I grew up across the street from what I deemed my "second family". This family built a house right across the road when I was four years old. My family had five girls, their family had three girls. We were never at a loss for doll babies, Barbies and tea cups. I practically lived at their house, when they weren't living at mine.

Even though I was young, I remember the first time I met what would become my "second family" on their grandparents' farm, which was "up the lane" from my house. As I have aged and my memory has been inundated with Spongebob's cackle, Dora's Spanish lessons, and teeny bopper show laugh tracks, I don't remember too many details of that first meeting all those years ago. Long forgotten are such specifics as what the girls were wearing, if they had lost any baby teeth yet, if they were nice, shy, or funny, but, one memory that is still engrained in my aging brain, is the image of their father. Yes, even after years of Spongebob, Thomas the Tank Engine, Dora, and the Teletubbies, my brain can still see him on the wooden porch smiling and sitting...in his wheelchair and I'm sure like any child, I stared. 

Although I had been raised properly and told not to stare at people's differences, I'm sure I did. It was the first time I had ever seen anyone missing limbs and in a wheelchair and like most children, I did not do everything I was told. Sadly, even though adults know better, sometimes they don't do as they are told either. And sometimes their words, their actions hurt.

My neighbor was a war hero who lost both legs in a trench in Vietnam. Prosthetics have come a long way in the past 40 years. Back in the 70's there were no fancy, high tech, bionic looking legs that could be covered with a pair of pants and a matching shoe, so, many disabled vets returned home from Vietnam in wheelchairs. Their differences, their "disabilities" visible for all to see.

Even as a child, it didn't take me long to realize that there was so much more to my neighbor than his wheelchair. His disabilty paled in comparison to his abilities. After awhile, I no longer saw the wheelchair, I only saw him.

Perhaps that experience at such an early age taught me to look past my son's autism, past his "disability" and see him. Trust me, I'm perfectly aware that an autism diagnosis, a pervasive developmental disorder, is not the same as a physical disability. That's like comparing apples to oranges, but, believe it or not, some folks like to compare. They can't tell the difference between an apple and an orange, or at least they don't care enough to look past the labels and see anything other than two round fruits. So, before you start blasting me about comparing my neighbor's struggles to my son's struggles and telling me "that's like comparing apples to oranges", well, you are preaching to the choir. Unfortunately, not everyone is sitting in the choir with me.

Not long ago, when I was discussing Ryan's autism and a particularly bad day he recently experienced, someone (who happens to be familiar with the physical difficulties a person in a wheelchair endures, but, takes little time to understand autism), said to me, "I don't really feel sorry for Ryan. At least he's not in a wheelchair." Wow. 

I was initially dumbfounded and mumbled something like, "you can't even compare the two". Looking back, I wish I would have had an apple or an orange (wouldn't have mattered at all) to shove in their mouth and said all of this....

First and foremost, Ryan does not want anyone's sympathy or pity. Most days he is happy in his own skin. Second, just because Ryan's disability isn't visible, just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. This invisible disability doesn't make Ryan's difficult times any easier or his heartache any less just because you can't see it or because "he isn't in a wheelchair". Apples to oranges.

Yes, Ryan can easily jump up and sprint down our stairs (he actually sort of crashes down the stairs) when it's time for a few Vanilla Oreos without any special accomodations in our home. However, Ryan does need accomodations when it comes to learning at school because although he "looks fine" his brain processes information differently.

Ryan has two perfect working legs that can walk, run, and jump. He is strong and more than capable of running away from the bully in the school yard. Yet, when Ryan was being bullied for two years, due to his language deficits, he was unable to find the words to tell me.

Although Ryan could physically run up to a group of friends on the playground and say, "Hey guys, want to play some basketball?", he doesn't and chances are pretty high that he won't. Communicating with friends and initiating a conversation is very difficult due to the way autism impacts his social skills and his social awareness.

Even though Ryan is big enough and strong enough to knock over several defensive lineman and could physically become an outstanding football star, he won't. The pads, the equipment, the shouting and even the grass are too much for his overloaded sensory system to handle.

Yes, autism does make some things more difficult for Ryan, but, there are so many more things that come quite easily to him. I know that, Ryan knows that and we are both incredibly grateful. We both recognize that there are others who have struggles far greater than Ryan. We do not compare apples to oranges.

