Word: nated
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When my 47-year-old husband Fred lay dying in a hospital from a heart attack, I sobbed to my brother, "He can't die. Who will give Nate his shots?" Nate was our autistic son, then 5, and the injections were one of the myriad can't-miss cures we had tried in order to help...
...husband died that night seven years ago, and I felt it was the end of the world for me, for our newly adopted 10-week-old son Joey and, most of all, for Nate, whose strongest connection was to Fred...
...learned to inject Nate. And when I decided a few months later that the shots weren't helping him, the decision to stop seeing that doctor (a doctor who had told Fred and me that Nate wasn't autistic and that he could cure him) was the most difficult one I had ever made without Fred...
...most difficult, that is, until I decided two years ago to send Nate to a residential school...
...enrolled Nate in the Boston Higashi School in Randolph, Mass., because I knew he was now capable of more (though I had no idea what "more" was). After years of day school followed by speech, occupational and behavior therapy, Nate had no master plan connecting everything. And I constantly worried that his ritualistic behaviors--like his insistence on sitting in the same seat in the last row of the city bus and crawling over anyone to get there--were never going to decrease...