Part 11: False Cures, Real Vulnerability

“Can’t we do SOMETHING, Doctor?”

Trying to find an answer to that question, after Krishna was diagnosed as autistic, we went for a second opinion.

The doctor was extremely thorough.

She showed us how to maintain a sleep diary, an activity diary, and a behaviour diary for about three weeks, and asked us to remember and note Krishna’s corresponding behaviour from two years earlier.

“Look at older photographs or videos of him. They will help jog your memory,” she said.

After three weeks, the pattern was painfully clear.

Krishna had regressed over a period of a few months, along with bouts of severe anxiety and withdrawal.

“This is typical of Childhood Disintegrative Disorder, which is now classified under the autism umbrella,” she said.

“He may continue to regress until puberty,” she added.

We had held on to a tiny, secret hope that the first diagnosis had been wrong.

And now, this doctor dashed it to smithereens.

We despaired.

We raged.

In these times, how could modern medical science have no answer at all, we fumed.

Acceptance—and the strength to move forward—are hard won.

This was a vulnerable time, when we wanted to shut our eyes and make it all disappear.

Or wave a magic wand and see Krishna restored to his bright, bubbly, chatty toddler self.

It is in such vulnerable times that quacks descend, scenting easy money.

Desperate parents are easy prey.

And every suggestion from well-meaning but ill-informed friends and relatives begins to sound possible.

“Go see this astrologer. He is very good. His pariharams work every time.”

“Go see this energy healer. He will cure Krishna in fifteen days.”

“This native medicine healer is pure magic. He cures all incurable diseases.”

“Go see this yogi. He has snatched people from Yama’s clutches and brought them back to the land of the living. He will definitely cure Krishna.”

Dear reader, do not be deluded by such claims.

As of today, there is no cure for autism. Autism Spectrum Disorder

Visiting temples and going on pilgrimage may soothe a wounded mind and give one strength to face hardship with grace.

That is no small thing.

But it is not a cure.

There is no magic wand.

At the end of false promises, your heart is often heavier—and your wallet much lighter.

An autistic child may also have coexisting medical conditions that need diagnosis and treatment.

Sometimes, alternative systems of medicine may help relieve certain symptoms.

Sometimes, they may worsen them dramatically, depending on the practitioner’s skill and the child’s sensitivity.

Healthy skepticism is essential.

Luckily for us, our skepticism woke up at the very first encounter with a charlatan.

It is quite an entertaining story!

We were school hunting for Krishna. Which school has special educators? Which schools have good space and an open feel? Which schools have kind teachers?

One of the schools we went to had a very interesting and interested administrator. We were talking to her about all that had happened till then—Krishna’s first school experience (an awful trauma), his diagnosis, and so on. She listened to everything and told us, “Don’t mistake me, but there is this astrologer. He is very, very good. Tells pariharams for all sorts of issues. I am sure he will help Krishna. Please try!”

What did we have to lose?

We tried.

The astrologer came home. Fixed us all with a gimlet eye. Shook his head portentously, but wouldn’t say why. He demanded mats, basins, water, flowers, fruit, incense sticks, camphor, matchboxes, shells, stones…

He prayed.

He chanted.

He cast the shells.

He looked at us solemnly and told us that Krishna would indeed suffer till he was about 7 but would recover. (Krishna was almost 5 at the time.)

“You must do pariharam. It will help! Go to Guruvayur Temple with him and all of you must do angapradakshanam.”

We looked at each other.

“Not feasible, Panditji. We can definitely do, but not Krishna.”

“Very well, don’t worry. Give me 10,000 rupees. I will organize 10 days of chanting in the temple, and special prasadam of a medicinal ghee. Give Krishna the ghee and all will be fine.”

It seemed too good to be true. My husband silently paid him the 10,000 rupees.

A month passed.

Another.

Then another.

Panditji wouldn’t answer calls. He posted status updates of himself in various grand pujas, but wouldn’t respond to us.

“He could have at least bought some ghee at the street-corner provision store and sent it to us,” I exclaimed. “A very small expense for him compared to the 10,000!”

The one good thing born from that difficult period was this: I sat down and worked out what the logical way forward after diagnosis should be.

At the very least, I learnt that grief and its stages cannot guide one forward on the best path.