An autism diagnosis may be a disability that you can't see, but, for Ryan, that's ok because just like anyone with any type of disability, be it an apple or an orange, Ryan wants you to accept him, to see him and to see his abilities and not his disability.

Yes, sadly, sometimes even adults "don't know better" and they say ignorant and hurtful things. I'm sure just like Ryan, my neighbor had heard his fair share over the years. 

And although my neighbor may have spent the past 45 years with a disability which required a wheelchair to get through life, that did not keep him from living. He may have gone through most of his adult life unable to stand on his own, but, his abilities, his successes and his happines stand for themselves. The proof lies in the faces of his beautiful children, grandchildren and great grandchild. I bet none of them see the wheelchair either.

When it comes to disabilities, comparing one disability to another is truly comparing apples to oranges. An apple is an apple. An orange is an orange. If all you ever concern yourself with is what those fruits are labeled and how they look on the outside without bothering to take the time to see what's on the inside, then you will miss the incomparable essence of them both.

I am a self-admitted, self-diagnosed, hypochondriac. In fact, if there were a club for hypochondriacs, I feel certain I would be unanimously voted president, as long as I wasn't out sick or at a doctor's appointment the day of the nominations. If it's a scab on my arm that's been there for three days, it's most certainly skin cancer. A week filled with achy joints is not my "Welcome to the Mid-40's Party", chances are good, I have Lyme Disease. A tight feeling in my chest is not a result from skipping the gym for three weeks then hitting the weights as if I hadn't missed a day. Oh nooo, that tight feeling most assuredly is not muscle strain, it must be angina, therefore, a stress test is right around the corner. A cold and cough that sticks around as long as the pollen sticks to my porch furniture, is not something as simple as seasonal allergies, but, chances are very high that I have contracted a rare form of Avian Influenza, aka, Bird Flu. Yes, if I have read about it, chances are, I have it, or I will get it...soon. A doctor once told me that I "look for the unicorn instead of the horse" which is a much nicer way of saying, "Lady, you are bat sh** crazy".

I would love to tell you that my hypochondria is limited to just my own perceived illnesses, but, that wouldn't be AWEnest of me. Every one of my doctors, and sadly, my children's doctors, have a photo of me lassoing a unicorn in their files. I never leave the doctors disappointed as I constantly walk right past the horse, completely ignoring him, so worried about finding that stupid, elusive unicorn. In fact, I think I leave many of the doctors shaking their head in bewilderment and looking forward to their lunch break when they can share my latest disease fearing, unicorn searching frenzy with the other doctors in the lunchroom. Yes, I'm a frantic worrier about my children's health, more so than my own (my primary care physician, my gynecologist, my breast care doctor and even my dentist would all find that VERY hard to believe). So, when Ryan was sick for a week with a fever, cold, and horrific cough (Bird Flu, Swine Flu, West Nile Virus...have the mosquitoes even been born yet?), WebMD was constantly pulled up on my phone and Ryan and I made a trip to the pediatrician's office....twice.

I was convinced Ryan had pneumonia, RSV, strep throat or something that would require some type of medication and a quick fix, but, alas, it was not bacteria born, it was the dreaded V Word...virus, which meant no antibiotic, no quick fix, just plenty of fluids with the oh so wise words, "just let the virus run it's course". Are you sure there isn't a pill, an ointment, an elixir, something to speed up and ease up this so called course? I mean, Ryan had already missed a week of school which meant he was way off schedule and that translates to lots of make up work that will come home upon his return to school, which increases the likelihood of meltdowns, which greatly increases the probability that I may feign a case of Ebola Virus so the CDC can quarantine me until all the make up work is completed. Are you absolutely, positively sure there isn't a pill for this?

Whatever this VIRUS was (I no longer say "bug", read my blog post, Literally Speaking in March, 2013 to understand why), it made the dreaded, media hyped, Swine Flu seem like a walk in the park. Most days, Ryan's fever was in the 103-104 range, you know the kind of fever where they feel so miserable and just want cuddled and you have to put on a spacesuit to protect your skin from the heat. Fortunately, the fever is now gone, but, the cough, which at night echoes off the walls sounding remarkably like we are living in a wing in an old tuberculosis hospital, still lingers on...and on....and on. Poor fella, he's not a fan of being sick, and like any mom, I hate to see my kids sick too, until one day, several years ago, my old friend Denial plopped down on the couch next to me and my fever ridden boy and showed me a research article she had just discovered on Google (of course). 

