Episode 6

Our first son, Michael, was diagnosed with autism when he was almost three. We’d had inklings, of course, a gnawing unease, but the word itself was foreign to me. Autism. I knew nothing about it. He also had a sensory disorder that made chewing impossible, so my days became an endless cycle of cooking, pureeing, feeding, then cooking, pureeing, feeding again. The diagnosis brought with it a whirlwind of meetings, speech therapy, physical therapy, and a whole new education. I was kept busy, but it was a different kind of busy than I’d ever known.

Then came Noah. He was colicky. Not just a little fussy, but *extremely* colicky. Nobody, absolutely nobody, prepares you for a colicky baby. From the moment he was born, for five months straight, he screamed. Day and night, he’d wail for eight hours, snatch a couple of hours of sleep, and then erupt again. Michael, my autistic son, who was at school for half the day, would come home to this relentless noise. The screaming was clearly agitating him, and I, in my exhaustion and desperation, allowed Michael to spend more time at my biological mother’s house next door, especially after school.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Noah’s screaming subsided. I don’t know if you’ve ever been around a screaming baby, but after ten minutes, you’re wishing for silence. After an hour, you’re looking for an escape. Imagine five months of it. I can’t blame anyone for not wanting to take him. But by the end of those five months, I had no choice but to learn to cope. He was my son, and I loved him, but the echoes of his cries haunted me. I became terrified of being left alone with him. If my husband even thought about leaving the house, I’d panic. He had to take Noah with him, or take us both, or not go anywhere. I was paralyzed by the fear that he would start screaming again, and I wouldn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stop him.