Rex

This blog entry will a bit different today, it’s a bit more “misery literature” and FACTUAL. I might do some more "real" stuff in the future - except I hate "real" stuff usually. So, we'll see...

Is he? Isn’t he? Is he…. autistic?

Or that should be ASD (Autistic Spectrum Disorders) but I dislike acronyms and long terms. I’m talking about my young son, Rex, aged 4.5 years with a penchant for Barbie Thumbelina and Disney Princesses [my fridge freezer is humming to me as I write this]. I took Rex to the paediatrician the other day, the paed. asked him to hop – he didn’t/couldn’t hop, the paed. asked him to draw a face – he didn’t/couldn’t draw a face and then the paed. asked him to run – he could, but like a chimpanzee. After an hour and half of tests, the doctor mentioned in passing at the end of the review, “read up about ASD”. I just knew she’d leave “dessert” to the end. I already had an inkling that my wonderful son may be “different” or “special” so it didn’t hit me until much later, when I was watching “the Biggest Loser UK”.

I supposed I was peeved at the prospect of having another “disabled” child – his older sibling, Sasha, is diabetic, so having to deal with more doctors’ appointments, specialist appointments, therapies and so on is daunting, especially when I have been neglecting my own well-being for so long – my teeth are in dire need of a polish, I’ve got a rash the size of Asia on my arm and I’m piling on the pounds due to comfort eating (although watching “the Biggest Loser UK” does deter me from getting too big).

All being said, I wait for the diagnosis and greet it whatever it may be.

(for consistency’s sake in this blog, Rex is usually called “Rictus” and Sasha is “Shirley”).