This was back in the day when my old friend Denial and I were thick as thieves. Denial told me that some parents believed their child's autism symptoms abated when their child was sick with a fever. What? Yep, many parents noticed a reduction in stimming, an increase in language and an overall reduction of autism symptoms when their kids ran a fever. Once the fever went away, the autism symptoms returned. In fact, this was reported by so many parents enough times that a paper published in the journal Pediatrics in 2007 by Drs Dominick Purpura and Mark Mehler of the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, addressed this phenomenon. These two doctors discovered that the correlation between a fever and reduction of autism symptoms had to do with a part of the brain called the locus coeruleus. Yeah, I don't know how to pronounce it and I certainly had no idea that was part of my brain either. AWEnestly, I didn't care about all the scientific stuff that I couldn't even begin to say or understand, I was just astounded that a fever might allow me a chance to connect with my son! Well alrighty then, I decided to sit back and wait for the next virus to hit.

Don't worry, no need to call child services, I didn't go all Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy on Ryan. I didn't intentionally get my kid sick by sneezing on him, running him into the neighbors house where strep throat was running rampant, or hide his Flintstones Vitamins from him, but, I have to be AWEnest, this complete and total hypochondriac was almost as excited for the next cold and flu season to hit as I was when I discovered WebMD. I couldn't help but wonder, if my guy got sick, would I starve his cold and feed his fever, to see if maybe, just maybe those parents were right? For a kid who constantly chews on his fingers, it didn't take long for Ryan to pick up a virus and for this mom to sit back and see if a fever, would in fact, crack his beautiful, impenetrable shell. 

I remember that virus like it was yesterday. I recall checking Ryan's temperature religiously, which of course he hated, but, I kept telling myself, that if these parents were right and his autism symptoms abated with the fever, then eventually when the fever rose, he wouldn't mind me sticking a thermometer in his ear every five minutes. Sure enough, in a matter of hours, Ryan's fever crept up and once it hit 101, I gave him some Motrin (I'm not that twisted that I'd make him suffer), but, I did sit next to him on the couch observing my sweet boy before the Motrin kicked in, waiting to see if his language improved, his connection got stronger, or if his Thomas the Tank Engine scripting subsided. In my heart of hearts, I did believe that Ryan seemed more "checked in". He answered my questions more readily, he responded more appropriately, and he let me snuggle him for hours. Was this a result of the fever taking hold of Ryan's locus coeruleus or was this just a little guy who felt so miserable he answered my questions so I'd leave him the hell alone and he could get back to watching Thomas?

Denial assured me that Ryan's fever made him "better" which of course was an oxymoron for a kid whose eyes were glazed over with fever and who had snot dripping off his chin. Were Ryan's autism symptoms really reduced or was Denial fooling me again? Was my fear of The A Word so visceral that this research study became my placebo? My quick fix, my belief that something "wrong" got "better" with something as simple as a fever, or was it "all in my head"? As a mother who was so frightened by autism due to my lack of understanding, I think I would have believed anything might make Ryan "better". The placebo effect, a belief that some type of treatment will change a particular condition is so strong, that there is a perceived actual improvement in the condition, when in fact, there is none. For a long time, Denial and the placebo effect were hands down, part of my journey into autism acceptance. I kept looking for the "quick fix" whether it was real or all "in my head". I needed something to hold onto, something to give me hope, something to believe in, something that would one day make my son "better". More importantly, I needed something to wean me off of this powerful addiction I had with Denial. Or at the very least, a pill that made me think I had.

Don't we all want a quick fix or a pill to "make it better"? A pill that will heal a broken heart. An amnesiac syrup that will cause us to forget painful mistakes. An ointment that can rub away and clear up hurtful misunderstandings. A shot that may sting for a second, but, can protect us from hurt in the future. A fever that effects the locus coeruleus and makes autism fade away. Just like so many things in life, there are no "quick fixes" to make it all better, nor are there placebos to make you think things are better (unless of course you count wine). A broken heart needs time to heal. Mistakes may be hard to admit, but, sometimes, it's the only way to learn a valuable lesson. Misunderstandings take patience and forgiveness. Suffering through dark, hurtful times, makes us appreciate the light that much more. 

