post

Autism Doesn’t End At Five: Aaron’s Story

Today’s “Autism Doesn’t End At Five” series features the story of Aaron, who is four years old. Even if he reaches the top of the IBI waitlist before his fifth birthday, which is unlikely, he will only receive services for a short time before his age deems him ineligible.

autism doesn't end at five - aaron

Aaron was diagnosed with autism when he was just two years old. His mother had done the research: she knew that an early diagnosis followed by early intervention would improve her son’s chances of a good outcome. She was hopeful that now that Aaron had been diagnosed, she would be able to access services for him.

Instead, she found herself and her son being placed onto one waitlist after another. While Aaron is waiting his turn for IBI services, he is missing the developmental window identified by the Ontario government. Now almost four, he still technically qualifies for IBI, but considering that most children spend two years or more on the waitlist, he is unlikely to get to the top of the list by the time he turns five.

Aaron has been identified as being on the severe end of the autism spectrum. He has many challenges: among other things, he is non-verbal, he has limited eye contact, and he is not able to use the toilet independently. Many children have made tremendous gains in all of these areas thanks to IBI therapy.

In spite of his challenges, Aaron has many strengths for IBI service providers to build on. His mother describes him as a “puzzle wizard and builder extraordinaire”. This indicates the presence of strong problem solving skills and solid learning capabilities. Everything points to Aaron being an ideal candidate for IBI, and that is not going to magically change on his fifth birthday.

A year from now, Aaron will still be highly likely to reap enormous benefits from IBI therapy. But a year from now, the Ontario government will cut off his access to this critical therapy simply because of his age.

Aaron’s parents, who also have five-year-old twin girls, are now talking about private therapy. They refuse to give up on their son, but helping him is going to result in upheaval for the family. They are listing their home for sale in an attempt to pay for IBI therapy themselves. No family should have to go through this kind of stress – especially in a country like Canada, which prides itself on human rights and equal opportunities for all people.

“My heart aches for my son and I need to stay strong to be his voice in any way I can.” – Kelly, Aaron’s mother

By Kirsten Doyle. Photo courtesy of Aaron’s mother, Kelly.

post

Autism Doesn’t End At Five – Jolie-Anne’s Story

Our “Autism Doesn’t End At Five” series continues today, with the story of Jolie-Anne. In spite of steady success with IBI, Jolie-Anne is no longer eligible to receive services, simply because of an arbitrary age cut-off imposed by the Ontario government. If you have a story that you would like told, send an email to kirsten(at)runningforautism(dot)com.

autism doesn't end at five - jolie-anne

When Jolie-Anne was just twenty months old, her mother suspected that she might have autism. After spending eighteen months on a waitlist for a developmental assessment, she was formally diagnosed when she was a little over three years old.

For the next three years, Jolie-Anne was on the waitlist for provincially funded IBI services. During this time, her mother dug deep into her bank account to pay for whatever early intervention she could afford – speech therapy, occupational therapy and ABA social groups.

Jolie-Anne’s fifth birthday came and went, and she was still on the IBI waitlist. Her parents were no longer prepared to wait – they decided that until the government came through, they would find a way to foot the massive bill for IBI themselves. They felt that they had little choice: in the months leading up to this decision, Jolie-Anne had made virtually no progress in spite of being in a special needs classroom with a full-time EA.

Almost immediately, Jolie-Anne’s family and IBI providers started to see a difference. For the first time, she had a voice. She started using words, making eye contact and forming friendships. She learned how to state her name, age and address. She acknowledged her grandfather for the first time and gave him a hug.

The progress came at a tremendous financial cost to the family. Jolie-Anne’s parents were overjoyed and relieved when they were finally granted government funding for IBI services in September last year. Jolie-Anne continued to acquire new skills and meet the therapy goals that were laid out for her.

Sadly, thanks to the Ontario government’s new policy to deny IBI services to children aged five and above, Jolie-Anne will not be able to continue with IBI therapy unless her family is able to stretch themselves financially, even more than they already have.

Jolie-Anne’s mom is thinking not only of her own daughter, but of other children who are impacted by this new policy.

“I think of all the kids, who like my daughter could start IBI at age five or later and benefit from the same life-changing results, but they will not have that opportunity. I am heartbroken.” – Tia, Jolie-Anne’s mom

It is more than a little disturbing that any government can decide that children are no longer deserving of life-changing therapy simply because they have reached a certain age. It is cruel to give the families of children with autism hope only to snatch it away. It is short-sighted to deny a child services that would enable him or her to ultimately get a job and contribute to the economy.

