Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [107]
At the second evaluation, in late April—after three long months of worry—we were seated before another doctor, who perused Ryan’s file before finally glancing up at us.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I think we might have been in error. We don’t believe Ryan is autistic, though he may have autistic tendencies.”
“What does that mean?”
“We think he might have pervasive development disorder.”
“Is he going to be okay, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“I don’t know. For the time being, however, I’d suggest getting another test. A specialized hearing test. We want to make sure he hears sounds correctly.”
Another month passed. Another round of worries. Another test. Another meeting with a doctor.
“I’m sorry, but we might have been wrong. We don’t think Ryan has pervasive development disorder.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Ryan,” the doctor said, “is profoundly deaf.”
We looked at the doctor. “Then how come he turns when the air conditioner goes on?”
“Oh, he does that?” the doctor asked. “Well, then let’s give him another test.”
Tests. That’s all they ever recommended.
He got another hearing test, one that tests the inner ear. A month later, we talked to the doctor again.
“You were right,” he said, “Ryan can hear.”
“Then what’s wrong with him?”
“The problem with your son is that he’s severely retarded, with attention deficit disorder.”
“He’s not retarded,” I said. “He’s smart. He remembers everything.”
Not knowing what else to do, they recommended yet another test.
After that, at the next meeting, they reverted to autism again, though they categorized it as mild. At the next meeting, they switched back to a diagnosis of pervasive development disorder.
No one, in other words, knew what was wrong with our son. No one could tell us what to do. No one could tell us whether he was going to be okay. No one could tell us anything.
My wife lived the day-to-day struggle far more intensely than I. She took Ryan from one evaluation to the next while I worked during the day; in the evenings, she handled the kids while I wrote. In the little free time I had, however, I began to read about childhood developmental disorders. I read through one book, then another, then still another. Within a couple of months, I’d read through forty books—covering the entire spectrum of possible disorders—and a couple of hundred clinical reports outlining various therapies. It was my way of trying to cope, to handle the unknown, to somehow find a way to understand my son. I was searching for something, anything, that could lead to answers.
By late August, Ryan was coming up on his third birthday. His latest evaluation showed little, if any, improvement. Now, instead of having the skills of a fourteen-month-old, he had the skills of a fifteen-month-old.
In other words, after eight months of running from doctor to doctor and after dozens of tests and evaluations, Ryan was even further behind his peers than he’d been when we’d first found out he had a problem. And he still never spoke at all.
As all-encompassing as my worries were, I continued selling pharmaceuticals by day, and by early summer had begun work on a second novel. Working in the evenings— and drawing inspiration from my dad and his struggles with grief—I started Message in a Bottle. The work was an escape of sorts, for only while I wrote was it possible to keep from thinking about Ryan.
Micah and I stayed in frequent touch throughout those first few months of 1996. He was the one I talked to about my fears, and he would always listen. At the same time, Micah was moving forward in his own life. In April 1996, he called to tell me that he’d decided to give up his real estate career.
“I’m thinking of buying a business instead,” he said on the phone.
“What kind?”
“A manufacturing business. Garage cabinets, closet organizers, and home office systems.”
“What do you know about that?”
“Nothing.