There’s a Poem At the End of This

Here’s what readers have been saying in a very busy week in which we learned, or learned again, that the MMR vaccine does not cause autism:

Norah on whether the term “mild autism” is still in use and Larry on the “pop psychology typical of wired [magazine].”

Ongoing discussion about stem cell therapy as an autism treatment, and about the death of Shirley Meade at a camp after being given the wrong medication.

Jaz on what it’s been like in Illinois on a 49-year-old younger brother who was “on a waiting list for a home for 20 years after contacting an advocate he got one of the two places that 52 people were waiting for.”

Regan adds to a discussion on the MMR controversy and notes an interview with Ben Goldacre.

Bonnie Sayers on school security issues.

Readers looks at reports on special education funding in Alaska and Governor Palin.

And keep in mind the deadlines for submitting comments to the Interagency Autism Coordinating Committee that are coming up very soon:

NOT-MH-08-021:Interagency Autism Coordinating Committee Draft Strategic Plan for Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) Research is Available for Comment; deadline in 25 days/Sept 30

NOT-MH-08-016: Priorities for the Interagency Autism Coordinating Committee Services Subcommittee for Autism Spectrum Disorders (ASD); deadline in 14 days/Sept 19

And here’s the poem from a book I’ve had on my desk and have been turning to when in need of a moment away from the fray. The book is Line Dance by Barbara Crooker and this poem captures how I feel on many a day and night.

Climbing the Jade Mountain

(filling out my son’s SSI forms)

The Chinese poets tell us
that to start an impossible journey,
you must begin with small steps,
one foot in front of the other
on the rock-hard road. There are
no maps. The mountain gleams
in the afternoon sun. We
are tired, we are thirsty,
and we want to know
how many dusty miles remain?
The mountain is silent.
All the guidebooks are written
in an ancient language
we don’t understand.
When night overtakes us,
we lie down in a dry
river bed, with a stone
for a pillow. Morning
draws her curtains.
We start again.