Wondering

“We fear for Alex as he grows up and maybe comes to depend too heavily on a system that was built when there was a lot more money around. Is there a reason to suppose that a money shortage is going to abate just because Alex is closer to 21 years old than he used to be?”

I wrote this in my second book. For a long time, I thought I was the only one thinking this way. Then I ran across the recent piece by Linda Davis, who in addition to being the author of Charles Addams: A Cartoonist’s Life, is president of the nonprofit SAGE Crossing Foundation, which was formed to create a farmstead for autistic adults. David and her husband wrote what should become a classic piece to every parent who fears for their growing special-needs child.

“What coming social expenditure will cost more than a third of this year’s budget for the Department of Health and Human Services and be larger than the entire current budget of the Energy Department?” the authors posed. “Answer: The bill for the tide of autistic children entering adulthood over the next 15 years, an estimated $27 billion annually.”

Image: artnet.com

Read this thing (available on site, among others, at http://www.concordmonitor.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20090407/OPINION/904070328). Among the points: the number of autistic children expected to need extensive adult services by 2023 is roughly equal to the population of Minneapolis; most of these cognitively impaired citizens don’t vote, can’t live alone, or can’t work in public places; and, perhaps most critical, “the wrecking ball swinging at all levels of social services” may alter what we assumed was the standard care in their future.

I grew up thinking that if you’re sick or impaired, someone will take care of you. For years, not being sick or impaired, I assumed it’d be the government (my parents loved FDR). After Alex, I assumed it’d be one of the agencies in the sub-strata of support that seems to have mushroomed below the federal level.

A few years ago, though, I began wondering deeply and often what budget will be left unaxed to help Alex the young adult. I live in a city, and as I passed the doorways and the park benches, not looking at the men living there, I began to wonder more.

“I understand that no one wants to look at a child and imagine the clunky, in-your-face adult he or she will become,” Davis writes, wondering “who will love or at least protect (her 22-year-old son) when he ends up in a group home run by an underpaid, overworked staff.”

Jill tells me, when I mention my fears for Alex’s fate, that she’s the one person on earth – Alex’s mother – to whom I can’t voice this wonder. And I can’t, and then I feel lousy when I do. But somebody should start wondering, and soon.