Tonight, snuggled amidst a pile of Mario Brothers plushies, you’re in bed at 8:00 p.m. on a Sunday. Your little voice drifts from behind your closed door to me at my computer in the kitchen. I assume you and your Mario friends are adventuring before winding down for the night.
As this innocent scene plays out, I’m sipping a glass of Cab and reflecting on the hell our family has been through this weekend. Hell—it’s a word I don’t choose lightly.
Last Thursday, you had an appointment with your developmental pediatrician—every three months so they can monitor your reaction to the medications you take. During the appointment, I told the nurse practitioner you’ve been struggling lately. Over the summer, our insurance changed causing a 6-week gap in your behavior therapy services. Without their support, you’ve had difficulty controlling your frustration outbursts.
She and I talked, made some medication adjustments, and she said the office would send the prescriptions to the pharmacy later in the day.
But that didn’t happen. I called multiple times. No one had answers. Friday ends. No meds for you, Son.
Saturday morning you don’t have what you need. You’re easily frustrated. You have no control over your limbs. You’re angry. Venom words fly out of your mouth. You don’t know why you feel this way. But you can’t do anything about it. The day ends.
Sunday morning starts much the same way. You don’t know what you want. Rage consumes you. Things break. You hit. You hurt. It’s just meds. That’s all we need.
Sunday afternoon, a pharmacist calls me. Meds are ready. I fly to the pharmacy.
Thirty minutes later, you and Dad snuggle on the couch and watch a funny video. You enjoy your favorite soup for dinner and now you and your Mario friends are chilling.
Son, I’m sorry your body can’t regulate without your medication. I’m sorry you had to go two days without them. I don’t know the reason. I don’t know who in the hierarchy failed their due diligence.
But trust me, Monday morning I’ll find out. And this mama will ensure you never have to go another weekend without access to what you need to make you feel whole.
Your mama won’t let this happen again. I got you!
You might be an autism parent if when someone says, “I don’t know how you do it.” And you reply, “I didn’t know I had a choice.”
Autism with a Side of Fries
Big Abilities 
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