And guess what? A miracle did occur. Now, at age 17, my son has emerged out of a fog of neurological chaos into days spent text messaging friends, logging onto Facebook, and rolling his eyes with embarrassment at just about everything I say and do. Now, his diagnosis is “secondary autistic features.” Secondary. Autism is no longer the first thing you notice when you meet him, the first thing I think about when I wake up, or the last thing as I fall sleep. He is living a full life. And here’s the good news and the bad news; so can I.
Oh no! This bitch cured his autism! There goes my great plan.
Crap yo.