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| SOURCE : www.djalandodson.com |
"My son is
autistic”.
Her words hung in
the air like a stench. I tried to digest the import of what she had said for
some seconds. To be honest I was not paying attention to her until she said
those words. I was thinking about all the files piled up on my table and the
couple who had left me about an hour ago. Their problem was that they had no
problems at all. They have five lovely kids who were doing well, very good jobs
and appeared to lack nothing. However, Mr. Husband needed a son and has recruited
a mistress to bear him one culminating into a call for divorce by his wife. It
was tough sitting through the session with them, all the while asking myself if
family law was the only branch of law my brains could carry.
I shifted in my
seat and studied the woman sitting in front of me closely. Suddenly, my office
felt small. I always considered it to be lush and comforting but not today.
Mrs. Ofoluwa is a
kind of person one would describe as calm and collected, not a hair out of
place and to crown it all she is beautiful. She carried herself with poise,
which was both sensual and overpowering; She was tall, ebony skinned, did her
hair into a bun… I Snapped out of my reverie, grabbed my pen, wrote ‘autistic’
on my note pad and looked up at her raising my eye brows.
“I did not
discover this until Timi was about sixteen months old when he was diagnosed to
be suffering from Autism Spectrum Disorder”She sighed deeply and shifted her
gaze to the calendar hanging on the wall.
"There was something quirky about him.
He hardly made eye contact and almost did not feel pain. He would hit his head
continuously on the wall or any available surface, he did not respond to his
name until you repeatedly called out to him. He could not walk or pronounce
words, not even ‘Timi”. Soon the daycare center where I registered him with, to
help care for him while I went to work started complaining about his behavior.
I took him to another and another but it was the same story. It was
embarrassing, so I resolved to home-school him but after hiring about three
teachers to do this, I gave up. I resigned from my job so I could always be
there for him. He did not get better, it was worse when he was upset. He could
not express himself, he would throw things, hit people and yell!” she held her
head.
She returned her
gaze to me, her eyes full of tears. I felt weak and glued to my chair. “Do you
know what it kmeans to have a sick child who can not tell you what he is
feeling?” She stood up and started pacing.
"What did I not do? At
first I was in shock and blamed myself for inflicting him with autism. I would
cry and cry. Then I ran to God, Oh! I prayed!” She slammed my table with her
palm without notice, my hand flew to my chest. She had this wild glare and she
leaned towards me. With the way she looked, anything I said at that time could
fetch me a slap so I looked down to the floor and folded my arms.
“I fasted and
organized vigils for my son. I even allowed one of these white garment churches
scrape his hair during one of the many prayer sessions. God did not answer me”
She wailed.
“I could not take him outside the house, because he could start his
tantrums and people would stare down at me like I was a failure as a Mother.
One woman once said I spoiled him and was a bad mother”.
She stood straight
and folded her arms, “I was broken and vexed at God. Well, I picked up myself
and started researching. The doctors said there was no cure for autism but that
I could learn to help Timi to manage it. First, I joined other parents
suffering same online and read every material I could lay my hands on about
autism. Ha! Barrister I read. I learnt to care for him, placed him on a special
diet and gathered that autistic children had huge amounts of iron in their
blood. I sent his specimen to a hospital at India to find out how much iron he
had in his system. It was quite high, but I drew strength from the Autistic
community I joined and learnt a lot. With time, his iron levels dropped.
Timi started walking at three years old and said his first word when he was
four. His first word was ‘Mummy’” tears flowed freely from her eyes.
I walked
to where she stood and wrapped my arms around her shoulder, I cried with her.
We stood that way for a while, then I led her to the sofa at the corner of my
office. She held my hands tightly.
“In all of
this Fola was never there” She looked bewildered
“Who is Fola?”
“My husband”
“He blamed me and
even called me a witch! Yeh! emi? Me” She flung my hands aside and stood
up again. “We swore for better for worse! In sickness and in health!” she was
shouting now and beating her chest.
“Please…” I stood
up spreading my arms.
She held out her
hand at me, signaling me to stop talking. Her makeup was skewed, tears had
mixed with mucus and was dribbling down her jaw. “What can you call what I went
through all alone? What is the purpose of marriage!?” She sank to her knees
“I feel betrayed.
Since Timi’s illness started, Fola changed. I cannot remember when he held Timi
or called him ‘son’” She looked into oblivion, appearing to be very deep in
thoughts as I searched for words to say.
To be Continued
