My mother, Roma, was faced with the ordeal of raising an autistic child before anyone, including the "experts" knew what autism was, let alone how to treat it. My brother, David, was born on March 29, 1953 and everyone rejoiced that he was a healthy boy, even though he was "bald as an egg". They knew that he would grow hair eventually, just as they were certain he would lose his blank stare and odd jerking movements.

They were right about the hair anyway - David had beautiful dark blond curls by the time he was one. However, their predictions about other changes did not prove as accurate. While his tantrums did abate slightly, they didn't ease when my mother attempted to comfort him; in fact, they seemed to get worse. Throughout his early childhood, the only person he would relate to was me (I'm 13 months younger).

My mother never forced her attentions on David. Instead, she used me as a mediator, hoping that someday he would be ready to admit her into his own world of his own volition. Then, when she couldn't get answers from friends or books, she started to take him to specialists. Because my father was in the Army at that time, her choice of professionals was limited. But, that probably didn't make much difference in the lack of help given. Truthfully, few health professionals, even today, are qualified to treat non-verbal patients.

Although David's lack of socialization and his repetitive, senseless movements, didn't fit the diagnostic criteria for mental retardation, the doctors declared that he was severely retarded. While it was a difficult diagnosis to live with, my mother adjusted quite well. She started reading about children with various types of mental retardation, and decided that she would just teach him as much as he could learn.

Her good intentions were put to the test, however, when David continued to refuse to interact with anyone other than me. Also, the information in books was belied by what she saw. There was no mention of repetitive movements or emotional withdrawal as symptoms of mental retardation. Even more puzzling, they all mentioned "those" children requiring enormous (and draining) amounts of attention. But, David couldn't have cared less about attention; he preferred to be ignored.

Her one bright spot was the obviously deep love between David and me; our relationship only grew stronger as time went on. There was a total rapport between us long before my time of conscious memory. We always shared a world. It was a lifeline for my mother to cling to.

Family, friends and professionals used our relationship to reassure her that everything would get back to normal (as if things had ever been "normal.") They were all sure that David would soon expand his social circle to include her. When this did not occur, and David continued to only communicate with me, the rounds of doctors started again.

My mother learned of a child psychiatrist who was often referred to as "the best." With high hopes, she made the long trip from New York to Florida. The conditions were harrowing - she was pregnant, my father was unavailable (both emotionally and physically,) and I was extremely jealous of all of my mother's attention (except with David, luckily) but I had to come because I was her only link to David.

After keeping us waiting for more than two hours, the doctor spent, maybe, 30 minutes with David alone. My mother and I had to wait in another room (although I screamed the entire time that we were apart.) Then, she was called into the room to hear the doctor's words. "Autism can't be treated and since you are still a young woman and can have more children, you should put 'the boy' in an institution and forget about him." That was all he said!

My mother was totally unprepared. She had never heard of "autism" and began sobbing despairingly. At that, probably because I was so sensitive to David's and my mother's emotions, my screams started again. The doctor ignored the cacaphony; he merely called for his office nurse to calm us down as he walked away.

My mother did not take the expert's advice, although, in 1955, when this occurred, a doctor's authority was rarely questioned by anyone. However, my mother knew that "throwing a child away" because he was sick would be morally wrong no matter WHO said it, and she stuck to her convictions. She had a well-developed sense of justice, anyway, and was naturally softhearted. Our house always had stray animals that other people had abandoned; she couldn't and wouldn't countenance abandoning any child, let alone her own son.

So, she set out to do the only thing that she knew how to do - love him as much as she could. My mother provided an atmosphere that allowed David to grow at his own pace. So he continued to share his space with me alone, and through me, he never lost all contact with the outside world.

For about a year after seeing that doctor, any changes that took place were too subtle for me to remember, except one. Instead of including our baby sister in his world, as my mother had expected (or at least hoped) that he would, David was actively aggressive towards her. His singling her out for pinches and slaps was as inexplicable as his total acceptance of me. Most of my mother's "free time" was occupied with keeping Cathy out of David's way.

Certainly, my mother would have been extremely frustrated as she watched David's behavior for any signs of improvement, especially during these months when he seemed to be regressing.

Giving David the freedom to remain apart from others eventually bore fruit, because by the time David was three years old, he was not only talking (though mostly to me and himself), he had learned to tolerate my sister's presence and he was reading and doing sums as well. This was especially significant because it was definitive proof that David was NOT mentally retarded.

Nobody knows how David learned to read or use numbers correctly; however it was obvious that he learned to talk as a result of his reading rather than listening to other people's speech. Indeed, he always spoke as a deaf person would, in a monotone and in a pedantic manner. In a way, I suppose he was deaf. Certainly, he did not hear or listen to the world around him.

The next major change took place when David started depicting my mother in his drawings as something solid, with three dimensions. His drawings of her started to show facial expressions, instead of being amorphous and undefined. He began to recognize her as "Mommy" when she was in the same room. A few months later, he began to seek out her company occasionally and sometimes even joined in when my mother and I had our frequent talks. Unfortunately, he did not do this with any regularity, so it was hard for my mother to be sure of any real progress.

He stopped pulling away from my mother's frequent shows of affection and he became quite demonstrative with me. He would even agree to hug my dolls, sometimes. But, the months passed without David ever initiating a hug or kiss with my mother.

Finally, the day my mother had dreamed about for years came at last. It would have suited the story to say that the day was bright and sunny, but, actually, it was a very dreary, wet day on a morning in May shortly after David turned four. My mother was engrossed in a book, when David tapped her shoulder and stared down at her face. Her first absent-minded, "What is it, Honey?" gave way to astonishment when she realized that David was looking intently AT HER. She held her breath, and David said the magic words that she'd waited so long to hear. "I love you, Mommy," echoed in the room as she gathered him in her arms.