Melissa and I enjoyed the series “House,” about a medical doctor whose personality indicated some placement on the high functioning but socially impaired spectrum.
Sure could have used his help yesterday morning.
Joey was sitting on the couch, waiting for his bus. He’d been a bit non-cooperative about getting dressed and having breakfast. We was wiggling around and disarranging cushions to the point that I got off the couch in a foul mood.
The bus arrived and I went for the door, expecting Joey to follow me as usual. Instead, he went rubber legged and staggered toward the brick fireplace. It looked like a seizure underway.
I shot across the room and caught him. My voice went up – “Joey, are you OK? Are you OK?” My extra volume and agitation brought Melissa down the hall, and as it was early she was less than fully awake or fully happy with the noise.
I plopped Joey back on the couch.
“The bus is here,” Melissa pointed out.
“I know,” I contributed to no useful end.
I realized that Joey was alert, not at all appearing to be in seizure. “Joey, can you stand up?”
Up he jumped and we put him into his jacket and sent him aboard the bus.
Melissa and I, now both in less than chipper moods, held a diagnostic conference and agreed that he’d probably been sitting on his own legs and put them to sleep. That’s why he went lurching around the living room. No seizure. No need for loud or distressed outbursts by dad.
Dr. House always filled his white board with misdiagnoses before he finally recognized the real problem. So maybe I’m in good company. And maybe I’m on the spectrum, too. Or maybe I’m just a normal care giver, in over my head.