As you go into this holiday season, run ragged by all you must do and keeping up with your kids, keep in mind what parents of autistic children deal with day in and day out. Then take an oath to assure it happens to no other families—or your own.
by Lisa Joyce Goes
Today is Sunday, May 15th. My husband Dave took our daughter Mads to the museum in Springfield with my in-laws. I stayed home to potty train my 4 year old son with Autism, Noah, and my 3 year old neurotypical son, Liam.
It’s grey and miserably cold for May in Chicago so our frequent trips for breaks outside are not an option. I set out to take them both to the bathroom every half hour. This is a huge battle since our son Liam, while entirely capable of using the toilet, chooses not to because his big brother Noah, “not go”. So both scream, have a fit and cry, everytime I take them to the commode.
Liam sees Noah behaving this way, and while he is completely verbal and actually says, “Poop yuck. Change me,” he conforms his behavior to that of his older brother. I am thankful he was not with me in therapy last week when Noah humped an 11 year old girl while I tried to talk to his speech pathologist, or when he open-hand slapped my lovely neighbor across the face, who was guilty only of trying to keep him from running into the street.
Between potty breaks, I tried to get a jump on dinner for this evening. This was when Noah decided he had to use the bathroom. He went into the toliet area to take off his diaper and stripped off his clothes. (Putting his diaper and clothing back on after he has removed them is something we do up to 37 times a day.)
He then headed for my daughter’s room, where he promptly defecated all over her bed. He has been on an organic gluten-free/casein-free diet for a month, so his stools are strange, frequent, and always the consistency of liquid or oatmeal. This one was the latter and could have filled a quart-sized jar—a shocking quanitity, since he’d had three previous bowel movements already this morning. He took this foul smelling detritous and threw it on the ceiling, smeared it all over his face, the walls, and her shag carpeting.
He then ran into our room, with a lump of it on his leg, and rolled around in our white sheets and all over the bedspread. He dragged his poop-smeared hands along the walls and finished his tour-de-shit by smearing the last turds on his toy chest and books.
Noah then ran down the stairs and tackled his little brother Liam in a fit of laughter. This entire episode took less that 2 minutes, the time my PTS autism mom mind allows me to go before I shout throughout our 5,000 square foot, shit smeared house, “Where is Noah?”
My friend Ginger’s son got out of their house last week and was 2 blocks down before he was discovered.
I’m not gonna sugar coat it, our son Liam—he is going to have issues. This 2 minutes, I don’t know, it just … the vastness of the destruction, the amount of feces I clean on a daily basis, and Noah’s absolute inability to understand how truly disgusting it all is and the work that would be required to sanitize. Where to start? The shit in his mouth, his hair, or his sisters room? I dropped to my knees and just started sobbing. I mean, sobbing.
I have a really solid relationship with God, as I have been deathly sick and truly poor, two human conditions that get you on a first name basis with the almighty real quick. But this time, instead of my usual prayer for peace, “God, please be with me, this too shall pass, all things in time, I give this service up to you with a glad and grateful heart.” … This time I stared right up at the ceiling with my shit-covered clothes and cleaning supplies and I screamed, screamed!)
Fucking fix this! Fucking fix him damn it! Fix this! Fix it now! Fix this fucking house and fix this child because I am not enough and I cannot do it! What do you want from me? I can’t do this anymore!
Noah was still running around like a wild man walking through feces and spreading it all over the catwalk and the railing. I bent over, my face hitting a piece of carpet smeared with [you guessed it[ and just let it all go. Liam crawled out of his crib. (I put him in there in times like these to keep him safe and as poop free as possible.) He came over to me, patted my back and said, “It’s okay momma, it’s okay.”
On a side note, those who may feel I am dishonoring my son in some way by relaying these stories—the slapping and humping—it is imperative you understand those behaviors are not my Noah. Those actions are the product of a severely vaccine damaged neurological and central nervous system. He cannot and will not be held responsible for those actions. Just as we do not shout after veterans who’ve lost their legs in war, “Hey, Dude, can’t you walk straight?”
Don’t you dare consider telling my son to “mind.” He cannot. His mind has been destroyed. I simply care for what was left behind, the beautiful, delightful, and extraordinary soul of a little boy trapped in a body at war with itself.
I willingly and enthusiastically gave his thinking mind to Merck, Sanofi Pasteur and Wyeth without knowing they did not test their vaccines for combined effect. Noah is not to blame for my poor judgement and willingness to let those in white coats do my thinking for me.
Friends, you are about to see a whole slew of reports, data, and information that is designed to make you think autism has always been around. You are about to hear about all the promising new “treatments”—that is, drugs—that are in the works to help our kids.
I am guessing you are also going to see oodles and oodles of feel good stories about high functioning kids with autism—kids who can fly planes, drive firetrucks, give speechs and win marathons. These stories are wonderful and I applaud these children for their accomplishments. However, all of this is meant to keep you from thinking we have a real problem, a real epidemic on our hands.
I guarantee these children were not shitting themselves up to 9 times a day because of the measles in their gut. Then again, I don’t know. Maybe they were, but their parents got them to the right doctors and got them recovered. I guarantee you will not hear that part of the “feel good” story.
My son was irrevocably harmed by vaccines. I will fight for his recovery until my last breath, but God … God! I do not want this to happen to you.
Do not accept what archaic, out of touch institutions are trying to sell you in an effort to stay in business. Without you, they cannot exist. Every educator I meet tells me they have never seen so much autism or neurological dsyfunction. They lament systems incapable of handling the vast amounts of services these children require. Our doctors and nurses are getting it too. They have been opening their eyes … because it has begun to affect them and their families.
Please, as you review the information that will be pushed at you via popular news outlets, think about moms like me, who do not get paid to do this. And think about the commercials you see between news segments. Think about your trips for well-baby visits and the posters you see on the walls. And think about me, crying out to God, swearing like a sailor, trying with all my might just to make it through another day. I don’t want your pity. I want you to educate yourself and take action.
My Noah and all our kids will benefit immensely from you taking your healthcare and your children’s healthcare into your own hands. Do what is right for your family and never ever let someone else make important medical decisions like vaccination for you and your children.
Best, LJ Goes
LJ Goes is Managing Partner of The Misuta Project, LLC, an autism media company in search of the truth, in support of those pursuing it. She is a writer and autism advocate and mom to three children, Madeleine, Noah and Liam., which focuses on misrepresentations about autism.
Lisa is behind the video, Street Corner Autism Debate—a brilliant take-down of the pathetic arguments routinely spewed out to belittle autism and pretend it’s not the result of vaccines. Take a look:
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