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My Autistic Son: A Story of Hope

Originally posted Thursday September 20, 2007 12:00 PM EDT

"At 3 he had the skills of a 1-year-old," says McCarthy. Now "people are shocked when they meet him." Photo by: Kwaku Alston

The moment I opened my eyes, I had an uncomfortable feeling. It was as if my soul had the flu. I shook it off as I shuffled into the kitchen for coffee. But as I took a moment to enjoy my first sip, I heard a voice in my head. It said, "Evan never sleeps this late."

I started running toward his room and threw open his door. The sound I heard will be imprinted on my soul forever: my son struggling to breathe. I ran to the crib, grabbed him and started screaming, "Something is wrong with Evan. Oh my God, help me!" I ran his limp body into the living room while his father, John, leaped to call 911. I ripped off his clothes while he convulsed and wheezed. I put my lips next to his ear and said, "Stay with me, baby, stay with me. Mama's here."

Finally, after the longest fourteen minutes in my life, I saw paramedics walking up my driveway. I ran out and screamed, "Run!" They picked up the pace; I heard one of them say "seizure."

That morning was the start of a terrifying medical odyssey. Diagnosed with epilepsy, Evan had frequent seizures; the drugs doctors tried left him alternately manic, spouting gibberish and nearly comatose. Frantic and convinced epilepsy wasn't the whole story, McCarthy made an appointment with a UCLA neurologist in 2005.

I had to shoot a For Him Magazine layout that day. I gave them the best cleavage shots ever just to get out of there. I kept thinking: "If only people knew how incredibly sad I am about my sick boy, they would think I am the best actress in the world." Moms gotta do what moms gotta do.

I threw on sweats and raced to the doctor's office with Evan. A sweet older man walked in. I started telling him about the seizures; he listened closely but had his eyes on Evan. Then he pulled his chair up to mine and put his hand on my hand. He looked at me with sorrowful eyes and said, "I'm sorry, your son has autism."

I felt each membrane and vein in my heart shattering. I looked at the doctor with pleading, tearful eyes. "This can't be. He is loving and sweet and not anything like Rain Man. How can you tell after only a few minutes"?

He pointed to the corner. Evan had taken those cones doctors use to look in your ears and made a perfect row.

"Does he line up toys at home instead of play with them"?

"Yes, but don't all kids do that"?

"Nope," he said.