So just before Christmas, Liam was officially diagnosed with Autism. We’ve kind of been operating under that assumption for quite some time now, so this is not really big news. The only reason I pursued an official diagnosis for him was because I’m a bit underwhelmed with the services provided by Liam’s school district and I want to start getting serious about his therapies and treatment. This has proved to be far more difficult than I imagined. I thought that once I had the diagnosis, I’d have a handful of names to call, appointments set up within the week and the ball rolling on multiple treatments for my son. What I didn’t count on was two full pages of phone numbers to choose from and no one calling me back. It seems that everywhere that provides any kind of autism-related treatment has waiting lists out the wazoo and costs roughly YOUR SOUL. I knew treatment was not going to be cheap, but no one is even willing to discuss it with me. Even the psychologist we saw up at the Dept of Health dismissed me when I asked about private speech therapy for Liam. “It’s really expensive.” I’m not sure how I got “welfare mother” stamped on my forehead, but all of a sudden, I’m Julia Roberts in that snooty store on Rodeo Drive. People, just tell me what your damn services cost. I’ll worry about whether or not I have the money to pay for it. I’d love to get all gussied up, waltz into their offices and say, “You made a big mistake. HUGE” and walk out, but more than likely, I’ll have to bury my rage and my pride and suck up to some people. THANK them profusely for calling me back after several weeks because, you know, THEY’RE DOING ME A FAVOR.
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