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There’s a common thing that happens when someone new hears that my son is nonverbal with severe autism. In nearly every case, they focus on me.

That must be hard.

Look, there’s an important point that needs to be made here. Comments like this don’t offend me. They may be misguided, in my opinion, by focusing on the negative first. Still, it comes from a place of care, and I appreciate it.

If it feels like parents in my position often get offended, it’s because we often do. I did when Lucas was first diagnosed. Who wouldn’t?

My son was a mystery, and the little information we were being given all felt dire. Knowing your kid has autism doesn’t ease your mind at that age. For me, it felt like an accusation, a challenge, and a reprimand all at once.

I must have done something to cause it. I’m not doing anything to fix it. I deserve to be punished.

It’s hard to even write that out today because it’s the exact opposite of how I feel. My child isn’t a tragedy. He’s wonderful.

Still, people immediately turn to the hardships of having a boy like mine. I get it. That’s what they know.

We’re conditioned to see things that way. These people don’t know my son. They don’t know how autism affects him. In fact, most don’t know much about autism at all.

The idea is that it’s hard and, especially with a nonverbal child, communication must be nearly impossible.

It’s not. It is, however, difficult. I’ll give them that.

They’re simply thinking about me, desperately trying to get a point across to my son. They envision communication breakdowns and the frustration I must feel as a father being misunderstood. I get it.

Still, the frustration I feel in those times of disconnection pales in comparison to what my boy must go through.

That’s something that few think about. For me, as his dad, it’s all I think about.

Think about something as simple as a doctor’s appointment. Every step of the way, people pity me for the difficulty I must face.

When he was little, Lucas didn’t understand the doctor. Getting him on a scale or looking into his ears cause a full-scale meltdown. They all felt sorry for me.

I felt sorry for him. Sure, it was hard for me to get it done with a kid screaming and crying. But for a kid who doesn’t understand what a doctor is? I can’t even imagine the fear and confusion.

So what about now? Today, he understands the doctor. He knows that this person isn’t there to dissect him. He’ll walk out with a smile and get a candy or something. There’s no more tears in the waiting room.

However, there are still things that could turn this easy appointment into a nightmare.

Maybe we’re going on a day he’s off from school. After all, that’s the easiest time to schedule a visit for your kid. I know that. You know that.

He doesn’t know that.

All Lucas knows it that, on a day that he can lie in bed and be happy, he’s being brought to this place that, in his mind, exists just to inconvenience him.

Time has always been a deeper concept that he doesn’t seem to truly comprehend. So there’s no way to get that point across. He doesn’t use schedules or appear to know the fact that certain days might be easier for all involved.

In fact, he doesn’t know that this visit is important to keep him, well, alive. The reasoning for our appointment, below the surface of simply going, isn’t understood. I can’t make it clear to him….at least, not yet.

So when he goes to the doctor with me, he does it out of trust. It’s something that I earned through repetition and patience.

Had I fought him tooth-and-nail at the early appointments, this office would hold terrible memories. He’d flip out every time we walked in. He’d remember the anguish and question my role in it.

I earned it by always thinking about his gaps of comprehension, not just my own. I still do. I put my boy first to make him comfortable so that when we need to do things he doesn’t understand, he’ll trust me enough to do it.

People don’t get that. Did he whine at the dentist? Sure. But given what was being asked of him with little information, it’s amazing that it ended there. Think about it.

What would you do if – out of nowhere- someone came in, dragged you to a stranger, plopped you in a chair, and started fingering your mouth?

Now imagine protesting in the only way you know how, only to have people freak out on you until you comply. What would that feel like? What would that be like?

It breaks my heart to think about that for Lucas. His life, without the patience of others, would be a string of things like that. Every movement and activity that he’s not fully aware of would feel like a violation across the board.

So, yeah. Raising a nonverbal son can be kind of tough for me. I give you that.

It’s also incredibly difficult…for him.

But he shows me trust and patience. The least I can do is return compassion and care. One day, he might be able to grasp every concept. Until then, though, I’ll try to remember that I’m his guide to the world. It’s up to me to show him the realities and let him know he’s safe.

That’s why I’ll keep showing up with patience, love, and calm even when I’m tired, even when it’s tough. Because if he can face a confusing world with trust in me, then the least I can do is be worthy of it.

Divorced Dad On “Staying Together For The Kids”

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