I’ve been keeping secrets.
Because I had to.
Because it involved a court case.
That involved my son.
I wrote an anguished post with gut-wrenching pathos at the time it happened.
And I’ve waited until the final hearing to share it.
You may question whether it is appropriate to publish such personal information.
I certainly have.
But, I have decided that if it is at all possible to help another child by sharing what we endured…
…to reach out to other autism families.
…to other police officers.
…to other neighbors.
Then, maybe next time, nothing bad will happen.
Or something better will happen.
Or nothing will happen at all.
And wouldn’t that be beautiful!
June 9, 2018
We met today under the worst circumstances. You were just doing your job; I understand that. But I feel I need to explain why I behaved the way I did and, perhaps, you can understand a little bit how the exchange seemed from my side of the handcuffs.
I came to the door, half-clothed and disoriented by lack of sleep, to learn my son had escaped. For fourteen years, I have been responsible for keeping my child safe and I have failed. Again.
But this was different from other times.
The neighbors whose home he entered were sleeping. All they heard was an intruder.
And my son no longer looks like the little boy he is.
When you first approached me, you said something about my son not responding to requests. My reply was not polite.
“Of course he can’t respond. He is a non-verbal autistic!”
You walked away as if you needed space to process that.
So, when you came back and asked me, “Do you realize what might have happened?” I answered you honestly.
“Yes. Yes, I do. It is my greatest fear.”
I was not trying to argue that the situation wasn’t serious. I was just grateful nothing worse had happened. I was focused on making my son feel better, to calm him down right now so he wouldn’t injure himself.
And you wouldn’t let me see him.
You have protocols for interactions. None of the officers would let me approach the car where my son was handcuffed. But I could hear him wailing from where I was standing in my bare feet on a damp sidewalk. You have your emergency response and I have mine.
I have a mother’s need to care for and defend her child. It doesn’t matter that my ‘child’ is five feet eight inches tall and weighs 170 pounds. He is still a child who was crying because you had his blanket, crayons, and papers. Materials now taken away in evidence.
It is probably not expected for officers to feel empathy for the wrong-doer, or his mother. To care about both sides of an equation. Perhaps you were running on adrenaline?
Did you train your firearm on my special need child? He couldn’t follow a simple command like, “Put your hands in the air and get on your knees.”
This thought haunts me.
I later learn, from the reports, that you had to tackle my child to get the cuffs on him. That he resisted and clung to a door frame as he was pulled from the house. This explained the bruises and abrasions.
Trust me, I can picture what might have happened in painful clarity.
In the past, when my son has escaped and entered homes or the nearby church, people have recognized his special needs and things have been okay. Maybe that made me blind to a growing problem.
The fact that my son was wearing a pair of Christmassy pajama bottoms and a Victory Day t-shirt from the school’s special needs programming wasn’t enough to tell you how very special he is.
The training that kicks in and locks an officer into a rigid response doesn’t allow you to recognize my shock and relief at a nightmare that wasn’t fully realized. Perhaps that looked like an insult to you? It wasn’t meant to be.
You couldn’t know that I had been sick with Salmonella. That Friday night was the first night I got any real sleep in almost a week. So, when my son woke at five a.m. Saturday, I was disoriented and put him back to bed. That when he woke me at 6:10 a.m., I was more so. That I fell back asleep is my fault. I promise you, I’m wide awake now.
I am haunted by what might have happened. I am haunted by it every time he is out of sight. I am haunted by a future I cannot see or control but can only dread. Fear never leaves me.
I am grateful that he wasn’t taken into a police station and booked. Thank you for releasing my son into my custody. Even if, like Cinderella, you sent him home with only one shoe.
I had hoped that the neighbors would drop the charges against my son for entering their home and scaring them so badly. But their fear was greater than their understanding of autism or the limits of a system that is not built for children like mine.
I do not blame them. Or I try not to. I understand how it must have looked from their side of the road; I just wish they could see the situation from mine.
Just as I hope you can understand. And that you never learn how it feels to watch your baby in handcuffs, crying and just wanting to go home.
Like many unpleasant life lessons, this has been a learning experience.
The wheels of justice move glacially slow.
We waited weeks for the notice that my son was being charge with first degree home invasion. Then we had to be assigned an attorney by the court. Then there were appearances and reports to submit. The sheer drag time of getting a competency review dulled the initial sharp stabs of terror to a steady, gnawing anxiety. I cried a lot this summer and into the fall.
During that time, Child Protective Services became involved. I was very grateful for the unexpected kindness of the Children’s Services Specialist who eventually cleared me of charges of neglect.
There were some positives.
The county health organization expedited Alexei’s process for getting ABA assistance as well as Community Living Supports. We are finally getting the help we’ve needed.
Also, I was able to take advantage of a program through Vivint Gives Back to get a reduced rate for a security system that will wake me up if any one of the doors or windows are opened.
And my son’s window now has security bars, because he can get into trouble even faster than an alarm system can wake me. (I stopped jerking awake at the slightest noise after these were installed.)
My son’s psychiatrist agreed to let my son take stronger meds to help keep him asleep.
And this week, my son was declared legally incompetent.
The case was dismissed with prejudice. Which is a good thing. It means he can’t be held responsible for his crimes and the verdict is final.
And I can only hope that the next time a family like mine is struggling, that it doesn’t take a crisis to get assistance. And that maybe the neighbors will offer to help make our lives easier instead of harder.
As for me, I spent these months channeling my fears and anxiety into my garden. Every time I had a panic attack or thought about losing my son, I planted flowers. I think I there are over five hundred bulbs and perennials out there now.
So, when spring arrives, perhaps it will bring a promise of better things.