The experience I am going to describe is one that still causes me more stomach pain than eating a bag of Spicy Cheeto's with a 'Cafe Latte chaser....but it also helped remind me that there is a boy stuck in the bottom of a well.   This story is true, it happened to me six weeks ago...and it is the day I almost got into my first fight, and it is the day I got a sign of life from below.

Despite what my physical appearance barks to the outside world I am not a fighter. To be fair, I am not really a lover either. I hate how they box us dudes into those two categories. I would guess I am more like Ryan Seacrest...except for the fact that I don't wax my brows. My hair caterpillar's are going to remain angry, furry, and unkempt til the day my soul upgrades. So fighting ain't my gig. I stay out of all conflict. If I were a country I would be Switzerland...but a more sissy-fied version. It's not like I would stay out of fights out of some principle to remain passive, rather, I would stay out so that I would not have to see my own blood stain my assailants new shirt.

Anyways, a few weeks ago my wife and I took my son, Noah, to a Defeat Autism Now doctor in a city about an hour away from us. The doc's office was in this very swanky two story complex. It was like a mall for professional services. There were individual offices that surrounded a courtyard that was filled with a ton of new age art stuff. There were statues that required you to stare at them for hours to understand what prescribed medications the artist was taking. (Tangent alert: This reminds me how much I hated those stinking 3-D pictures that were so popular in the mid 90's. You remember those? You had to look at them out of the corner of your eyes just to see a unicorn or something. I never could do it. I am still extremely angry about it. This has been a major topic of convo brought up in my therapy sessions) On the other side of the courtyard was this huge Zen Rock Garden.

It kind of looked like this:

                                                      



People were not allowed to walk into it. However, they were permitted to stand on the outside and stare into it, which a bunch of people were doing. I understand that these gardens are used to help relax folks, I have no idea how exactly it works. (maybe you have to look at it out of the corner of your eye) I will say that the onlookers looked extremely calm...much more so than me and my wife who were about to have a very important meeting with this new Autism Doc.

The physicians office was on the second floor, which was right above the Rock Garden. Even on the second floor there were a ton of people staring over the railing peering down into the sand o' relaxation. My son really liked looking over the side to see the garden from above, so before we entered the office I held him up so he could see it better. While I thought he was taking in the structure for it's beauty, what he was really doing was coming up with a plan to get his daddy killed in a horrifically violent fashion.

We went into the appointment without any incident. The visit with the doc went very well, but at times it was kind of lengthy for my son. About half way through I could tell Noah was getting extremely frustrated with being kept inside the smallish office. So I told me wife I would take him for a walk around the courtyard area while she kept visiting with the Dr. What I did not know at the time, was that was almost the last time I would ever communicate with my wife of nearly ten years.

We went outside and I immediately took him down the stairs. I thought perhaps we would want to see the Garden up close again. Noah and I walked around the first floor of the courtyard for a few moments and I could tell he was not impressed with seeing things from the ground floor. Noah demanded to go back up stairs so he could take the view in from above, and like a the Crown Prince of Chumps I agreed. We went back up stairs and we walked around the whole second floor peering over the railing so we could gather a higher perspective of the interesting layout below us. I assumed my child was taking in the art, what he was really doing was casing the joint like a trained bank robber.

On our second lap around the floor he asked for me to hold him up closer to the railing so he could see the Garden better. I picked him up and lifted him up so the rail no longer obstructed his view. (For those nervous Nellie’s: I did not dangle him over the edge like Michael Jackson did with his baby. This was a controlled hold a foot away from the railing. In hind sight though, it appears that both The King of Pop and myself would probably both had been better served not doing what we did) As I held Noah up like the monkey did Simba is the Lion King I felt a real connection with my boy. This is was great, this was daddy's were supposed to do. In the back of my mind I remarked that this was symbolic of what Dad's are tasked to do for their children. To lift them up so that they can see the world in an amazing new way. The sunlight peering through the glass ceiling shone down upon us a little brighter, the pumped in oxygen smelled a little fresher, and I was half expecting to hear a barbershop quartet of angel's singing "John is an awesome and righteous pops"*softly in the background.

