Perseverance - 1. Perseverance

Something was wrong with Davey. And I had no idea what. Neither did the slew of specialists I’d taken my son to over the past few months. I felt like I was on an out-of-control roller coaster, careening toward an unfinished drop-off. I hoped like hell we could stop it before we reached the end.

I propped my head up with a pillow and reached for my iPad. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months and figured tonight wouldn’t be any different. I tapped the button to access my videos and chose one of the recordings I took on our vacation to the Adirondacks last summer. Davey loved camping. Hiking was a good way to use up a lot of his energy. Keeping up with my hyperactive, autistic son forced me to stay in shape.

The screen lit up with the vibrant green of the northlands forest, sunlight streaming into the clearing I’d found—a good spot to stop and break for lunch.

Davey paced in circles around the small space, waving his hands. “Twelve o’clock. Time for lunch. Today’s Tuesday, July seventeenth. Peanut butter and jelly. Twelve o’clock. Peanut butter and jelly. And corn chips. Time for lunch,” he said in a sing-song voice, over and over.

“Davey, look over here. Where are we?”

He ran over to me and stopped right in front of the iPad—his face so close to the camera only his caramel-brown eye and flushed, red cheek were visible. “Adirondack National Park. Indian Lake. Tuesday, July seventeenth, two thousand eighteen.”

“Back up a bit, buddy, so we can see your face.”

He took a step backward, and I did the same. He smiled and looked past the iPad instead of directly at it. “It’s twelve o’clock. Lunchtime.”

“Yes, it is. This is Alan and Davey, signing off, so we can eat our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

The video playback stopped. I sighed and closed my eyes, remembering what happened next.

I sat on a log and unpacked our sandwiches and chips. “Here you go, Davey. Come sit next to me.”

He ran over and plopped down in front of me, sitting cross-legged. I broke off a piece of peanut butter and jelly sandwich and placed it, along with a few corn chips, on a plate and handed it to him. He grabbed it and stuffed it all in his mouth at once, then held out the plate to me.

“Easy there, bud. Remember to eat one thing at a time.” If I gave him an entire plate of food, it would be gone in about thirty seconds flat. That was a lesson learned the hard way, after he choked on a chicken nugget he failed to chew, and I had to call 911. I placed another bite of sandwich on the plate and decided to wait on the chips. It still took less than ten minutes for him to finish everything.

After resting a few more minutes, I stood. “Ready to go?”

Davey ran over to me and hugged me clumsily. “I love you, Davey. You, too.” He let go and walked quickly toward the trail. Even though he said his own name, I knew he meant me. He frequently mixed up names and pronouns. Once I recovered from my shock, I had to run to catch up to him, letting the wind dry my happy tears.

It was the only time he ever said he loved me.

I opened my eyes and grabbed a tissue from the box on the nightstand. Davey had started changing only a couple of months after that trip. Watching the video only drove home how much he’d deteriorated.

Davey did everything fast—eating, speaking, walking. It was exhausting. He talked constantly. The technical term is “echolalia”. He repeated everything he heard, which meant I had to watch what I said. That was another lesson learned the hard—and embarrassing—way.

About two months after our trip, Davey slowed down. It started gradually. At first, I thought I was getting in better shape, since I was able to keep up with him easier. Then, I found myself having to slow my own steps in order to walk with him. That’s when I started noticing other things. He talked less—sometimes not at all. I’d ask him a question and he’d stare at me instead of answering. I thought maybe he wasn’t feeling well, so I took him to the doctor.

Puberty. The fucker actually had the nerve to blame it on puberty. He said there was nothing physically wrong with him and recommended a follow-up in six months. I immediately looked for recommendations for other doctors who specialized in treating people with autism. The answers I got from them weren’t much better. So here I was, feeling like I was on that damn roller coaster.

I’d never forget what the last “expert” had told me. I balled my hands into fist and clenched my teeth. Thinking about it made my blood boil.

“Your son has experienced a psychotic break. Sometimes the symptoms manifest as a withdrawal into one’s self. The mind just snaps—there’s no known cause or cure. People who already have a mental defect are at higher risk. All we can do is treat the symptoms.”

