A Day in the Life

“I think you have Asperger’s syndrome” she says, putting down her magazine.

“Hmmmm,” is his reply peering over the top of his laptop. They are sitting across from each other as they often do, but in separate worlds, delivered on glowing screens and printed sheets. A friend noted that their living room resembled an internet café. “What are you reading?”

“The New Yorker,” she says with no small amount of urgency, knowing that her periodicals lend credence to her argument; Vanity Fair and the New Yorker being highly valued contributors of the popular press variety, much more so than People or even Time and Newsweek. You can leave them in a bathroom say, turned to a particular article, and maybe they will be discovered and read. This is never true for her downloaded white papers clipped together and piled in various locations around the house. No one is interested in them. Reading, in this house, is categorized and ranked for both status and entertainment. It is both public, in magazines, books and printouts, and private, confined to the various screens each family member has adopted. And reading itself is ranked, being a number one activity for four of the family members and falling to two and even three for some of the others, much to her dismay.

“What’s the matter with me now?” he says without looking up. He is remembering his other equally compelling diagnoses, doled out article after article. Unlike the traditional predilection of medical students, she does not assume symptoms, instead she assigns symptomology to those she loves.

“Dives deep into projects ignoring the world around them.”

“Check.”

“Ummm odd and uncomfortable social interactions.”

“Check.”

“Subject expert on esoterica that they feel compelled to share with others without obvious regard for interest level.”

“Oh common, we both do that one. Remember that time you were obsessed with juvenile gang activity and were giving your friends pointers on what to look for at the movie theater. I would imagine there was a dip in revenue as your anxious and now educated friends kept their kids home as a result.”

“I was just telling them the truth”

“I know dear. But most people prefer to not know. Not knowing is easier. Maybe you have Asperger’s too.”

“It’s on a continuum,” she says, by way of explanation that feels more like an assignation of acuity. Hers, as always, less acute than his.

“So what’s my prognosis this time?” he asks, curious to see what is in store. When she was convinced of his Adult ADD, she begged him to consider returning to the Ritalin of his youth, an option that he firmly rejected, favoring instead to continuing to enjoy his hyper-focus and all of its attending rewards. Depression, her next shot at fixing him, felt more flat, his response, that she was the one that was depressed and that he was actually quite happy being himself, left her uncomfortable and unsettled. Dependent Personality Disorder brought some comfort as she folded laundry and meal planned while he sat glued to his computer screen, happy as a clam. “I’m not Dependant,” he said at the time, “as much as you are dependable.” He loved her. He loved her activity and her scholarship. He saw her diagnostic abilities as a kind of parlor game. Entertaining and short lived.

“Well, it is chronic,” she explained with some resignation.

“No cure?”

“It seems as though someone, Dr. Asperger himself I suppose designated it as a syndrome, as opposed to just another way to be human, and then someone else placed it on the spectrum of Autism, which has no cure beyond socialization skills building and such, shyness and social anxiety I would imagine are on the continuum too, higher up. This article doesn't talk cure, although the guy mentions antidepressants and Valium.”

“What are we to want me to do with this?” he asked, mentally preparing for her not so subtle subtle hints for self improvement that would inevitably follow, not only as part of this conversation but for the next time interval, the interval between this, and the inevitable next perfect diagnostic moment.

“I’m not sure. The guy in the article liked knowing his condition had a name.”

“I don’t feel like I have a condition. I feel like I wake up in the morning and live my life.”

“I know honey, that’s part of your condition, not having an ability to reflect on it.”

“I do reflect, I understand your lack of appreciation for this or that trait of mine. I understand that certain things about me drive you crazy and some doctors have assigned some medications to possibly reduce or relieve those traits, which might possibly make you more comfortable, but also less comfortable if the side effects caused other less familiar traits to emerge. It just seems like a trade I am not willing to make. This is who I am, Sally. It seems that maybe someone needed a category for me so they would feel better. I actually feel fine.”

She is quiet, flipping the pages, "They recommend that new movie. The one where the thirty year olds play high-schoolers, it’s a kind of male bonding movie. Maybe we can see that tonight."