December 1996

Deep breath, grab his hand, try to distract him. It doesn't work. This place, my last hope, is too unfamiliar, too fascinating. He hasn't stopped moving since we arrived except for brief instances during the various evaluations. This whole assessment has been one long test. He lost control within half an hour of arriving. Racing down corridors to the next appraisal, sometimes responding to our calls. Usually his father chases him down. I get weary just watching him.

Between each evaluation there is a break. Now on our third wait. Until handed a clipboard of papers, his father stares at the television and chews on the pinky of his left hand. As always, I must cope with my son. Now his father fills out the forms, asking me the questions he can't answer. I answer most of the questionnaire. My son's father sees the kids long enough to take them to church and dump them in a Sunday school room, then bring them home when church is over. Being more involved wouldn't help him know more of the answers. My son is a stranger to each of us equally.

Finally called into the psychologist's office, I can barely pay attention as my son pursues his every fancy. First he wants the lamp, then the phone, both resting on the same table. A clock catches his eye and he attempts to climb the bookshelf on which it resides at the top. Denied, he picks up a toy to spin and goes back to the lamp table.

Then it hits me. The psychologist's voice becomes a blow to my heart and mind. Moderate mental retardation, developmentally delayed, and Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. I was right, there was something wrong. Bittersweet sorrow. I was wrong, it's not my fault. Bittersweet joy. In one moment, after months of struggle, I am freed, but now he's chained. Now there's hope and help. Tears fall in grief, dissolving guilt.