"Aspergers."
I have always underestimated the power of words.
The truth is, one word has the power to change your world. One word can present you with a complete new, unwelcome reality. And in that moment, the word Asperger's had the inevitable power to drive me into a world of obscurity... a world of hopelessness.
The doctor firmly sat behind his desk as he muffled this cringe-worthy statement.
As soon as I was able to grasp what he was saying, I felt like the ceiling was going to crumble down. I felt like a weight was pulling me into a horrid reality that I had been neglecting for years. I felt like the walls were going to collapse. My heart was beating at a speed I could not control. My whole world was falling apart.
That one word ruined everything, just as I was trying to get my life back on track.
"I'm afraid your daughter has a type of Autism that is commonly referred to as Aspergers Syndrome." Dr. Smythe continued to utter his words apologetically. I looked deeply into his eyes as mine began to water.
I was irked by the falsified sympathetic look he tried to maintain as he continued to speak more of my only daughter's illness. I looked to my right, only to see that Sugar had no interest in what was going on. She was biting her nails aggressively as she always had in awkward, nerve-racking situations.
My hands started shaking profoundly, my eyes were unable to maintain focus and were drifting away from the gruesome look in the doctor's eyes. Unable to utter a word, I was forced into a deep silence.
How could I have been so negligent? I thought to myself. My eyes gradually began to water up more and more as I dove myself into a depressing breakdown.
My daughter, my only child, Sugar, was just sitting at the end of the room, in the doctor's uncomfortable black leather chair, motionless… Listening to her own mother cry… And didn't even bother to look up.
How could I not have seen this? How could I not have known how serious this was?
"Ms. Lopez, I know this is hard for you. But your daughter will still be able to go to school. Nothing about her will change. Sugar is actually a very intelligent girl. And there are ways to make the negative symptoms decrease." He said in a comforting tone, attempting to calm me down.
I had been looking for answers for a few years now, I knew something was different about Sugar. I chose to deny the evident truth about my daughter and her slightly out-of-the ordinary behavior.
I did not believe in normality. There is nothing normal about any human being. Being normal is being dull. I guess I've admired Sugar's need for space, her pickiness, her dryness, and her uncontrollable focus on topics that are of interest to her.
I admired everything that made her different. I never wanted her to be defined by her dissimilarities. I wanted her to embrace them. That was where my fear of diagnosis came from: Everything that was unique about my daughter was going to be assimilated with a fucking illness from now on. I didn't want my daughter to be defined by anything. I didn't want society to put a label on Sugar and I most certainly did not want to be the one to push it down on her either.
The minute the doctor diagnosed my daughter, I knew that everything was going to change. My behavior towards Sugar was going to change in order to suit the needs of a child with Asperger's. I knew that society was going to label her as being different, awkward, weird and maybe even crazy. Their attitudes are undoubtedly going to change as well.
"What symptoms?" I went on "She's fucking normal! What is so different about her? That she's distant? That she doesn't give a crap about other people's feelings? Fuck, I'm like that too. I hate people too. How about you fucking diagnose me with Asperger's too?" These words came out my mouth due to a horrendous combination of confusion and frustration.
I shook my head left and right and dove into a deeper collapse. I was unable to get on board with this new-bound reality. It was too overwhelming.
"Asperger's isn't about hating people." The doctor went on, making sure I could clearly understand what was going on. "Sugar may face some difficulties involving social relationships however. Her brain is wired in a certain way that won't allow her to understand the basics of the human interactive process. She currently isn't sympathizing with you because her brain doesn't associate your tears with pain. She doesn't realize that you're in pain."
"She's an amazing kid." I gulped, wiping my tears away from my puffy, red cheeks. "And she really is smart for a five-year-old. I…"
"I can recommend you to a child therapist and a Special Ed teacher." He said in a reassuring tone.
I stayed quiet. I pressed my lips together and tried to hold my tears as I gazed out the window that stood right above my daughter's head. I didn't speak for a while. We both sat, paralleling each other, trapped in an inevitable silence.
"The sooner you start to treat her, the better." He paused to straighten his tie and proceeded in a calmer, more empathic tone. "Listen Santana, I know this is difficult for you. As a doctor, it is my job to help my patients and recommend what is best for them."
I sighed.
"We've been doing tests for almost a year." He proceeded "Her diagnosis was difficult. We finally have answers now, and that's a big step. Let's just move forward from now on. Let's not make this a bigger deal than it is."
I prolonged my silence, allowing the doctor to feel even more out of comfort.
