Love your books, hate you

Through a lot of wrangling and phone calls, I was able to get G. into the hallowed office of Dr. Autism, Foremost Expert on Everything. They had a cancellation and what usually took years ended up taking mere weeks. I was so excited it was incredible. This guy was the big gun in the diagnosis field, if there was something there, he saw it. I had read his books over and over, I quoted him at the dinner table and put many of his theories into practice in our home. Dr. Autism was also supposed to help me fix what was a growing rift between my husband and I about whether or not G needed any extra help at all. I made a deal with F that if Dr. A didn't see anything, my obsession with asd could come to an end.

The morning of the appt. brought miserable weather and a big ice storm was forecast for the afternoon. F was out of town, so everything was up to me. I trekked out to the doctor's office in rush hour traffic, fighting the mounting snow and poor directions. I was suprised by the waiting area--there was nothing in it that indicated it was anything other than a rarely used porch. We spent a few minutes in there and were ushered into the office.

The office was remarkable in that it was a perfectly preserved den from the 70's, complete with paneling and ugly furniture. After waiting with the kids going wild for what seemed like an eternity, the guru finally appeared through what appeared to be a door hidden in the paneling. I was confused at first, but my amazement at the good doctor's outfit overcame my confusion.

Wonder upon wonders, the exalted MD was wearing a MAROON VELOUR TRACK SUIT. My first thought was, where do you even buy something like that? My second thought was, how could you possibly think that was appropriate for the office? My father is a doctor, he was actually in the same class as Dr. Autism. Did their school somehow fail in instruction on sartorial matters? I sincerely doubt that. Even though he occasionally cuts wood in mesh tank tops (yikes!), I can assure you that wearing a velour suit, maroon or otherwise, has never crossed my father's mind. Especially not for public consumption--I think he would rather die than see patients in anything other than a white coat over a suit.

He began asking me questions and I answered kind of haphazardly, being still in a velour-induced daze. He then asked me to start playing with my son. I played for approximately 30 seconds when he informed me that it was all wrong. I tried again and was even more wrong the second time. I started to panic--it was an important test and I was failing. G felt my panic and became alternately clingly and withdrawn. Things got measurably worse after that. M decided to "assist" me and got in the way of every single thing I was trying to do. Then Dr. Autism began critiquing me on how I dealt with M. I was informed I was sorely lacking in that area as well.

After the "play" was over, he launched into a speech about how G's problems were all about me, that when my affect was up, G was normal. When it was down, he lapsed into developmental issues. I became terribly upset, my hero was telling me in effect that I was a terrible mother. He wanted G to see a therapist thousands of miles away, despite the fact that he saw nothing serious going on with him. He asked me to increase G's PT to 3x week for a year. When I balked at the cost, he said the following: "You wouldn't base your decision on money if he needed a liver transplant, would you?" Then he said that if my dad was in his class, he certainly had money enough by now to pay for his grandson's PT. In my mind, I told him off and left the office. In real life I sat there meekly, taking the chastisement of the expert. I practically slunk to the car and drove home in the beginning ice, feeling like a terrible mother all the way.

Against my better judgement, we went back to Dr. Autism a second time. I seriously wondered if I had minterpreted him and wanted F. to be there as well. It didn't go much better. Apparently when you visit him for the first appointment of the day, he just doesn't have time to comb his hair. F was very disappointed by the lack of velour tracksuit, but he was impressed by the unprofessionalism of the doctor's sweatshirt and old lounge pants. The evaluation cost nearly 1500 dollars and Dr. Autism ate couscous during it. He also took several phone calls and left once to use the bathroom.

He kept urging the two of us to tell G to crawl. He had me throw balls across the room and bounce up and down excitedly saying, "Get the ball, G!" F explained that G got a lot of PT for his gross motor delay and that yelling at him to come get the ball might be good in theory, but useless in practice since he was motorically unable to crawl or even get on all fours. Apparently, this statement of fact signaled a bad parental attitude and we received a long lecture on how our actions influence G. We also tried to explain that playing with your child in front of a critic is not a normal thing to do, and therefore our play was not really normal. It all fell on deaf ears.

He said that G appeared to be fine, even gifted in the language area. He also pretty much refused to answer whether or not he saw anything else going on. I understand the reluctance to make a call on babies, but I expected more from someone of his expertise and experience. I put up with critiques and abuse from him and I got nothing in return. But we were too afraid of getting another lecture to pursue an official yes or no, so we left.

As we left, I asked F whether or not Dr. Autism blamed me for G's issues. I waited for him to say that it was all in my head, that I was making too much out of things. "Yeah," he said. "He pretty much is saying that you are not doing well with G and that it has led to issues." He immediately added that he didn't believe it and that we were never going back again.

And we have not been back. But the waiting list for him still grows and grows. I feel sorry for the parents who have bought the books and bought into the dream, only to meet the man behind it. I have no doubt that his theories work and that he is sincere. But you think that a little bedside manner would have come out over the years. After all, he is working with parents whose dreams have died a little, who may never see their child do certain things we all take for granted.

This experience has really made me think about my father and the different choices he has made. My father may not have books or be internationally known, but he listens to people and cares about them. He dresses in a manner that shows his patients that is a professional who can be trusted, who is as meticulous with their health as he is with his ties. He sees people every day who have health problems of their own doing, but he doesn't level blame, only gives advice and encouragement. I am sorry he is not more well-known. He and others like him should be.