What I did hear was something far more sinister. Something that was born in saliva, phlegm, and an intent to cause gag-like reflexes in all those near it. While I hoisted Noah to the heavens I heard the unmistakable sound of trouble.

In a child's life there are many key moments of awareness. It is in those times that children learn that they can achieve things that they never knew they could before. They are those much videotaped groundbreaking moments for tots. Those moments of "firsts" can be so emotional for us caregivers. The list of wonderful "firsts" include:

Saying "Mama or Dada"
Learning to walk
Tying a shoe
Riding a bike
Spelling your own name
Catching a ball
Going to school

These are moments in time that we cherish that we as parents get to cherish for the rest of our lives. Well, Noah had a first while I was holding him up over the railing. It was the first time that he (as I learned it was called in sixth grade) "Hawked a lugi"

Translation for those who were home schooled: SPITTED.

Yes, the sound that I heard while lifting my child in the air was the all to familiar growl of a spit bomb that was being formed somewhere in his throat. It happened so quick that I could only recognize what was happening without having the chance to try and diffuse the situation. Had I known my child had this type of weapon of mass destruction buried in the sands of his heart I would have totally sent Hans Blitz in to inspect and try to disarm him. Before I knew it the churning growl left and the next sound was one of the liquid torpedo hitting the air. I am sure I screamed "No!" or something similar, but to be honest I could not hear my own voice. All of my other sense quick working so that my eyes could see the spit meteor against the backdrop of the glass of the inner roof.

While my eyes located the saliva ball floating in slow motion there was a part of me that was proud of my son. Though I would never admit it (unless of course I am forced to in the upcoming trial) I was just for a millisecond in awe of the perfectly sculpted spitball. It seemed well rounded, solid, and seemingly full of more nasty germs than the plague in Stephen King's "The Stand". In all my time with Noah I have never known him to spit before. So for me this was his first yuck monster. My pride quickly ended when I quickly got a hold of my mental helm again and realized that this wet evil was in fact going to clear the railing and head down below. This was much to the delight of my son, who I was still holding. I could feel his heart beating with the joy of a mad scientist who just sent his beast to ravage the villagers.

Quickly I put Noah down away from the rail and leaned over the edge to see where the projectile was heading. What I saw put a white sheet of panic on me that I can still summon to this day when I recall what mine eyes had seen. As I mentioned there were a ton of people gawking at the Rock Garden below us. Each of them probably had a different reason for adoring the sandy field. Some people were probably like me and just curious, but there were some I am sure who most likely worked in the building and sought refuge at the Garden daily. These people might have stressful lives, and this was their happy place. (Tangent alert: My happy place has green fields, happy frolicking bunnies, and blue drinks) Right beneath me was a rather large looking man who happened to be bald. He was wearing a workman's uniform, that made him appear that he was either part of the maintenance or custodial staff. I will call him "Rocco Bloodletter" for now...because that is how he looked. After an exhaustive google search here is the best picture of his likeness:

                                                                      


THE TALE OF ROCCO BLOODLETTER.

I cannot be certain what Rocco was doing there. The only thing I can do is craft some story for my own benefit. I am sure Rocco was there spending some much needed quiet moments of reflection. Rocco leads a hard life because he is filled with regret with some of his life choices. You see Rocco used to be a Navy Seal. Not just any Navy Seal, but he was part of a super secret branch of Navy Seals who learned how to dismantle a human body in under 17 seconds. Rocco was trained by our military to punish anyone who got in his way. Once he actually killed six polar bears in a cage match to the death. Rocco would have finished off the other four bears in the cage (he did cripple them however) but at the time he was a member of PETA. It was his guilt from this incident that forced him out of this secret killer branch of the Seals and into custodial work at the swanky office building. Rocco Bloodletter was at his first day of work and he felt sad that he could no longer legally kill someone. As he was sweeping up some idiots gum wrapper his eyes caught sight of the beautiful Zen Garden. For a brief moment he felt ok...he felt like for at least right now everything was going to be alright. Thos garden was so calming...so relaxing...maybe he could in fact peace in his life.