He was right though, we were fighting for answers for far too long and now we have them. It doesn't necessarily feel better, if anything I kind of wish I could go back to not knowing anything and assuming that her abnormalities were a part of her character, and that her whole persona could not have been defined with one word but with an endless novel.
"I would also like to recommend some books that I think would be helpful to you and to your child." He pulled out a notebook and a pen from his desk drawer and continued, "books that you can read to your daughter, to her friends. Books that you can read to yourself so you can be more informed about A.S."
He began writing down a list of books I was not familiar with. All included similar titles.
"I… I don't think I can afford it." I said tentatively, hating every bit of myself.
"What?"
"The therapists and the teachers and the doctors… I want her to get better. It's just; I'm a twenty-three-year-old mom. My mom and Puck can only help me with so much." I sighed, adding a crushing tone of self-disappointment.
I could sense that Dr. Smythe was judging me by the simple raising of his eyebrows "I work solely for the well-being of mine and my husband Kurt's children. Parents are supposed to sacrifice everything for their children."
I nodded slowly and looked down on the ground. We stayed silent for a while. Neither one of us was able to look at the other. I could not do it because I knew he was judging me, and he couldn't bear throwing a glance at me because of his obvious disappointment in my recent revelation.
"Puck and I... we are not on the best terms... financially. We're having a lot of trouble trying to provide Sugar with the best medical care. We also have other finances to worry about, ones that can provide her with other activities. We have bills to pay." I admitted solemnly.
Dr. Smythe paused, presenting me with an agonizing silence. A few minutes later, he added "I know a great special education teacher who would probably be willing to work for little money. This might be a hassle because she just graduated from college, but she's really good with children. She's my sister-in-law. You'll love her."
"Can you write down her name and her number for me?" I asked soundlessly, showcasing a bit of contentment. This was the first positive feedback I had received today.
He grinned and did as I requested.
The secretary knocked on his door and entered the room, interrupting our meeting: "Dr. Sebastian Smythe, your next patient is waiting for you outside."
I glanced at my watch and came to the sudden realization that I had been stuck in this office, crying my eyeballs out for roughly an hour. I had to go. The meeting was officially over.
"Thank you so much for your time doctor, but I have to go." I said in a rushed tone.
"You don't have to rush, it's okay they can wait."
"Nah, I better get going. My mother is waiting for us in the house and I should get back to work."
"Okay, off you go then" I stared at Dr. Smythe once again. He flashed a warm and welcoming smile that made me feel quite at ease. His dimples shimmered and his teeth were clear as day.
I might have been wrong about him. Maybe he did care about his patients after all.
"Wait, don't forget to take these with you." He ripped the page off the notebook where he had jotted down the names of the books and the teacher.
He stood up from his chair, walked over and handed it to me. I pushed it hurriedly in my handbag.
His smile had brightened up. He no longer had that look of false sympathy in his eyes. He hugged me and followed it up by waving at the five-year-old, who was still sitting across the room, with her legs crossed, focusing all of her attention on her fingernails.
I walked over to her and took her by her hand as I rushed out of the doctor's narrow and dim office.
It was a ten-minute walk from the clinic to the house. That walk, however, felt endless.
I stared longingly at my daughter's shoes as we paved our way home.
She was wearing a pair of Birkenstocks, the same ones she wore every damn day. They were simple and grey. Closed off in the front and open in the back. Nothing special. I remembered the countless amount of times I told her to wear them with socks. And she simply refused to. No matter how much I yelled at her, begged her or showed her how comfortable socks were… she never agreed to wear them. She hated socks.
I remembered when I told her to wear something else; she simply shut me out. I brought her these gorgeous polka-dotted red and black flats on her birthday and she bluntly threw them away. They had cost me a fortune.
When I insisted she wear them, she threw tantrums. She screamed, she yelled into her pillow, she had nervous breakdowns and often, just shut herself out. She fought so hard to wear her Birkenstocks because she was so used to them, because they had become a part of her daily routine.
She couldn't let go of these shoes. They were dusty; their color had faded away into a lighter, dirtier shade of grey, which made them look cheaper.
I once offered to buy her the same pair of Birkenstocks on her birthday and she refused to get them. She stuck with the old ones.
Just by looking at my daughter's feet, I realized that there were an incalculable number of symptoms that I had been ignoring. Not because I was not aware that her habits were unusual, but because I did not want to admit it. I only wanted to see the good in her and that often resulted in ignorance.
When I got home, my mom was not there. I pulled out the ruffled piece of paper out of my bag and read the name of Sugar's possible Special Education teacher.
Her name was: Brittany S Pierce.