So, whether or not a fever helped Ryan "check in" all those years ago by reducing some of the hold autism had on his locus coeruleus, or whether the study I had read about became a sort of placebo, I will never know. What I do know, is back when Denial was my friend, I was terrified, I felt terribly lost and alone and the quick fix I was looking for wasn't to make Ryan "better" because he was not, and is not, sick, broken or diseased, the quick fix was for me. I was the one with the damage, the boo boo, the hurt. A hypochondriac mother who was so worried about finding that stupid unicorn, that I almost missed the beautiful, magnificent, colt galloping right in front of me. 

As Ryan and I sat in the pediatrician's office (twice) last week, and my boy's temperature registered 103.7, he was the same Ryan he was before the fever. Ryan was brilliant as he assured the doctor that a strep test would not be needed since he felt fairly confident his "lungs had pneumonia" so the stethoscope was the only form of torture necessary. Ryan was anxious as he insisted (in a bossy, not terribly nice voice) on doing the flu swab in his nostril himself for fear the doctor would "poke" his brain then held the "contaminated" swab over his head refusing to give it to the doctor for fear she would "poke" him anyway. Ryan was proud that he survived the doctor's appointment with only a hint of tears and no shot or strep test. And Ryan was clever as he told me his blood sugar was dropping and convinced me that the only way to elevate it was via a Sheetz slushie.  

With or without a fever, Ryan is AWEsome and just like a virus that has to "run it's course", autism will continue to run it's course throughout Ryan's lifetime. Some days, some situations, some moments, autism will be a bigger "symptom" than others. Some of the symptoms may disappear and be replaced with new symptoms, symptoms that may not show up on WebMD, leaving me completely at a loss. As I continue to watch Ryan grow, achieve and succeed, I am amazed at the fear that once held such a life altering grip on me. My fear, my unicorn searching, was all part of my journey that had to "run it's course" because without my mistakes, my worries, my obsessive Google searching, I would not be where I am today, therefore Ryan may not be where he is today either. 

You see, as Ryan's mother, I am his placebo. I cannot make autism go away with a pill, a shot or an untreated fever (I swear I always give him Motrin), but, I can be the voice when Ryan can't find his words, I can be the advocate when Ryan is too scared or too confused to fight, I can find the support he needs to be successful and I can be the arms that squeeze him to let him know he is loved. I will always be Ryan's placebo, because on the days when life is hard, the days when his differences stand out, the days when his "symptoms" are more severe, as Ryan's mother, I will always be what makes him "feel better" and no, "feeling better" is not "all in his head", that my friends, is "all in his heart".

When I was a kid, I used to occasionally put aside the Lucky Charms and opt for a bowl of Wheaties because just like I believed Lucky Charms were "magically delicious", I also believed that Wheaties was "The Breakfast of Champions". Who doesn't want to trade in some marshmallows and a leprechaun in order to be a champion? Back in my younger days, Misty May-Treanor was not on the front of the Wheaties Box because quite frankly, Misty wasn't even born yet (ouch). No, back in the old days, Bruce Jenner held the coveted Wheaties Box Champion Title.  Oh Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, times they have a-changed. The 1976 decathlon Gold Medalist Bruce Jenner, was most certainly a champion and worthy of a Wheaties box cover, but, the Bruce Jenner of today, well, suffice it to say, Wheaties may want their box back. Poor Bruce, he got so caught up with those Kardashians and all that plastic surgery....bad plastic surgery, that I wonder if General Mills has bought all the Bruce Jenner Wheaties off of eBay to cover their champion idolizing tracks.

For some reason, when I hear the word "champion", I almost automatically think champion (noun), and picture an athlete (not Bruce Jenner...sorry Bruce) on a podium being given a trophy or medal. According to Webster, the definition of THAT champion is "someone or something that has won a contest or competition especially in sports." Obviously, in 1976, Bruce deserved to be on The Breakfast of Champions box, after all, he was an Olympic Gold Medalist. The definition of the verb champion, is never on the front of the box, heck this type of champion isn't even on the side or the back of the box, which incidentally is where champion's photos were placed prior to 1958 (A little Wheaties trivia that could one day make you a champion (noun) on Jeopardy. You're welcome). Champion (verb)  is "a person who fights or argues for a cause on behalf of someone else". This type of champion (verb) may be outspoken, may fight, argue and advocate for someone they believe in, but, these champions never make it on the front of the Wheaties box, preferring to allow the champion (noun) they are championing, to remain front and center.