By Kirsten Doyle. Photo courtesy of Tia, Jolie-Anne’s mom.

post

Autism Doesn’t End At Five – Xander’s Story

Today we continue our series of stories about children with autism in Ontario. The Ontario government’s recent announcement that IBI services are no longer available to children aged five and older has had devastating consequences for many families, including the family of six-year-old Xander. If you have a story to tell, send an email to kirsten(at)runningforautism(dot)com.

autism doesn't end at five - xander

When Xander started provincially funded IBI services in December 2015, his family breathed a sigh of relief. He was two months shy of his sixth birthday, and he had been on the waitlist for three years. His initial baseline assessment showed delays in several areas: he was not consistently responding to his name, his vocabulary was extremely limited, and he struggled with tasks like tracing letters and using scissors. Back then, he could not even tolerate sitting at a desk for any length of time.

Xander’s IBI team identified fourteen therapy goals for him to work towards. That is a lot for any child to accomplish. But Xander quickly became a poster child for the effectiveness of IBI therapy.

Within three months, he had accomplished – and in some cases surpassed – every one of those fourteen therapy goals. He was responding to his name and he could recite his home phone number. His vocabulary was growing steadily and he was learning to make requests verbally. He developed the ability to follow simple instructions, and he could now sit at a desk working for up to ten minutes.

In other words, IBI had given Xander the building blocks, a solid foundation upon which to build. In the next phase of IBI, he was going to build on that foundation and learn how to use his newfound skills in a functional, meaningful way.

That, at least, was the plan. Then the Ontario government came along with its announcement that IBI will no longer be provided to children aged five and older. Children of that age who are already receiving IBI services are going to be phased out of the program.

This news has been a devastating blow to Xander’s parents. In just a few short months, they saw their son start to blossom. Now they are faced with the prospect of him losing access to a method of intervention that has unlocked all kinds of potential in him. The future, that was looking so full of promise, is once again uncertain.

The Ontario government is trying to sugar-coat this by saying it is in the best interest of the kids. They are offering affected families one-time payments that do not come close to making a dent in the expense of IBI therapy. The alternative services they are offering to older children is not nearly as effective as IBI.

Xander’s story is one of a myriad tragedies affecting Ontario families in the wake of this announcement. He is living proof that IBI can and does work for older children, and unless some kind of miracle happens, he could become living proof of what happens when you remove such a crucial service from a child with autism.

By Kirsten Doyle. Photo courtesy of Xander’s mom, Shannon.

 

post

Politics And Autism: Deciding Who To Trust

Today I discovered that I have my very own YouTube channel, and by coincidence, I had a cause to use it. There is a provincial by-election coming up in the electoral region that I live in, and there is really only one issue that I will be basing my vote on. Although the federal government has some loosy-goosy policy on funding for special needs kids, this is largely the domain of the provincial government. This evening, my husband went to a meet-and-greet hosted by the major candidates in this by-election. He asked all of them to state their stance on autism funding for the camera, and the results were quite surprising…

Scarborough-Guildwood By-Election

This is an original post by Kirsten Doyle. The video is original, unedited footage shot by Gerard Doyle and Kirsten Doyle.

post

8 Ways $1000 Can Help Kids With Autism

2013-06-09 14.50.00

This year, I will be running for autism for the fifth time as I take part in the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Half-Marathon. Although the race is advertised as “flat, fast and festive”, it is quite hard, and not only because it’s kind of far. It’s because there are long straight stretches with no left or right turns. In the last 5km or so, I keep imagining that the final turn to the finish line is right there, like a mirage in the desert.

This year, I expect the race to be even harder, because it will come just a month after I do the Ottawa Army Run, which is also a half-marathon.

The Scotiabank run is an important one, though, and I will never exclude it from my race calendar no matter what else I have going on. This race is my opportunity to give something to the autism community, to make the world a better and brighter place for my son and other people like him.

I am running for the Geneva Centre for Autism, and like last year, I have set myself a fundraising goal of $1000. If I achieve that goal, the Geneva Centre will be able to choose from some really cool uses of the money. Like these:

1. Art supplies for 40 individuals with autism. We could collectively unleash the talent of the next Stephen Wiltshire.

2. Sports equipment for 20 individuals with autism. Sporting activity has so many benefits for people with autism, apart from the obvious ones that apply to all of us. Athletics can help develop fine and gross motor skills, it can nurture problem-solving skills, and it give kids the “deep pressure” sensations that they often crave.

