Kevin Whaley, coordinator of the daily Sports section, has worked at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution for six years. His 6-year-old son, Parker, was diagnosed with autism at age 2.
I was introduced to autism on Sept. 6, 2007. It took place in a developmental pediatrician’s office on an otherwise typical day.
I haven’t had a typical day since.
I quickly became intimate with autism. Rarely an hour passes when it’s not on my mind. But I never allow it to overwhelm me, mainly because I believe God chose me for this role.
A few days after my son Parker’s diagnosis at age 2, I talked with a father of a special-needs child. He said he had two initial thoughts: What did I do to mess up my kid? And am I going to have to take care of this kid for the rest of his life?
As harsh and misguided as that sounded, it was enlightening. It exposed me to what many fathers of special-needs children go through every day.
While mothers jump head-first into the autism spectrum world, scouring the Internet for answers and hoping to receive support from other mothers, fathers often feel left alone to cope with a problem they can’t solve. They sometimes tend to retreat to more comfortable environments, immersing themselves in work, chores, sports, etc.
Why is the adjustment so difficult? It’s probably because autism traits are so uncommon. Some children don’t want to be touched, some are unable to speak, and others have difficulty adjusting to new situations.
My wife, Donna, and I are blessed that Parker enjoys a good hug, usually sleeps through the night and rarely gets upset. He loves to swing, jump on a trampoline and play on the iPad.
But his communication is limited to basic words and phrases. He has never had a real conversation. This can be painful. Yet when compared with what he’s going through trying to express himself, I find it selfish to worry about how it affects me.
Sure, there are times when I get frustrated or find myself hurting for him.
Recently we were in the car and I asked him what he wanted to eat. He said chicken. So I asked him which restaurant: “Do you want Chick-fil-A?” His answer: “Chicken.” So I asked about Zaxby’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Again, “Chicken.” Hundreds of previous times he had answered appropriately, but not this time. I found my aggravation mounting, but I took a deep breath and calmed down.
At other times, he has poor articulation. When we don’t understand him, he sometimes gets frustrated. He might try again, or he might just walk away. This leaves me with a helpless feeling.
The inability to communicate can have more serious consequences. One of my most terrifying moments came at the mall a few months ago.
All parents worry about losing their children in a busy place, but it’s different with an autistic child. I turned my head for one second to look at a pair of shoes. When I looked back, he was gone. As I frantically searched the store, and then the mall area and a nearby department store, I began to panic. I knew Parker wouldn’t answer questions if someone found him, and I knew he wouldn’t come back looking for me. It lasted only about three minutes, but my heart was racing.
Turns out, he was still in the shoe store hiding from me.
Daily situations are usually not this stressful, but they still require a great deal of patience. Parker’s uniqueness consists of impulsions, such as darting ahead to the movie aisle while shopping, or rushing to the freezer section at the grocery store. And at restaurants, when Parker is finished eating, we’re all finished. He sprints to the entrance to sit in the waiting area.
He also has his shining moments. When Parker was recently asked to participate in a family wedding, we were worried about how he would perform. After multiple practices, he strolled down the aisle as scripted, placed his glass vase on the podium and made us the proudest parents ever.
The importance of having a strong support system at church, school and within our family is immeasurable. At church, we have an environment that welcomes Parker’s uniqueness and adapts to it. At school, we have teachers who care for him unconditionally while still pushing for excellence. And our family provides understanding, assistance and love.
But the most important person in Parker’s life is his mother. There’s little doubt why God chose her to be a special-needs mom, and she has not disappointed. It’s amazing to watch Donna deal with this every day, hour upon hour, and still smile. Her strength is incredible.
I know I’m a better father because my son has autism. I want to help him succeed in a world that is not designed for his strengths or weaknesses. I pray for Parker every night, asking God to bless him. I also ask for guidance for me and my wife. Never have I asked why this happened to him.
As you can see, my wife and I work together to find our place in this confusing and hectic world, communicating constantly. She’s also there for her friends who have children with special needs. And that’s what’s missing in many men’s lives: camaraderie and empathy.
Here are a few of the things that have helped me deal with this foreign situation:
Adjust expectations. I never had my own goals and dreams for Parker. That made it easier to accept his limitations, celebrate his accomplishments and focus on the present.
Get engaged. I assist my wife whenever possible. Little things are important, like listening, learning what medicine Parker takes, attending his doctor visits and helping out at bath time. She appreciates that.
Don’t be embarrassed. I don’t shy away from talking about what we’re going through. I’ve found that co-workers are refreshingly interested once I open up. And I don’t worry about what people think. My son’s jolting noises might seem foreign to them, but it’s just another quirky nuance that we’ve learned to embrace.
Clear my mind: Thinking about Parker’s daily struggles would keep me up at night if I didn’t divert my thoughts with something mundane right before going to bed, such as watching a movie I’ve seen before. It might seem like a waste of time, but it’s my way of temporarily avoiding the thoughts that could turn into tears and then insomnia.
Retain my identity: I’m at peace with the sacrifices I’ve had to make. I’ve had to adjust my lifestyle in certain ways, but I haven’t had to reconstruct my life. Finding time for myself, even just a few minutes, has been important.
So what’s my inspiration? What keeps me upbeat? That’s an easy one.
I know one day I will see Parker in heaven, and he won’t have autism. And he’ll say to me, with no hesitation: “Thanks, Daddy.”
That’s all the inspiration I need.