In honor of Autism Awareness Month, today's blog is for all the champions who don't make it to the front of the Wheaties box, but, who are no less a champion than an Olympic Gold Medalist. These champions of children and adults living with an Autism Spectrum Disorder, are mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, teachers, and therapists. They educate, advocate, and support the belief of "different, not less". Because of their love, because of their commitment, because of their desire to see their child, sibling, grandchild, or student "win", these champions (verb)  have helped create champions (noun). Just like an Olympic Gold Medalist, these champions work tirelessly in order to make sure their son or daughter stands on that podium. They "fight or argue on behalf" of their champion who may one day be on the front of the Wheaties box. They are the champion (verb)...the fighter...the coach...and the voice...that helps create a champion (noun).

It would be delightful if someday Wheaties would have an autism champion (verb) on the front of their box, but, chances are, that won't happen. So, in order to make up for General Mills' lapse in judgement, I want to make sure the champions championing autism awareness are visible today. These fighters, these tigers, are not roaring because they want to be difficult, these champions (verb) are roaring because they need to be heard since they are "fighting on behalf of someone else"...their child. If they don't roar, then who will? 

Until I began championing my champion, I was scared, beaten down by The A Word and my cohorts, Denial and Clueless, and I had no idea what I was doing. I worried more about other people's impressions than what was right for my son. Now I will fight, champion, advocate and roar when I need to, because in order for my son to become a champion (noun), he needs a champion (verb). Most days I don't have to tie on my boxing gloves. Most days people are aware that what every person, with or without an ASD, wants is ACCEPTANCE. The month of April is about Autism Awareness and Autism Acceptance. So, today I am championing for all the champions (verb) loving a child with an ASD. Here are a few examples of moments that are front of the Wheaties box worthy:

For those folks in the mall who may be out looking for spring sandals for your child, we want you to know that the meltdown in the shoe store is not meant to disrupt your shopping experience or make you feel uncomfortable, but, the lights, the noise and the smell of the shoe store for our child is too much. Our kids also wear shoes and we champions have to shop for shoes and put them on our kids feet.

For the school administrators who are tired of words like FAPE (Free Appropriate Public Education), IDEA (Individuals with Disabilities Education Act), and IEP (Individualized Education Plan),  and who often believe that autism is "the flavor of the month", we are not trying to make your job harder. Our kids need an education. We champions make sure they get it.

To the insurance companies (whom AWEnestly, I have NO sympathy for), who don't understand that a trip to the dentist is like a trip to Hades for our kids, we are not trying to harass you with our repeated phone calls or get your fired when we ask to speak to your supervisor. We need the right code for the right surgical center so our child can get a cavity filled without fire and brimstone raining down on them in the dental chair. Our kids need good dental hygiene, and we champions will walk through fire to ensure you pay for some of it (then curse all insurance companies to Hades when you fail to pay a cent).

We are the voice, the fighter, the educator, and the tiger. We champion for our kids whose communication struggles makes it easier for them to remain silent. We champion for our kids who hate the feel of leather boxing gloves. We champion for our kids who cringe at the sound of a deafening roar. We will continue to argue, to fight, to walk through fire in order to champion our champions, and even though you may never see our face on the front of the Wheaties box, I promise you will always hear us ROAR.

This is a quick shout out to all the strong, loving, AWEsome moms I met yesterday at the 2014 Day of Pampering at the First United Methodist Church of Mechanicsburg. So many women shared their heartache, their struggles, but, mostly, their joy with me. To quote the beloved Dr. Seuss, my "heart grew three sizes that day". I promised these AWE inspiring moms that I would post the video I shared yesterday since there was a bit of a technical glitch with the audio. I also promised that I would invite everyone in attendance to my house for a glitch free showing along with wine, but, due to my public speaking anxiety, I failed to give the audience my address. I swear, it had nothing to do with my fear of the bill for the wine I would have needed to purchase for these amazing ladies.

I was AWEstruck by your compassion, strength and determination to make sure your intricate, one of a kind snowflake remains visible and that their uniqueness is never lost in the blanket of snow. Remember, even on the days when your snowflake seems invisible to everyone, YOU will always make sure he or she can be seen. "Stand up Mother!" because you are not invisible either. Your child sees you and so does every mother loving their unique snowflake with a "different" ability!

Here is the clip from the Emmys when Temple asked her mother, who believed, "different, not less" to "Stand up mother". Makes me cry EVERY SINGLE TIME.