3. Instruments for 15 musicians with autism. I have had the pleasure of listening to the music of Michael Moon. Music enriches his own soul and those of his audiences. If he hadn’t had access to a guitar when he was younger, that potential within him might never have been unlocked.

4. Job training for 15 young adults. The biggest worry in the minds of most autism parents is whether their kids will be OK as adults. Will they have the life skills they need to live independently and have jobs? The job training programs provided by the Geneva Centre can make a real difference to the lives of young adults.

5. Field trips for 10 individuals with autism. For most kids, field trips are an opportunity to go somewhere fun and miss a few hours of school. For kids with autism, field trips are an opportunity to learn life skills in real-world settings, and to generalize existing skills to places other than the classroom.

6. Summer camp for 4 individuals with autism. People with autism are often unable to participate in activities that are designed for the neurotypical world. There is, however, an opportunity for them to attend camps for special needs people, or to attend the regular camps with extra support.

7. 2 iPads loaded with autism-friendly apps. It has been shown time and time again that kids with autism can benefit greatly from using iPads. They can learn life skills, social skills, academics like reading and math that can be hard to master in a classroom setting. There have been reports of kids with autism who have gone from non-verbal to fully conversational with the help of iPad apps.

8. One piece of state-of-the-art sensory equipment. A lot of kids with autism are sensory-seekers. They like deep pressure, textures, movement, sounds and patterns. One piece of equipment that meets sensory needs can go a long way in centres that accommodate groups of children.

Every cent that I can raise will make a lasting difference to the life of someone with autism. Whether we help kids discover a talent or a passion, prepare them for life, or simply make it easier for them to tolerate their environment, we have the power to change the world.

It takes a village to raise a child. It takes a village of extraordinary people to raise a child with autism. If you are able to, please be a part of my village.

To sponsor my 2013 Run for Autism, please visit my fundraising page.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle. This is an original post by Kirsten Doyle.)

post

New Autism Diagnosis? 5 Tips for Parents

It’s a scene that many parents are all too familiar with. You’re sitting in a doctor’s office and you’ve just received news that your child has autism. You did know, of course, that something was wrong – after all, that’s why you had your child assessed – but you’ve been in a weird twilight zone of denial, in which you have managed to convince yourself that this thing that’s wrong with your child is just temporary, that it’s nothing a bit of speech therapy or O.T. won’t cure. And now, here’s this doctor telling you that your child will be living with autism for the rest of his or her life.

You can barely listen as the doctor goes on about how your child’s trajectory through life will be atypical, delayed, and fraught with challenges. You are too stunned to pay attention to anything but the hopes and dreams you had for your family crashing all around you.

How do you cope? How do parents find out that their child has a lifelong developmental disability – one that will in all likelihood necessitate some level of permanent care – and then go on to live some kind of a normal life?

Tip #1 – Remember that the doctor does not have a crystal ball

The doctor can’t just say to you, “Your kid has autism. See ya!” He has to talk to you about therapies, strategies, next steps – and that inevitably involves talk about how he sees your child’s future. But the thing is, many doctors tend to be a bit pessimistic, and they will give you the worst case scenario.

When we were getting my own child’s diagnosis five years ago, the doctor could not have painted a bleaker picture of the future if he had tried. We heard all about the stuff my son would never achieve, experiences he would never have, things he would never be able to do, the intensive level of care he would need for the rest of his life.

The doctor was not trying to be mean. He wasn’t trying to be negative. He was just presenting what he saw to be the reality. He had no way of knowing that in the first year of IBI therapy, this kid would make 23 months worth of gains. He did not know about the mathematical aptitude or unique problem-solving skills, and he could not predict that given the right educational environment, my child would be able to soar.

Anything the doctor tells you about your child’s future is just a guess – an educated guess, but a guess nonetheless. Don’t let bleak predictions make you give up hope.  Your child needs for you to believe in his or her potential, and to be frank, if you have a bit of faith, it will do your own spirit the world of good.

Tip #2 – Watch out for information overload

Human beings are curious by nature, especially when it comes to the wellbeing of their offspring. I would venture to say that most parents, on receiving their child’s autism diagnosis, go home and make a beeline for the computer so they can Google “autism”. I know I did.

The Internet can be pure crap, though. A Google search for “autism” yields over 76 million results. If we very generously assume that 10% of the information on the Internet is completely solid and scientifically proven and not the subject of any debate or controversy, that leaves you with seven million pages of “good” information.

It is a daunting task, trying to filter out the seven million pieces of “good” information from all the junk. It can make the most hardy of souls feel like they’re drowning.

