Autism, Tylenol, and Homecoming

Last Saturday, my son went to Homecoming. He didn’t have a date, but he was far from alone. Eight special-ed students got into their suits with sloppily-knotted ties, their glittery dresses and freshly painted nails. They met at Chick-fil-a, throwing back waffle fries and lemonade like it was an open bar. Their parents forced them to pose in a hundred different locations for pictures, and they voiced their objection through smiles and gritted teeth. 

We arrived to the venue a good thirty minutes before the dance was to start, while the DJ crew and decorations committee were still setting up. The Northview school administration (second to none in Ohio!) was kind enough to let them in early to take even more pictures. When their patience had run dry and they were no longer willing to stand for even just one more photo op, my son went to the DJ and made the first song request of the night: “Welcome to New York.” While the rest of Northview’s student body was filtering in, Matthew had his classmates, paras, a handful of teachers and even a vice principal cutting the floor, courtesy of Taylor Swift. Homecoming was already underway when everyone else arrived.

He made that happen.

He got the party started.

He was the life of the party until the party died.

The party died when he left.

And it was all because he has the inhibitions of a 4-year old. He was dancing, acting goofy, throwing his hands up, dipping pretty girls, dipping the quarterback, dipping the dean of students, spinning his buddy’s wheelchair, ripping off waffle-fry farts, laughing, and dancing some more, all while his Wile-E-Coyote and Roadrunner tie was flapping in the wind. He didn’t care. And why should he? He was having fun. And him having fun invited others to let their own guard down and join the party he and Taylor Swift had started. 

Matthew is infamous at Northview High School. Not because he is the poor disabled kid that everyone pities, but because he says and does things others (present company included!) are too chicken to say or do. He sings loud and sometimes off-key and then takes a big bow where his head almost hits the floor. He dances up and down the hallway hi-fiving whoever has a free hand. He wishes everyone “Happy Labor Day” for a solid week before and after the actual holiday. 

And he prays. During lunch, he prays and thanks God for his cheese quesadilla and when he’s done, he looks at his classmate and says, “Aren’t you going to say ‘Amen’?” If an ambulance passes the bus, he orders everyone to fold their hands and close their eyes to ask Jesus to help those poor people who got into a crash. When a friend is having a rough day, he wraps his arm around them and prays with them on the floor while thousands of their classmates step over them to get to class. If you have someone in your life who operates under the delusion that prayer is not welcome in public schools, my son would like to weigh in. 

He makes lives better. He brings joy where there is sadness. He starts parties where there are wallflowers. He brings the Spirit of God and the presence of the Kingdom to bear in the halls of his high school, the aisles of the grocery store, and the long miles of trail at the forest preserve. 

Earlier today a friend texted me asking how I was processing the noise coming from Washington linking Autism to Tylenol. And I suppose I’m processing that in a number of ways. Medically, I have to defer to my wife, the scientist; I trust her, and as far as she is concerned, the link between Tylenol and Autism doesn’t pass the smell test. On another level, this is just one more thing someone tells me I should or shouldn’t have done that would have prevented my son from having Autism. What lies underneath it all is society’s subtle attempt to make me covet a different son, a normal son—a Matthew I don’t have but wish I did.

I actually started writing with a completely different direction in mind, addressing RFK, Trump, et.al, before my friend sent me that text. But what kept coming to mind when I was talking with him was homecoming. Cutting a rug with his special-ed friends. A grown 17-year old man-in-training asking the DJ to play Taylor Swift. Laughing at himself. Making others laugh too. Bringing light in dark places. Bringing joy to sadness. Bringing encouragement to pain. 

While considering all this, I had a sort of “Aha” moment. I know I speak for myself, and I am not the sole voice of all things Autism, special-needs, disability, and what-have-you. At least for me, I have come to this conclusion: Even if I knew beyond the absolute shadow of a doubt that some vaccine caused Matthew’s Autism (it didn’t), or that my wife taking Tylenol made him who he is (it didn’t)… Even if that could be proven and even if I could go back in time and undo whatever it was that caused Autism, I wouldn’t change a thing. 

He is who God gave us, who God entrusted to us, and he is a gem. He is a gem not in spite of Autism, but precisely because of it. Seventeen years ago I would not have found myself signing up for this. During the last seventeen years, there were some significantly dark periods, and I am under no illusion that there will not be dark days to come. And yes, there are still some things I wish I could “fix” and yes, there are many ways in which he is “disabled.” But the positive impact he has had on our family—on me in particular—cannot be overstated. Our other kids are more gentle and compassionate. I am more patient and considerate. And all of us laugh a whole lot more than we would if Matthew wasn’t who he is. Not in spite of Autism. Because of it.

So how am I processing this? Not by wishing he were someone else. Not by wishing I could go back in time and undo whatever was done. Not by lamenting the son I don’t have, but by rejoicing in the son God gave us. I’m processing this by reminding myself of Homecoming, by imagining what it must have been like for the entire Northview student body to get inspired by Matthew and “Welcome to New York.”