This was when my son's lugi missile struck Mr. Bloodletter on the back of his neck. Immediately his world was shattered like my dream of being an extra on the soap "Passions". His hand went straight to the impact spot, I prayed that perhaps he would just think it was a bug or something. Rocco drew back his now dampened hand and the Scotland Yard inside his heart began it's investigation. It did not take the former killer to realize that he had in fact been a victim of a spit crime. With a slow yet deliberate motion he cranked his head to look up to see where the fluid attack had originated from. He saw me leaning over the railing with my son nowhere to be seen. Our eyes met. Time stopped. Rocco Bloodletter was going to kill me.

Soon my mental congress went to work. How should I handle this? Not to my credit, I thought about ratting my son out. That notion passed quick as my limited conscience chimed in. I may not be Ward Cleaver but I am not going to subject my son to Hurricane Rocco. I thought for a second that I could just play dumb and act like it wasn't me. That wouldn't work either, his eyes had already scanned my paper white mask of fear I was wearing. I looked guilty...and I knew it. I did not know what to do. We just started at each other awkwardly for what seemed to be longer than a season of Two and a Half Men. I froze and started panicking. I had no clue how to handle this...so after a bit of time I smiled and said weakly "Sorry...my bad". I think I may have even thrown in a little hand wave at the end to show that I was in a state of true lament.

That was not good enough for Rocco Bloodletter. His newly spit on neck glistening in the sun light I saw him turn around and head for the stairs. This was it. I was going to die. My first thought was I wish I would have Q-tipped my ears earlier that morning. I did not want the coroner to have to deal with waxy ears. I knew I only had about forty-five seconds before he would be upon me like the IRS to Wesley Snipes. I imagined that in his rage he would do me in quick. Later on he would wish that he would have prolonged my agony, but right now he was so angry that my demise would be quick.

As I began to come up with the music I wanted at my memorial service (I already knew that I wanted the opening number to be "Pop Goes The World" by Men Without Hats) my eyes drifted toward Noah who standing next to me. His face beamed with pride. He had just Chucked his first Spit-Tiger" and he could not be happier with himself. Despite my impending doom I again felt strangely proud of him. So often I find myself comparing him to "typical" children his age. With a weak spine I sometimes cringe at his autistic behaviors and crave for him to act like other boys. Well....if spitting over the edge of a railing toward a crowd below is not a "boy thing" I have no idea what one is. In a strange turn of events I became so excited for me. There is naughty boy inside him clawing to get out of the well he finds himself in.

I have decided that being autistic is a lot like being trapped in a well that has no rope. In the well you can still see traces of daylight above, but you are cut off from everyone in a scary dark place. When stuck at the bottom of the stone well your voice has a hard time making it up to the crowd of onlookers above. This makes it hard to communicate with people. They forget that you are still down there, that you are still alive, that you can still see light! Eventually people move on and quit peeking down to see if you are still there. I cannot imagine anything scarier than this. (Tangent alert: Except for clowns...of course)

This was another moment where I was reminded that my son is still in the well. He was still down there, and he is giving me a sign not to quit looking. The message came wrapped in saliva package is "Hey! I am here! Check this out!"

Again Noah and I connected. I put out my hand to offer the high five sign, which he complied with great joy. I smiled and said "That was nice buddy. Lets not do that again, ok?" His beaming lips pushed out a quick "Ok Dad".
It is in moments like these that you want a mental video camera, so that when I was on my death bed (which was going to be in about seven seconds) that I could cling to this memory vividly.

So I grabbed my sons hand and waited for the medicine that was coming my way. The does never arrived. Rocco Bloodletter was a no show, I was not going to die this day. After a few more moments of waiting we went back into the doc's office and finished up with our appointment. The doc gave us some great advice about how open up a new front on our war with Autism. She was great. You know what was better though?

Finding out that the boy in the well still is trying to climb out.