Information is all well and good, but it has to be consumed in manageable doses, especially in the beginning. The diagnosing doctor will give you fact sheets and other information. That is all you need in those initial days while you are trying to adjust to this new reality.

Tip #3 – Get your name onto waiting lists and find out about funding

Your doctor will probably give you the names and phone numbers of local services, like speech therapy, O.T. , and autism intervention services. If he doesn’t, call him back and ask. Then call and enroll for the services. Some areas will have one central place that organizes all of the services; in other places it is more fragmented. No matter which way it works, it is better to start services as early as you can, and unless you live in some kind of Utopia, the places you call are bound to have waiting lists.

At the same time, find out about funding. If you live in a country with socialized health care, as I do, then many of the services for your child could be covered by the government. You may be entitled to disability tax credits and funding for respite care or specialized equipment. Your local autism foundation should have information about the available funding, and they may even have experts who will help you fill in the forms.

Tip #4 – Don’t let autism define your child

This may seem self-evident, but in the wake of receiving the blow of an autism diagnosis, it is hard to think of anything else. Parents of newly diagnosed kids often go through a kind of grieving process as they come to terms with the loss of what they thought their “reality” was. You may find your heart breaking every time you look at your child.

But remember that the diagnosis itself has not changed anything. Your child is still the same person he or she was yesterday, or last week, or last month. Your kid may have autism, but he or she is first and foremost a little kid, with those little quirks and personality traits that guarantee uniqueness.

Autism will always be a part of who your child is, but it is far from being the full picture.

Tip #5 – Take care of yourself and your relationships

When I saw my family doctor shortly after my son’s diagnosis, he gave me a startling statistic: about 80% of couples who are parents of kids with special needs or chronic illnesses split up within two years of diagnosis. It is easy to be on the outside looking in, and say that parents should draw strength from one another, but the truth is that something like this puts a huge strain on many relationships.

The thing is, each parent is thinking about autism, and how they can help their child. This becomes the singular focus consuming both of them, so much so that neither of them has room for anything else. And so they neglect themselves, and they neglect each other. It’s not their fault – they are just putting their child’s needs ahead of their own.

Do we not deserve to be happy, though? Yes, parenting our kids is the most important job we’ll ever have, but we are also individuals in our own right, and if we neglect ourselves and the relationships with the people we care about, we will drown.

So make sure you take time to be with your partner, just because. Spend time with your other children. Nurture your friendships, and most of all, take time out for yourself.

And don’t feel guilty about taking care of yourself. You deserve it.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

post

2012 Run For Autism: Starting The Journey

Many of you already know the story.

You already know how I was a runner way back when, and then stopped and completely neglected my physical health after the birth of my kids. You know how I always wanted to get back into running, but never found the discipline. You know how I became completely comfortable as a couch potato but never quite got rid of that residue of regret.

You also know how an email landed in my inbox one day that completely changed everything. The email was an invitation for me to join the team being put together by the Geneva Centre for Autism for the forthcoming Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront races. Participants could run the 5K, half-marathon or marathon, and in the process raise funds for services for children and youth with autism.

It turned out to be just the motivation I needed. Within 24 hours I had made the transition from couch potato to speed demon extremely slow runner. Six months later, I had dropped almost sixty pounds and I was standing exhausted but triumphant at a half-marathon finish line, clutching my finishers medal and sobbing with emotion.

Here I sit, three years later, getting ready to embark on training and fundraising for my fourth Run for Autism. Since that first half-marathon in 2009, most of the weight has stayed off, my half-marathon time has improved by almost ten minutes, and I have raised over $2000 for the Geneva Centre for Autism.

This year’s race is on October 14th. My fundraising goal is a cool thousand dollars. This means that for the next four months, I will be shamelessly asking people for money – friends and family, complete strangers, and everyone in between. The money will go towards supplies and services for children and youth with autism. These are services that can provide skills that will last a lifetime, enabling people like my son George to lead happy, productive lives as fully integrated members of their communities.

Some examples of what $1000 can do are as follows:

  • Art supplies for 40 children and young adults
  • Sports equipment for 20 children and young adults
  • Musical instruments for 15 children and young adults
  • Job training for 15 young adults
  • Field trips for 10 children and young adults
  • Summer camp for 4 children and young adults
  • 2 iPads loaded with apps for individuals with autism
  • 1 piece of state-of-the-art sensory equipment

This list goes to show that every single cent really does make a difference. If you have the ability to, please consider sponsoring my Run for Autism and contributing to this incredible cause for my child and for other people with autism.

