I was on edge.
A court investigator was coming to visit our home. She was coming because Peter and I were in the process of obtaining limited conservatorship for Matthew, as advised by the social worker who had been involved with our family since Matthew’s autism diagnosis years ago.
Limited conservatorship would enable us to continue to care for Matthew as we had since birth, making decisions about where he would live, and about his education. We would continue to be in charge of his financial affairs and medical treatment. We could give or withhold consent should he decide to marry.
We had endured many painful steps since Matthew’s birth – diagnosis, search for treatment, yearly evaluations by the school and the state, to name a few. But this step was particularly difficult. Iit was an admission that after all of our years trying to build skills and autonomy, our adult son would not achieve the independence that we, and he, had dreamt of.
The attorney assigned by the court to represent Matthew had come to call a few days before. Both the court investigator and the attorney were required to make home visits to verify that Matthew was indeed disabled enough to warrant this drastic action, and to advise him of his rights. The attorney, who later would admit that Matthew’s was only her second such case, was a young blonde without a line on her face. With her businesslike, slightly suspicious manner, I felt like a scam artist looking to bilk my son out of money, rights and freedom. We chatted briefly at the dining room table, my desperate attempts to break the ice – “I love your briefcase!” – falling flat. Then she asked if she could meet Matthew alone. I coaxed him from his room, where he was studying a book on poisonous plants, and eavesdropped on their conversation from the kitchen.
“Do you know that I’m an attorney?”
“What’s that?”
“Do you have a drivers license?”
Oooo, sore subject. Wants one. Can’t have one.
“Do you have a girl friend?” Silence.
You’re on a roll. Why don’t you ask him if he has any friends – at all?
“Do you know how much a car costs?”
“A lot of dollars”
“Do you know how much a hamburger at McDonald’s costs?”
“No”
He doesn’t go to McDonald’s.
After asking him a few more questions, she told me with a wink that we clearly had a good case.
She didn’t know that I was on the verge of tears, and that I was desperate for some kind of reassurance that I was doing the right thing.
I knew that the young attorney meant no harm, but she frayed some nerves and uncovered some insecurities. I worried that another grilling might damage Matthew’s ego, and mine. While waiting for the court investigator to arrive, I paced anxiously, wringing my hands. I envisioned a stout jail warden type with frizzy dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, and I worried that she would bark at me and that I would dissolve into tears. So when I opened the door to Claire, the court investigator, I was utterly relieved.
Claire had a shy, sympathetic smile, an open face and brown Labrador retriever eyes. Her brown hair was spiked in a youthful boy’s haircut and she wore a bright orange oxford shirt and khakis. The only thing that distinguished her between an investigator of the court and a younger sister who was really happy to see me was the badge that she wore around her neck.
I showed her to the dining room table where the attorney had needled Matthew a few days ago and she immediately reassured me that her visit was routine and that our case was straightforward. She explained the process and encouraged me to ask questions. Claire treated me like I was a heroic parent who was going to great lengths to secure the uncertain future of my challenged son. At that moment, Matthew emerged from his room with a long piece of toilet paper streaming from his left nostril. Why hadn’t he treated the attorney to such a greeting? He might have been spared the drivers license and girlfriend questions. Claire asked Matthew if she could see his room, and as before, I listened from the kitchen while she explained her visit.
Matthew took it all in somberly, and then told her he could take care of himself.
“I’m good at hard things,” he said proudly.
Hot tears spilled from my eyes when I heard Claire reassure him that being taken care of by your parents is a good thing. She recognized his desire for independence, but understood that he needed his parent’s protection. Then she asked him if he had any questions.

“What states have you been to?” he asked, and Claire patiently recounted all the states she could remember, and listened in amazement to Matthew’s list. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I let the tears flow–the “states” question always meant that Matthew had connected with someone.
I wiped the cleansing tears from my face before giving Claire a hug on her way out. The visit I had dreaded was one I was sorry to see end. Claire’s name is on the top of my Christmas card list. I wonder when her birthday is?

www.theautismperspective.org

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