Assessments or he doesn't know what dude means

It's a little over a year ago now.
It still stings, even after all these months.
It has taken a long time to find the words and the courage.

A newly diagnosed Batsman, three years and four months.
A fragile and vulnerable me, scrambling to work out the right steps forward.
One quarter of my brain grieves for the struggles we know lay ahead.
Another is relieved that at least we know a little of what we are dealing with.
A third panics and rages, wanting to do every possible thing that will help him. Get out of my way and let me get what he needs.

And the last, as it always has, just sings in the presence of a sunny and affectionate little boy.

We are seeking a therapy program that will support him, nurture him, challenge him...to be all he can be.
And we find it here. But first we must undertake assessments, developmental assessments that will measure every little piece of where the Batsman is at.

We drive for over an hour in the traffic and rain to reach our destination.
All the way, the Batsman sings familiar little songs and then he counts, all the way to one hundred, his mind comforted by the pattern of the numbers.

Up the creaky steps and we are there. I can feel my palms sweat and my heart pound that bit harder. When you speak to others who have walked this path before you, they often say that the assessments are one of the hardest experiences, especially around the time of diagnosis. Putting your child's development up to be assessed against measures designed for children who are developing typically is painful and not a little heartbreaking.

The psychologist who will perform the assessments is friendly and young. In my head I think too young to be able to really see my boy and his potential. I can feel how defensive I am, hackles rising. I just want to grab my boy and run, away to a world of play dates and baby cinos, not one of tests and reports and struggles. But we stay, because we must. I tell myself the assessments will be a benchmark, a starting point for the road ahead. If we measure where he is now we will now how far he leaps in the next year. And I know he will leap, I do.

The Batsman does the best he can. But in the eyes of the tests, he performs poorly. It's not that he can't do the tasks, it's that he can't understand easily what is being asked of him in the first place. His receptive language skills let him down. He is agitated and anxious. It's a new place with new people and I can see the rigidity in his body as he moves, shouting out the stress. I hate this. I hate to put him through it. The psychologist tries hard to encourage him to comply, to join in, to sit on the chair but he struggles. I know he wants to run like me.

And then she says it. The words that make me realise my forever vocation of advocate for my son with autism has begun.

"Dude, come and sit in the chair. It's time to play some games, dude."

The Batsman doesn't acknowledge her request. I don't think he even knows she was talking to him.

As calmly as I can, I say "He doesn't know what dude means. It's probably better if you use his name. Then he will know that you are speaking to him."

The end of the assessment finally arrives and I schedule an appointment to return and discuss the results in a couple of weeks. I make a mental note for the Captain to come along and hold my hand that day.

And then the Batsman and I, we run. Down the street and into a cafe to drink the biggest milkshakes and eat the largest, gaudiest cupcakes we can find. He grins at me, face covered in milk and icing. He's safe now and he knows it.

Tears stream down my face all the way home.