To donate, please visit my fundraising page.

It takes a very special kind of village to raise a child with special needs. Today, I invite you to be a part of my village.

(Photo credit: Brightroom Professional Event Photographers)

post

23 Months In One Year

April 20 – Miracle cure: Write a news-style article on a miracle cure. What’s the cure? How do you get the cure? Be sure to include a disclaimer.

Try as I might, I was not able to get this prompt to work for me. Therefore, I decided to use one of the bonus prompts that were provided at the beginning of this challenge.

Best doctor’s visit or hospital stay: What made it the best? The news you got? The nurse/doctor/surgeon you saw? The results?

On a cool Spring day in 2010, my husband and I drove George, then six and a half, to an appointment with a psychiatrist. The purpose of the visit was to get the results of the assessment that had been done six weeks previously.

The anxiety we felt went beyond normal parental angst. We were both remembering the assessment that had been done a year previously. It had not gone well. George had been agitated and distracted. He hadn’t settled, refusing even to take his coat off. Throughout the assessment he had underperformed on just about every task. In the next room, I had answered questionnaires, checking the “never” or “rarely” box to almost every question about George’s capabilities.

It had been a dismal experience, and the results had shown severe deficits. Now we were back, one year later, to see what quantifiable effects his first year of IBI therapy had had. He had shown almost no anxiety during the assessment this time, and the specialists had emerged smiling from the room, but we knew that we just had to wait and see the numbers.

When she greeted us, the psychiatrist was as charming and soothing as always. She ushered us into her office and gave George some markers so he could follow his favourite pursuit of scribbling on her white board. He surprised us all by writing lists of words instead.

The psychiatrist could tell that we were nervous, and she was kind enough to dispense with that beat-around-the-bush suspense thing that so many doctors seem to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in. She cut right to the chase.

“George has made phenomenal progress,” she told us.

She showed us reports and charts showing gains in almost every area: cognitive, language, fine motor, gross motor, emotional regulation, behavioural, daily living skills… What this child had achieved in the last year was off the charts.

It was literally off the charts. The psychiatrist showed us a graph showing percentiles of progress after one year of IBI therapy, and sure enough, George’s accomplishments went way beyond the right margin of the page.

In his first year of IBI – in a single twelve-month period – George  had made no less than 23 months worth of gains.

That was phenomenal. Far from following the usual model in which autistics develop relatively slower than typically developing children, thereby falling relatively further behind, George had developed at almost double the usual rate. He was still behind other kids of his age, but he was far less behind than he had been, and in some mathematical areas, he had actually started outperforming typical kids.

It’s like starting far back in the pack at a race and being way, way, way behind the leaders. And then, while the leaders maintain the same pace they started with, you put on a hell of a sprint. You probably won’t cross the finish line first, but instead of being twenty minutes behind the guy who wins, you’re only ten minutes behind.

Before getting these results, we had seen changes in George. Progress like that cannot go unnoticed. But it was wonderful to see it in numbers, to see visual proof of what our boy had achieved.

That day, my husband and I truly started to see possibilities for the future, and we made a promise there and then to help our son reach the stars.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

post

Mother Knows Best

I am participating in the Health Activist Writers Month Challenge, in which I publish a post every day for the month of April, based on health-related prompts.

April 17 – Learned the hard way: What’s a lesson you learned the hard way? Write about it for 15 today.

I first started having doubts about our family doctor when he kept telling us that there was nothing that could be done about my husband’s sciatica. It was a very disappointing thing to hear: although not a life-threatening condition, sciatica had been giving my husband a whole new kind of agony for a couple of years, and now we were hearing that he would have to live with it for the rest of his life.

It seemed improbable.  What about physiotherapy, or if we were really pressed, surgery? What about a simple MRI scan or a referral to a specialist?

But my husband’s family had been seeing this doctor for years, and they seemed to have complete faith in him. My husband was resistant to my suggestions to see another doctor.

A few months later, when I was hugely pregnant, I took my older son to the same doctor for his two-year check-up. All of the vital signs looked good. George was in healthy percentiles for both height and weight and he was not showing any signs of illness.

With the main purpose of the visit accomplished, I said to the doctor, “George isn’t talking.”

Indeed, George wasn’t talking. The only words that he used in a contextually appropriate way were milk, juice and jump. Like all new parents, I had practically memorized the developmental checklists, and I knew that George should be doing far more at this age.

The doctor asked a few questions, and then agreed that George did indeed seem to be delayed in his speech.

