Little Boy Lost

That is the last picture of Case. I took it in February of 2013.

I hate this photo.

That little boy went away and never came back. I grieve him every single day.

Sometimes, kids with autism are born and you know early on that they are different.

Sometimes, kids with autism are born and you have no idea there is anything different about them until 18 months or so.

My First Case hit every milestone. Laughed all the time. Knew all his vocabulary words. Pointed at pictures in books and labeled them appropriately. Went out with mommy every single day on so many adventures and never got upset or had meltdowns. We could go anywhere on a whim. And we did. First Case loved going to the marina in Annapolis. Strolling down Dock Street. Watching boats. Going to the science museum and looking at dinosaurs and sitting through planetarium shows with ease. First Case thought it was funny to shrug his shoulders and say "What in the world?" to me whenever I caught him doing something nutty. He once danced to Kelly Clarkson on the beach. The song was "Catch My Breath" and somebody nearby started playing it. He was building a sand castle and just started moving to the rhythm. I bought him an ice cream cone because it was the cutest thing I had ever seen in my life. I thought First Case might end up being a chef because he would eat and seemingly savor absolutely anything. We went out to dinner once a week because Daddy worked at night. He ate hummus and tarragon chicken salad and egg drop soup. He was a breeze.

And then the wind stopped. Everything stopped. The talking. The pointing. The interests. The books. The laughing. The eating. The dancing.

And I called Anne Arundel County and asked them to send a developmental specialist to the house to evaluate him. I thought he might have a delay. A very large woman who spoke way too loudly and took up all the space in our apartment spent about 30 minutes with First Case and asked him to do various things with blocks and toys and little contraptions she had brought. When she was done, she asked Matt and I to wait in another room while she did paperwork.

When we came out, she was sitting on our couch. And she started crying and said, "Unfortunately, your son appears to be on the autism spectrum."

And I called and complained to her supervisor and anyone in Anne Arundel County who would listen to me because she had no right to cry. That was my job. And she had no right to tell me Case was autistic. Because deep down inside I already knew that.

I have met two versions of my son. I miss the first one. I miss him every single day. He was the sun. Yellow and bright with a smile that split your heart right open because it was so joyful.

My second Case still has that smile. It hides behind a cloud more than it should. But when it comes out ... I think those moments are the ones that just reach inside me and grab every organ and squeeze them and make my chest tight and everything stop for a moment because nothing means more to me than seeing him genuinely happy. Knowing he can be. Praying we can keep him that way.

I wonder sometimes what First Case would be doing these days. Would he be in first grade with a little bit of homework every night and karate classes on Wednesdays? Would he watch movies on Netflix with his family on Friday nights and tell me about his day if I asked? What would his bedroom look like? He can't have anything in his room presently because he throws objects when he's angry. He has a bed and two bean bag chairs with no pictures on the walls because he throws those, too. There's not even a lamp. Would First Case have picked out football bedding or Lightning McQueen posters for his walls? Would he have an art desk or a drum set in the corner? Does he know what he wants to be when he grows up?

God gave us the Real Case for a reason. I smile just writing that because I know it to be true. But I don't know why I had to meet First Case. I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't even know he was leaving.