Vikings Don't Get Autism (and other little known facts)

Three little cubs: When I used to get them to wear sweaters..for at least five seconds... before they would rip them off, claiming they were "TOO ITCHY!!" Now they won't wear them at all. Preston, Idaho 2006

My oldest son Alex was diagnosed with autism on a hot October day in Scottsdale, Arizona, 2004. I remember coming out of the doctor’s office and being hit by a wave of nauseating heat, (I had to put the back of my hand up to my eyes to see past the bright, unforgiving sun). For a moment, I was blinded by the intensity of the rays and almost let Logan, our two year old, race unsupervised into the road. Luckily, my husband Russ caught him just as he was stepping off the curb and threw him up onto his shoulders. When I was able to see again, I grabbed our middle son Spencer’s hand in one of my own, and steadied him while I checked the parking lot for traffic. Then, I’d stretched towards Alex with my empty, beckoning hand, but he’d already moved beyond my reach, so all I grasped was empty air. And so, at different intervals, we stepped down from the sidewalk and moved towards our car. Somewhere in the middle of the road, the squiggly tar lines we’d thought looked like black mambas’ on the way into the doctors office, had melted and the back of my heel got stuck in the tar; my foot slipped out of my sandal just like Cinderella, and I made it all the way to our van before I noticed my shoe was caught in the place where the cracks were suppose to be held together.

What? Everybody looking AT THE SAME TIME??!! Will miracles never cease?
Our Family: Logan, Russ, Alex, Joanie & Spencer. January 2007

My youngest son Logan was diagnosed with autism on a blustery spring morning in Salt Lake City, Utah. He was pronounced autistic six and a half years after Alex was first diagnosed. After the trumpet-sounding-drum-roll-rolling-confetti-filled-moment-of-truth, that always encompasses the oh so lovely, “Your child has autism appointment,” we’d stopped to indulge in a breakfast of champions; we had enough change to buy two bags of cheetos in the lobby of the University of Utah autism clinic. We emerged from the mirror-walled building, clutching our vending machine treats and half empty cans of root beer and diet soda to our chests. Logan promptly climbed a concrete wall and jumped onto Russ’ back like a wild, untamed raptor. Russ and I stood there for a moment, quietly searching each other’s face for direction, the silence punctured by the sound of Logan ravishing Russ’ neck and the resulting, satisfied-raptor-devouring-human-meat shrieks that always accompany any good raptor attack. We stood, not speaking, pushing the gravel around with our toes, gripping our non-organic, gluten filled, orange dye number 6 cheetos, while we waited for my parents to meet us with our other two boys. The winter had come late that year; the grass was matted down with mud, and patches of dirty snow still covered the ground in the shady spots. In the end, my parents couldn’t find the building so we walked a little ways to meet them by the main road, Logan’s open bag of cheetos was flung about wildly as he continued his raptor attack on Russ, consequently, the little orange twigs spilled along the way, making a sort of Hansel and Gretel trail so we could find our way back. But when we looked over our shoulders, we saw that the circling crows had descended and swallowed whole every last cheesy bit before we’d even made it out of the parking lot, and so, we knew we were lost.

Over the last several years, Logan has insisted he’s part Viking. I don’t know if he latched onto this theory because my husband looks like a Viking (ex-college linebacker, minus the braids) or maybe because Russ had played football for a team whose mascot was the Vikings. I don’t know exactly why Logan made the association, but if you asked him why he thought he was part Viking he would tell you; “Well, first of all, I have a large hunger. One grilled cheese sandwich isn’t going to satisfy a hunger as large as mine. Second of all, I have a Viking temper. I think it’s in my DNA or something, because part of my blood thinks it’d be cool to do some, I don’t know, plundering…or just ram some ships, I don’t think I’d even feel bad about doing it. I think it would be fun.”  Not to mention, when Logan first came up with his theory, Russ had listened to his thoughts, creasing his brow, then nodding his head in approval, declared, “You know Loggy Bear, you do look a little Vikingish to me.” And so Logan’s heritage became and unarguable fact. He would peer in his sack lunch and if it didn’t meet his warrior standards, he would look up at me, scowl, and pointing in the bag say, “Mom, are you forgetting? Large hunger!!!!” And at the beginning of the school year, when Logan’s teacher asked the students, “What’s one thing I should know about you?” He didn’t say he liked the color blue, had a dog named Boo, or that his favorite food was pizza. No, Logan promptly and directly informed her, “Well, you should know I have a large temper because of my Viking DNA.”

Living the dream in our beloved Sea World San Diego! Summer 2004

 

We didn’t tell Logan about his autism diagnosis right off the bat, partly because Alex was still trying to find the “up side” of having autism without much success (If God loves me so much like you say He does, why did He give me a brain that doesn’t work right?) and consequently, autism wasn’t exactly a hopeful word in our house. Besides, I think maybe we needed a few moments to clear our throats, swallow past the choking sadness, and finger the sorrows that seemed to fill our pockets, each one heavy like a stone. We’d cup them as we walked, keep them from banging against our thighs, thinking how smooth and solid they were; nothing like sand at all. I’m sure we’d wished the seams of our pockets would give out under the strain and let our sorrows slip, every last one, by the side of the road unnoticed, to settle in the dust for someone else to kick when they walked by. 

Ultimately, the stitches held.

We weren’t ashamed that Logan had autism, or, really even angry….not this time around anyway. We were just tired. So we waited, until one night, when I knew it was time to talk to Logan. We went in his bedroom, laid on the bottom bunk together and pulling him to me I said, “How come you think you are different than the other kids?” “Because,” He answered, shrugging his shoulders, “I have autism.” “Why do you think you have autism?” I asked, “Because my teacher told me I do.” “What did you tell your teacher when he said you had autism?” (I was under the impression they knew we hadn’t talked to Logan yet) “I said I wasn’t mean enough to have autism.” (Did I mention Alex likes to tease Logan?) “Then what happened?” I wanted to know. “My teacher said he wasn’t trying to make me feel bad, and that autism was just a different way of seeing things. But I kept telling him, ‘no I don’t have autism’ over and over, until finally I just had to accept it,” “and how did you feel when you accepted it?” I wondered. “I don’t know, maybe a little bit like my heart was ripping.” I held him then, with his head tucked under my chin so he couldn’t see my face. Held him while he pressed against the sorrows in my pocket, pushing them deep into my flesh.

(Okay, I will show you BOTH shots of Alex wearing a sweater, all in one post!
This is like spotting a Giant Panda in the wild!!! In the next picture frame, he's ripping
it off. I believe we bribed him with pizza?) December 2009

Spencer came in from where he’d been listening at the door and lay next to us on the bed. After a moment, he started to tickle Logan, so Logan grabbed Spencer and in no time they were rolling around on the floor, laughing and fighting like brothers do. I remember thinking how ordinary it all seemed, how life (trite though it is to even say it) continues, relentlessly continues. Later that night Spencer, who considers himself a self appointed third parent, climbed into my lap, laid his head against my heart and reached his arm around me to pat my back in a consoling manner, then he said, “Well, I think we handled that well.”

The next morning, as I was flipping pancakes Logan, still rumpled with sleep, walked up to me and said, “You know I’ve been thinking, and this really can’t be right mom.” “What can’t be right?” I asked. “Me having autism,” he said. “Why do you think it can’t be right?” I wondered while sliding six fat pancakes onto a paper plate. “Because I’m a Viking” he said determinedly, grabbing a pancake, “And Vikings don’t get autism.”