Phil, the barber

Doctors, dentists, barbers — none are going to get very close to C's head. He ducks and lurches, bobs and weaves like Ali. His anxiety and sensitivity are so profound, in fact, that dental work requires general anesthesia.

That's why we're so grateful for Phil.

Phil works at our local barbershop. He's a sturdy middle-aged man, taciturn except for a few words delivered with a Ukranian accent. He has deep-set blue eyes, close-cropped gray hair, and large hands that belie their fluid dexterity.

And he's the one stranger C lets near his head.

The first time C had his hair cut by Phil, I preemptively let him know that C was a little different and might be a tricky customer. Phil said only, "Yes, yes, I know," and got to work.

Well, C did his usual ducking and weaving, dodging and bobbing, but somehow through it all Phil was able to deliver a haircut. And not any haircut, but a damn fine haircut. Wherever C's head went, Phil's scissors followed, like a small bird relentlessly stalking elusive prey. He stayed cool through it all, even chuckling a bit at C's giggling and wiggling. (Quite different from another barber's running, muttering commentary about C's behavior.)

We've seen Phil several times, and C has grown quite comfortable with him — so much so that his antics are much more subdued now. Not reacting seems to be a winning strategy after all.

The best part, however, is Phil's obvious affection for C. As I said, he's a man of few words, but I see his smile broaden ever so slightly when C hops into his chair.

Phil still hasn't gotten near C's neck with the trimmer, though. Maybe next time.

...

Postscript: I started writing this post after our last visit to the barber. During that time, a few people shared a wonderful story about a barber who went to incredible lengths to give his young autistic customer a haircut. Here's to this barber, Phil, and all the other people who go the extra mile for our kids.

Feeling understood

C recently asked to go to the museum "to see the pretty pictures." Mind blown. So off we went.

In the first gallery, it became apparent he was less interested in the paintings themselves than when they were painted. He'd regard each painting for just a moment, then scrutinize the information tag posted nearby, before moving on.

"That one is 442 years old. This one is 377."

An older woman nearby seemed interested in his observations. With warmth she said, "He loves the dates, doesn't he!"

"It appears so," I said.

She smiled broadly and said, "Well that's lovely." Then she ventured, "His math is a little off, but it's wonderful to see someone so young interested in history."

"Oh, his math is right," I said. "You see, he insists it's 2167, not 2015. So this painting from 1790 is, in fact, 377 years old in his world."

Her smile faded momentarily, and then it returned with a slightly knowing tinge to it. "Ooooh, I seeeeee."

"Yup."

"Well, he's a very special little boy."

"Yes, he is. Thank you."

I used to feel compelled to tell people about C's autism. Now I rarely do, unless I think there's a valid reason for them to know.

But sometimes people just get it, and that's the best.

A drawing by a friend

Sean Gallagher is many things to our family: friend, confidante, supporter, neighbor...emergency contact! He's also one of the grownups in C's life who always takes him in: when Sean visits, he gets down on C's level and greets him with great affection and humor, and C loves him for it (as do we, of course). So I was incredibly honored when Sean asked if he could do a drawing of C. But then I was blown away when I saw the drawing itself: a sublime portrait of C singing. Gratitude aplenty. Thank you, Sean.

To see more of Sean's work, visit his website.

Sensory-seeking

Sometimes extreme sensory-seeking is a hassle. It means crashing into things, knocking things over, chewing everything in sight — even Dad's favorite chair.

But sometimes-sensory seeking means bear hugs, tightly held hands, and experiencing the pure joy of a stucco wall.

The right kind of help

An anecdote I read in NeuroTribes this morning resonated with me: a family recounts how their DAN! doctor had little interest in meeting their son, but rather on recommending (and selling) more and more biomedical therapies. This mirrored our own experiences early on with DAN! and similar practitioners: the focus was always on the labs, tests, treatments and "remedies," never on who C is as a boy. The doctor who spent the absolute least amount of time with C — barely a minute — was the DAN! doctor who recommended a heavy protocol for C, and who also admonished us for even saying he had autism. ("Don't use that word. It won't apply to him in a year or two," she said.) Even our first pediatrician who told us C was "probably just shy" at 18 months spent a lot more time each visit getting to know him. And his fee was $110 for a visit, not $500 like the DAN! doctor (not covered by insurance). To be clear, the same thing can happen with any doctor/practitioner eager to prescribe medication and move on to the next patient.

From that point forward, we decided any specialist we saw would deal more with our son and who he is as an individual rather than pushing expensive tests and various "treatments" and "cures." Some suggested that was giving up on C. We don't see it that way. We felt it was getting to know him.