v40.31 ; Wandering under the diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorders

Wandering. It's kind of a calming word by itself. "To wander.'' To aimlessly stroll without care or concern. Weightless. Worry free.

ICD-9 codes change things. They can, by their neatly organized placement in the DSM, suddenly change the very meaning of words.

Because the ICD-9 for ''wandering'' (v40.31 secondary diagnosis to Autism Spectrum Disorders 299.00) is not worry free. It is not weightless. In fact, of all the numbers tagged onto my son's electronic existence, this is the one I hate. If he wandered I would still hate it, I'm sure. But I hate it most because he doesn't ''wander''. He bolts. Technically ''bolting'' or the ''atypical fight or flight response of a child on the Autism Spectrum''. It is the scariest, maybe the only truly scary thing about our journey through diagnosisland. These diagnoses, the words, their meanings are all arbitrary. They don't mean to anyone else quite what they mean to me. Most of them are just labels. Scotch sticky labels on a box or binder where I keep his what-have-yous for our seasonal updates.

But bolting means something more. It isn't just a sticky label. It is frightening. Terrifying. It makes me feel helpless.

I've never lost him before, but it's always been coming. He's never been in (or near) harms way, but it's always been just around the corner; waiting for me to look the other way, to bat an eye, to miss a step.

v40.31 is a little dagger just waiting to cut.

He's almost five years old. Most five year olds play t-ball or ride their dogs around the back yard or put firecrackers inside of frogs to see what happens (yes). Mine goes to therapy. Occupational Therapy. Physical Therapy. Speech Therapy. Behavioral Therapy. Animal Therapy. Water Therapy. And every one of those scheduled, planned events comes with a qualifer; he bolts. He panics when he leaves the car. When one therapist tries to walk him to the next one's office. When a child he doesn't know is playing in the waiting room. When Momma leaves the room. Or the car.

He bolts.

There is something in the anticipation of  the transition that his little mind, bent on the all-consuming comfort of routine and predictability, cannot tolerate. And he bolts. Like a teenager being chased by a knife-wielding maniac, he just...takes off.

I used to put him in overalls. They were like built in handles for grabbing the bolter. But dad-blast-it he outgrew Thomas. So now we have graduated to a monkey; I used to say I would never put my child on a leash like a dog and now by-gawd give me the freaking leash.

Mr. Monkey working hard.

Today he didn't have Mr. Monkey on. He was in the car. In his car seat. He was fully harnessed. A/C running, door cracked while I made my heck-of-a-sale from one of those swap sites on Facebook. (Have you tried that? I can sell anything on those sites. I've seen people sell used shampoo bottles. It's like garage sale heaven.) So this transaction takes MAYBE ten seconds. I stand up out of the car, hand my gently used item to would-be buyer, take money and BAM.

It's like someone hit me with a baseball bat.

I see, out of the corner of my eye, Boy running by me full blast. Right through the gas pumps (I was parked up by the door so by the time I realize this is MY child, he's a solid 30 feet away and running hard) headed for the grassy knoll beyond. Grassy knoll; otherwise known as a median. Like.... the BORDER OF THE HOLY FREAKING HIGHWAY.

Some blonde angel in scrubs and diamonds jumped out of her Mercedes and grabbed him as I was running, gasping and screaming bloody hell at my 4 year old to come back. Which was hilariously silly because he doesn't respond to yelling or his name being called so I was really screaming just so people would stare at me like the moronic, helpless mother I obviously am.

I'm still see spots in front of my eyes.

Thank G-d in heaven she was blonde. And pretty. Boy loves a pretty girl. So when she grabbed him he looked at her with a smile, fully under the impression he had nowhere else to be. She followed us back to my car and from the expression on her face and the scrubs she wore I expected something worse than what I got. What I got was an absolute gift. She stood there while I potato-sacked my kid into the car (giggling and squealing because who doesn't like to be tossed into the car like a sack of potatoes by a Momma who's hyperventilating). She stood behind my car. Looking at it. And I watched her. And then her eyes came up and met mine and she said "We got him. He's ok." And she walked away.

See the thing is, when she braked her expensive car and flung her body out into the traffic of that gas station, she didn't know. She couldn't. When she caught him and looked at him she couldn't tell. There isn't a chromosomal-related physical characteristic to tell her why she was there, stopping a child from being shredded by oncoming vehicles.

All she had to help her process, all she saw that made any sense in the world, was my ''I could care less what you think about bumper stickers, my son is autistic and he bolts so I am going to plaster my car with warnings in case, G-d forbid, anything ever happens. So someone will know. So whoever sees this car will understand, for just a brief moment in just a tiny way, that the child inside is precious, but the child inside needs extra understanding." And she saw them. And she read them. She read them. And she understood. She understood that v40.31 sucks. And whatever else is going on inside that car, v40.31 is the worst.

"He's Ok."

And then she got into her car.

And she helped v40.31 suck a little bit less.