"I have ashes in my eyes," my autistic son, Jay T., wails.
"Do you mean fire?" I ask. Fire means he is furious.
He squeezes his stomach with both hands. "Let's carve my belly out. Where's the knife?"
Tall and lanky at 22, he shuffles into the Urgent Care waiting room. His face is expressionless except for two narrowing pewter-blue eyes that flicker like miniature flashlights. His voice staccatos as if his throat were a gun loaded with monotone syllables.
The desk clerk calls out our number. As I nudge him toward the examining room, he bellows, "I’m sicker than a dog."
The nurse directs him to the examining table, and he clambers up on all fours. When he rotates his body supine, his head overextends the table. Hands flailing, he jerks up to a sitting position.
"I need to get fixed."
He coughs and vomits into the . . . [Full Text of this Article]
