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 Danielle Rouse play with her autistic son Owen, 2. (Photo: Toronto Sun, Veronica Henri) |
There is a luminescent 2-year-old boy named Owen Rouse who lives in a home in Whitby, Ontario, where he gives his mom great, open-mouth kisses. Owen's world is flooded with warm lights and gentle videos and a toy fish tank with colours that dance on his skin.
Five times a week, a therapist knocks on Owen's door and for four hours, prods and encourages the boy's sweetness out into the world.
This happens for Owen, because of his dad, a firefighter named Tyler.
There is an oppressive, dusty place just north of Baghdad called Balad.
U.S. Camp Anaconda is nicknamed Mortaritaville for the regular barrage of Soviet-era mortars and missiles that rain down on soldiers and contractors.
Some days have brought three and even more waves of mortars. Some days there are none. At least six people have been killed in Mortaritaville. More than 100 have been injured.
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Tyler is here because of Owen.
Owen has autism. His treatments cost $2,200 a month. The provincial government had Owen on a list for consultation. Maybe they will pay for all or a portion of his treatment.
It could take six months, a year or longer. His mom, Danielle, doesn't know how long it will take to get funding or even if he will be eligible.
CHANCE AT NORMAL LIFE
What Danielle and Tyler do know is that the earlier they can get Owen therapy, known as intense behavioural interaction or applied behavioral analysis, the better chance they have of their only child living a normal life.
"Since the therapy started four months ago, Owen has an attention span," Danielle said. "He will interact with me. All of a sudden, I have a little boy."
Tyler is buoyed by the news of his son's progress but he will see him for a total of only 20 days over the next nine months.
"It's hard to be here but if I wasn't here doing this, it could be two years until Owen got his therapy," Tyler said. "You can't just sit around and not help him when there's something out there you know will do him some good."
The contractor who Tyler works for provides three flights back to the U.S. along with a paycheque of $96,000 US a year.
Tyler dashes for cover when the siren warns of another wave of mortars. He e-mails Danielle every day and is allotted a 10-minute phone call home every night.
He gets up early to relieve the stress. He's working out by 5:30. By seven he's on the job. He works 12-hour shifts, six days a week.
Danielle is a Whitby girl. The two met playing an internet computer game named Command and Conquer. She whipped him. He was intrigued.
GO TO THE COTTAGE
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Tyler Rouse.
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Tyler is from Fairhope, Alabama. The two married and Danielle moved south. But she missed her family, especially when Owen was born.
"I wanted Owen to know what it was like to go up north to the cottage or to go to the sugar bush in the spring," Danielle said.
The state of Alabama has a chronically low academic performance history. Danielle had a warm, extended family. "We both agreed that it would be better for Owen in Canada," Tyler said.
And so they came to Whitby. Tyler didn't have a work permit so he stayed at home with Owen until one arrived. Danielle worked part-time as a medical secretary
But something was wrong with Owen.
He didn't use consonants. He shunned eye contact. When he pulled himself up on his feet at 13 months, his parents clapped. He did it again and again.
"We started thinking, up to that time, he had never done anything to get our attention," Danielle said. "We thought to ourselves, that's weird."
Owen can't verbalize his needs. He can't use a knife or fork. He is uncomfortable with many textures in his food. He hates having anything put over his head.
He is very much like a busy elf, flitting about the house, staring at lights, enchanted.
"The doctor said, '10 years ago I would have told you your child had autism and sorry, you're out of luck,'" Danielle said. "Now there's hope he will go to regular school and function in society."
Retraining a child with autism is unfathomably hard. Countless requests need to be made for the child to process a simple request. Layering movements takes constant repetition and note taking. There are doctors and professionals and therapists to bring into the mix. That's why it's so expensive.
A few weeks after Owen's diagnosis, Tyler got an e-mail from a friend who was fighting fires in Iraq. It was the only way.
'THEY'RE DESPERATE'
The Rouses' story is anything but unique, said Lynn Fenton, first vice-president of the Autism Society of Canada.
"Basically, people borrow and cut back. I know of families who have held dances. Mostly, people go into debt. They're desperate."
Tyler is hoping government help will mean just one year in Mortaritaville, but if there is no help he will do what he needs to do for as long as he has to.
"I just feel bad for the parents who don't have any other alternative but to watch their kids stagnate," Tyler said. "At least I can do something about it."
It is, he says, what parents do.
"I think it's instinct. When you have kids, selfishness leaves for good. All you can think of is the welfare of your son."