“But,” said the doctor, “The range of normal development is so broad, particularly where boys are concerned. I will give you some speech exercises to do with him at home, and we will see where we are in a year’s time.”

Every instinct I had was telling me that the doctor was wrong, that waiting was not the thing to do. I knew, had known on some level since George was an infant, that there was something wrong.

Instead of trusting my instincts, I listened to the doctor. I did the speech exercises with George, hoped against hope that he would simply open his mouth and talk one day, and then felt extremely guilty when he didn’t improve. Had I not done the speech exercises right? If I had spent more time on it would I have seen results?

At George’s three-year check-up I finally got a referral for a developmental assessment. When the autism diagnosis came in, all I could think of was how the doctor had told us to wait, and worse, how I had listened to a man I already had reservations about.

I thought about the year that George had lost because of this. The year of speech therapy and other autism-related interventions.

The guilt just about killed me.

And I swore that I would never, ever go against my “mother’s intuition” again.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/truthout/3901813960/. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

post

Countdown

first halfmarathon medal

Three minutes… Will it begin? Or end?

I shift nervously from foot to foot as I look at the crowd around me. The vibe here is immense. I feel like the collective energy created by these twenty thousand people could lift me up and carry me. I have not slept for a week in anticipation of this day, but that does not matter. Standing here, it is impossible to feel tired.

Two and a half minutes… Will these 13.1 miles make me or break me?

It all started six months ago with an email. A local autism centre was entering a team into this race. Was I interested in joining, to raise funds for autism services? My first reaction was: You must be joking. At the time I was tipping the scales at almost two hundred pounds, which was a lot for a woman whose pre-pregnancy weight had been 130 pounds. I had let myself go to seed following the birth of my younger son. Exercise was a four-letter word to me. I found it impossible to lift myself out of the post-partum depression I was still suffering from for long enough to walk to the mailbox and back. And now these people wanted me to run a race?

Two minutes… Will this race be the fruition of all my efforts? Or will it make me slink back into depression?

I deleted the email, but its contents pulled at a thread in my mind. I was in very bad shape, both mentally and physically. It was clear that I needed some impetus to get myself sorted out. Could this be it? Did I finally have the right reason to get up and do something? Would this venture even be possible?

One and a half minutes… Will I have the strength to go the distance? Or will I give up and not finish the race?

I recovered the email from my Deleted Items folder. If I decided to join the team, I could choose a distance. I ruled out the marathon – it would definitely be too much. I considered the 5 kilometre run, but somehow this did not seem to be enough. If I was actually going to do this, I wanted it to be a real challenge. I’ve never been one for doing things in moderation. Either I don’t do it at all, or I go all out. Abruptly, I checked my thinking. Was I seriously thinking of attempting the half-marathon? Was I crazy?

One minute… Will this endeavour cement my newfound love of running? Or will it make me toss my running shoes into the back of the closet forever?

My thoughts drifted to my older son. My beautiful boy with autism, so loving and full of promise. He could go so far and accomplish so much, but he would need help along the way. He would need services and social supports and programs, all of which cost money. The autism centre was hoping to raise funds to finance exactly the kinds of programs that are needed by kids with autism. I could be doing this for my son.

Thirty seconds… Do we proactively give our kids the best possible chances to overcome their challenges? Or do we just sit back and hope for the best?

Just like that, the thread in my mind – the one that the email had been gently pulling at – unravelled. I knew what I had to do. I pulled out my calendar and looked up a few online training programs. I worked out that in six months, I just about had time to train for a half-marathon. I signed up and got to work. And now here I was at the start line, fifty pounds lighter, and although not exactly fleet of foot, at least capable of running for a couple of hours.

The starter’s siren goes off and the crowd surges forward. As I cross the start line, I put a picture of my son in my head and run from the heart.

(Postscript: I finished that first half-marathon in almost two and a half hours. I remember the lump in my throat as I crossed the finish line and the tears that sprang to my eyes when I received my finisher’s medal. Every step of that race was dedicated to my son. Since then, I have done two more half-marathons for autism, and this year I will be doing it again. In my three autism runs to date, I have raised about $1500 for the Geneva Centre for Autism. My sons – the child with autism and his loving, caring brother – are my inspiration. I would run to the ends of the earth for them.)

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Shauntelle challenged me with "Write a story that begins "Three minutes. Will it begin? Or end?"" and I challenged Head Ant with "Write a story that includes the following: a dreamcatcher; red high-heeled boots; a broken wine glass."