Karis Jane

Karis has a rough start to life. I was so sick early in the pregnancy that I couldn't keep anything down. While Zofran initially took the edge off slightly, after a few weeks I began vomiting again regardless, so I discontinued the medication. At 13 weeks, days after my stomach started settling, I began gushing blood. I feared that we had lost her. After hours of sitting in the waiting room of the ER, we were finally taken back and an ultrasound revealed out little peanut on the screen, healthy and (I presume) happy.

 Karis was born 10 days after her due date. My water broke in the car while out running errands (Joe was driving), and he insisted we go immediately to the hospital. I wanted to go home and labor in the quiet of my bedroom, but I finally acquiesced when it was apparent he wouldn't budge. When I arrived at triage, the nurses calmly, but quickly attached an oxygen mask to my face, then began moving me from side to side while continuing to measure Karis' vitals. Apparently when my water broke, she descended on her umbilical cord and compressed it with her head-cutting off her "lifeline." Despite all of her early trauma she emerged into the outside world no worse for wear, with beautiful APGAR scores, and spent her first two years developing normally. In fact, by the time she was two, we were convinced we had a little genius on our hands. She had beautiful, meaningful conversations, was singing songs, she would "read" stories using different voices and inflections, and was just such a sharp little cookie.

Around Christmas time, I was taking photographs of a family with an autistic child. A few weeks later, I was struck by how Karis looked and acted the exact same in front of the camera as the autistic child, but I dismissed it from my mind.   Karis used to be vibrant and verbal, then her days gradually got quieter and quieter. A few months later she began running away.   She began chewing on all sorts of non-food objects. Then I realized she no longer played with her baby doll, she just spent her days lying on the floor liner up her trains in rows. It was 2 am on a night when my husband was gone that it occurred to me that my child was autistic. I woke with a start, reached for my iphone, and spent the rest of the night googling autism. At 7:00 I called the clinic to see if they could squeeze us in for a referral that day. I was already showered and dressed in case they said, "We have one slot available in 5 minutes if you can get here."

 At this point, we were less than a month away from moving overseas, so they put us on the fast track and we had a diagnosis of autism (moderate) within weeks. We were assured that our host country was a great place to be with behavioral therapy programs in place, so we were expecting to receive 40 hours of behavioral therapy a week, as recommended by our developmental psychologist. We found out that wasn't the case at all. What happens is that an ABA (applied behavioral analysis) therapist comes to your home about once a month and helps the parents set goals for their autistic children and gives general guidance regarding interaction.  I was devastated to hear this, because it was obvious that Karis needed as much intervention as possible.  Karis had continued to regress over the summer-losing what was left of her verbal skills while shunning contact and affection, plus she began flapping her hands when excited (either happy-excited or angry-excited or scared-excited).

I made a few phone calls, sent a few emails, and a new friend I had just met told me about the Sonrise program.  I had a consultation on the phone with a Sonrise teacher that night.  I attended a 3 day intensive training session in the UK the last weekend of August, and I came back inspired and excited to begin a program at full throttle.

Here's the gist:  when your child withdraws into his/her own world, you "join" them:  If they line up their toys, you line up toys.  If they flap their hands, you flap your hands.  When they give you the "green light" (eye contact), which may take hours or days or weeks, you introduce one new thing.