It started four months ago. Or should I say, it started in January? At least that is where our year of misery started. This blog isn't intended to be about 2012. In that case I would have to burn it ritually, I think, just in the hope that it would be gone and never, ever return. Let's just say that when August came about, everything in the house had broken down, some things twice. I had unexpectedly lost my father and my godfather, one 63, the other barely 50, both under tragic and painful circumstances and we knew it was only a matter of time before my husband's grandmother too would pass. We had been in a car accident, and just about everybody had been ill. August and especially September seemed to finally offer the promise that life would get back on track. Michael would start preschool three mornings a week. Joseph would go to 'big boy school', and I would finally have time to clean the house and emotionally deal with the mess this year had been. And then in August all of a sudden we noticed that something was not right. Michael started to withdraw. He spoke less and less. He didn't look at us anymore. We knew the verdict even before the doctor, reassuring us it was probably nothing but that she still wanted us to have him checked out, mentioned the word: autism.
No comments:
Post a Comment