Mental defect.

Snapped.

No.

I knew my son. The doctor’s diagnosis of schizophrenia was wrong. I knew it in my bones. I refused to fill the plethora of hardcore anti-psychotic medications the quack had prescribed.

And continued my search for answers.

I found a promising lead in an online support group for single parents of autistic children a couple of weeks ago. One of the members highly recommended a doctor in a neighboring state. I called right away and was lucky enough to get an appointment next week. I was trying not to get my hopes up, but desperately hoped this guy would give us the key to Davey’s issues.

I yawned and stretched. I needed to stop these thoughts and try to get some sleep.

Throwing the covers off, I sat upright, my heart pounding. I’d had one hell of a nightmare. My son was being attacked by velociraptors and screaming his head off. What can I say? I had a strange subconscious. Or maybe it was because Davey loved dinosaurs and watching the Jurassic Park movies.

I decided I might as well take a piss as long as I was up, so I stood and started walking toward the bathroom. My blood ran cold when I heard Davey scream—the same sound from my nightmare. I darted down the hall and into my son’s room. He writhed on the bed, screeching and hitting his head with his hand repeatedly.

I ran to him and grabbed his arm. “Davey! Stop!” It took all my strength to stop him from hurting himself. I’d never seen him like this before. Fear flooded through me—I had no idea what the fuck was happening. And my fucking cell phone was on my fucking nightstand in my fucking bedroom. Fuck.

I needed help.

I let go of Davey and ran to my bedroom, snatched up my cell phone, and continued back to my son’s room. I managed to call 911 while keeping him from hurting himself.

I paced up and down the hallway of the hospital’s psych ward, wondering if I could share a room with Davey. If my blood pressure didn’t kill me first, that is. Fucking doctors. The ER doc had taken one look at Davey’s history and pumped him full of sedatives, then shipped him off to the looney bin, despite my objections.

Now I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t bear to see Davey restrained in his bed, catatonic from all the crap they pumped into him.

“Mr. Grantham?”

I stopped pacing and faced the young man addressing me. “Yes, I’m Alan Grantham.”

The man smiled and held out his hand. “I’m the resident on duty today, Dr. Green. I’m here to check on David.”

I shook his hand briefly. Great. He looked like he was barely out of high school. “Look… I know you have a job to do, but Davey’s not crazy. Something is very wrong with him and nobody can figure out what!”

“I’ve reviewed your son’s history, but let’s go sit down and you can fill in some of blanks, then I’ll examine Davey.”

I nodded. “Yeah, sure. OK.”

We headed to a small office, and I repeated everything we’d been through since Davey first started changing. Dr. Green made a lot of notes as I talked and asked questions occasionally. He frowned when I described what had happened last night and Davey’s horrible screaming. For the first time, I felt like I was being taken seriously.

We headed into Davey’s room, and Dr. Green performed a physical exam, which included shining a penlight into his eyes and checking his reflexes. He turned to the nurse assisting him. “Alice, when was he catheterized?”

“About an hour ago. I’ve emptied it once. His bladder was really full.”

Dr. Green frowned and turned to his computer and quickly typed something. “Mr. Grantham, I’d like to send Davey for some tests.”

I nodded. “What kind of tests?”

“A CT scan and lumbar puncture, and possibly an MRI.”

“Lumbar puncture? Is that really necessary?”

“It might be, depending on the results of the scan.”

I stared at him and realized this was the first person to take Davey’s symptoms seriously. “You suspect something, don’t you.”

He hesitated before responding. “I don’t want to say for sure until we have the results, but I’m guessing you’re right about your son not having a mental illness.”

“Thank you,” I replied, my voice shaking. “You’re the first doctor who’s taken me seriously.”

He smiled. “I have a brother with autism. I know how hard it can be to get answers when something’s wrong.”

I nodded and turned toward Davey. I brushed his hair back from his forehead and kissed him. “You’ll be OK, bud.”

Dr. Green returned an hour later with the results of the testing.

Encephalitis.

Swelling of the brain.

It had a name.

Davey wasn’t crazy.

And neither was I.

And it was treatable. I was getting my son back.