His name was Davey, age 5, when he used to live "at home". Now he's 50 and named David and lives "in a home".
In our family photo album there are pictures of him playing a favorite game. We called it "Bang the Car". He called it nothing since he couldn't talk.
He still can't. He can say "Ma" and "Ba" which is short for "Mom" and "Ball".
Balls were central to his next favorite pastime: flicking an inflated ball next to his ear, for hours.
My Mom let him do it since this meant that he wouldn't be peering around corners to see if he could run off to break something, preferably a window but anything made of glass would satisfy the shattering experience his neurology craved.
Davey was the youngest of us four.
The oldest son was "normal" but troubled and liked to set fire to stuff. He grew into sexual disfunction and had a first-born son with the same spectrum disorder. More on my nephew later since research and care has made a man of him. There's hope in this story.
Next born, sister, non-diagnosed Asperger's. Better living could have been through chemistry but she suffered shuffling and shunning and shame. My parents were narcissists.
Then came me. I was always the one to order the pizza for a dysfunctional home. (I was spared the gene somehow. As have been my kids. Luck of the draw?)
Then Davey. My Mom's baby.
One day, my Mom took Davey to a barber shop and in the blink of an eye, he went to shatter something gleaming. My Mom took off after him but slipped and broke her knee. When we got home from school, she was suffering on the sofa but got up to make us "snack". We knew life had changed.
My Dad committed Davey while my Mom was in the hospital. This broke her heart.
He was put in Greystone, somewhere in New Jersey, an assault on humanity.
When we went to pick him up on weekends, we walked into rooms with sorry souls rocking in corners, or kids who had spread their feces on walls, with non-attendant attendants, and it was very frightening for me, much less my little brother, Davey. He had to live there. My heart is still breaking.
What kind of life?
In his "home", all he wants to do is paint for hours. But "they" won't let him. He's on the assembly line. Assembling. What goes thru his head? Day after day...
As an adult, I became his legal guardian per my Mom's request. But the last time I visited him, he got so sexually excited by me that he kept striking his epiletic-necessitated helmet that I had to bow out. The State will not allow him medication to eliminate his sex drive. He has to live with not understanding another in a series of frustrations. How can I see him again?
If only Davey had been born 40 years later. I used to change his cloth diapers with pins. He didn't liked to be touched. Wish I could somehow touch him now.
Apparently, Autism is on the rise. But so is treatment.
Back to my 23 yr-old nephew. Thanks to his Dad, and California, this kid will not live a life on an assembling line. He will know he has limits but will be allowed to dream and live beyond.
You can read more from Susie on her blog.
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