as an opportunity to educate the other person about autism...the words are difficult to find when my heart is breaking over what feels so cruel, particularly as my son has yet to seem to come close to understand. In that sense, perhaps autism is a blessing in disguise, protecting my child from the hurt that words would quickly bring to a child who understood.

And now he'll be starting a pre-school for kids with developmental disabilities in the fall. I was his Sunday School teacher today, and I know why he needs to go. While the other kids were sitting, he was dancing to his own song, repeating some sort of routine, and giggling at something that none of us could understand.

Please pray for my son. Please pray for my husband and I as parents. We are his advocates, his champions, his life-long guardians. Pray that we will neither hold him back nor ever stop looking for ways of helping him when he needs it. Please pray for those who work with him...for their patience and understanding, and for a similar desire of ours for him to find and develop his strengths and to improve upon his weaknesses.

And pray that in a way which only God can bring about, he will know Christ, and find comfort from him when life, as it often will, becomes overwhelming and confusing.

We love him so much, and are so blessed by his presence in our lives.