What to do After the Blackout
By Monica Holloway
Editor's note: The opinions expressed herein are those of the author exclusively.
By Monica Holloway
Editor's note: The opinions expressed herein are those of the author exclusively.
We shouldn't have been surprised, every month since Wills's arrival was leading up to this moment, and yet, the shock was tremendous. The words that can never be taken back, “Wills has autistic spectrum disorder,” had been spoken.
As a baby, Wills wasn't a smiling, cooing baby and he refused to let anyone hold him but me. He could stay with my husband for maybe an hour and then he'd scream at the top of his lungs until I rushed home, scooping him up in my arms. The minute I held him, he was fine. He clung to me twenty-four hours a day while I cooked, while I did the laundry, even when I was in the bathroom.
As a baby, Wills wasn't a smiling, cooing baby and he refused to let anyone hold him but me. He could stay with my husband for maybe an hour and then he'd scream at the top of his lungs until I rushed home, scooping him up in my arms. The minute I held him, he was fine. He clung to me twenty-four hours a day while I cooked, while I did the laundry, even when I was in the bathroom.
Monica with her son, Wills.
Photo credit: Alex Asher Sears
Photo credit: Alex Asher Sears
When he was five months old, I was feeling more adventurous. Wills wasn't. Going to the market or stopping by the post office turned him into a shrieking, panting mess.
Then at 13 months old, there were new worries as well. He wasn't hitting the appropriate developmental marks: no babbling, gesturing, crawling. At 16 months, Wills was finally walking, but not talking, and his stranger anxiety, that had reared its ugly head months earlier, worsened. If someone at the park came up to us, he would bury his face in his hands and let out a high-pitched screech or take off running in a wild panic.
One Sunday my sister, Wills, and I were standing outside a piano store in Santa Monica. Suddenly, Wills pointed to a spigot on the side of the building and said his first word, "Water." He'd been silent for so long. It startled us so much, we screamed. Wills started crying.
I picked him up and said, "Yes, water. You are exactly right, that is where water comes from."
He pointed toward the sky. "Sky." I danced in place. "You want to see airplanes?" I asked him.
"Airplane," he said.
"Okay, let's go airplane watching." I would have taken him to Vegas if he'd asked.
From then on, almost every day, Wills and I sat alone in the lobby of the tiny Van Nuys Airport. Wills pressed his small face against the glass to watch the planes come and go. He was happy there. He was not happy anywhere else.
When Wills was 18 months old, my friend Jenn called and asked if she could drop off a book she had borrowed. I hung up the phone and looked at Wills. He was playing with soft blocks.
"Jenn's coming over," I said. He looked startled. "I know you don't like visitors but she's really great."
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang and Jenn was waving at me through the glass. I felt the old me, the woman who loved company, rumbling beneath my sweaty t-shirt. I opened the door and when I turned to introduce Wills, he was gone.
"Hang on, Jenn, I have to get Wills," I said, following the trail of dropped blocks.
The trail ended near his closet, where two red leather boots were poking out the door.
"I see you," I teased.
When I pulled back the door, he was sitting there, arms wrapped around his body, rocking back and forth.
"Hey, buddy," I said kneeling down, "What's going on?"
I looked into two completely blank eyes. Wills was not there.
I tried to pick him up, but he scrambled further back into his closet and clamped his hands over his ears.
"Hang on, honey, I'll be right back."
I ran out to the living room. "Jenn, I'm sorry, Wills isn't feeling well. Can we get together another day?”
"Sure," she said, heading for the door.
I forced a smile.
"Thanks for stopping by."
I closed the door and ran back to Wills's room. He was behind a stack of boxes now, his soft blonde head barely visible.
"Jenn's gone, buddy. Can you come out now?”
He couldn't.
I sat in front of the closet with my hand stuck behind the boxes touching his soft leg.
"It's okay, buddy. Come out when you're ready. It's okay."
I could live with the shrieking in public. I could humor his obsession with airplanes. I could minimalize his sensitivity to sound and texture.
I could not deny that he was vanishing from me. I knew if I let that happen, I might never get him back.
I had a brand new career – doing everything in my power to take care of Wills – the noblest (and sometimes the most frightening) profession I could have ever asked for.
Then at 13 months old, there were new worries as well. He wasn't hitting the appropriate developmental marks: no babbling, gesturing, crawling. At 16 months, Wills was finally walking, but not talking, and his stranger anxiety, that had reared its ugly head months earlier, worsened. If someone at the park came up to us, he would bury his face in his hands and let out a high-pitched screech or take off running in a wild panic.
One Sunday my sister, Wills, and I were standing outside a piano store in Santa Monica. Suddenly, Wills pointed to a spigot on the side of the building and said his first word, "Water." He'd been silent for so long. It startled us so much, we screamed. Wills started crying.
I picked him up and said, "Yes, water. You are exactly right, that is where water comes from."
He pointed toward the sky. "Sky." I danced in place. "You want to see airplanes?" I asked him.
"Airplane," he said.
"Okay, let's go airplane watching." I would have taken him to Vegas if he'd asked.
From then on, almost every day, Wills and I sat alone in the lobby of the tiny Van Nuys Airport. Wills pressed his small face against the glass to watch the planes come and go. He was happy there. He was not happy anywhere else.
When Wills was 18 months old, my friend Jenn called and asked if she could drop off a book she had borrowed. I hung up the phone and looked at Wills. He was playing with soft blocks.
"Jenn's coming over," I said. He looked startled. "I know you don't like visitors but she's really great."
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang and Jenn was waving at me through the glass. I felt the old me, the woman who loved company, rumbling beneath my sweaty t-shirt. I opened the door and when I turned to introduce Wills, he was gone.
"Hang on, Jenn, I have to get Wills," I said, following the trail of dropped blocks.
The trail ended near his closet, where two red leather boots were poking out the door.
"I see you," I teased.
When I pulled back the door, he was sitting there, arms wrapped around his body, rocking back and forth.
"Hey, buddy," I said kneeling down, "What's going on?"
I looked into two completely blank eyes. Wills was not there.
I tried to pick him up, but he scrambled further back into his closet and clamped his hands over his ears.
"Hang on, honey, I'll be right back."
I ran out to the living room. "Jenn, I'm sorry, Wills isn't feeling well. Can we get together another day?”
"Sure," she said, heading for the door.
I forced a smile.
"Thanks for stopping by."
I closed the door and ran back to Wills's room. He was behind a stack of boxes now, his soft blonde head barely visible.
"Jenn's gone, buddy. Can you come out now?”
He couldn't.
I sat in front of the closet with my hand stuck behind the boxes touching his soft leg.
"It's okay, buddy. Come out when you're ready. It's okay."
I could live with the shrieking in public. I could humor his obsession with airplanes. I could minimalize his sensitivity to sound and texture.
I could not deny that he was vanishing from me. I knew if I let that happen, I might never get him back.
I had a brand new career – doing everything in my power to take care of Wills – the noblest (and sometimes the most frightening) profession I could have ever asked for.
Monica Holloway is the author of a new book,
"Cowboy and Wills,"
which tells the rest of this story how a golden retriever puppy changed her son with autism's life.
If you have a story you wish to share about your personal experience with autism, please send it to
editors@autismspeaks.org.
Autism Speaks reserves the right to edit contributions for space, style and content. Because of the volume of submissions, not all can be published on the site.
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