This is the second of a two-part series of stories on autism. Part One ran Friday, April 20.
Sequestered deep within the recesses of a giant, inflatable ball, he thrusts his feet and hands against the cushioned vinyl walls, using his body to propel himself across the front lawn. Inside the bubble, sound is muffled, and the outside world is reduced to a blue haze. He is the master of his fate, the captain of his destiny — briefly, ever so briefly.
Corey Perrigin knew his six-year-old son, Elisha, would love the quixotic yard toy. Elisha is a perpetual motion machine, and it’s hard to find activities that engage his interest while meeting the specific needs of an autistic child.
Decades ago, when autism came to the forefront of the medical world, few knew how to help. Some doctors suggested institutionalization or experimental treatments for what was then believed to be a psychological problem. Now, with scientific advances and the rise of a more compassionate, thoughtful approach, the landscape is changing, radically reshaping everything once believed about autism.
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimates one in every 88 children in the United States is autistic. Over the past decade, diagnosed cases have risen 78 percent. At its crux, autism is a developmental disorder characterized by difficulties in social interaction and verbal and non-verbal communication. But every child is different. And what helps one child may not help another.
That’s what worried Ashley Birckbichler most when Elisha reached school-age. She knew he was exceptionally bright, fascinated with taking things apart and putting them back together, excited by science and nature and a whiz with computers and technology.
But autism locked her blue-eyed boy inside his head and trapped him in a world she could never fully enter. Excessive noise, unusual smells, new tactile experiences — all could send him into sensory overload and trigger a head-banging, screaming meltdown.
She worried teachers wouldn’t be able to see beyond the behavior to teach the child she knew was teachable. When she thought about special education classes, she envisioned a one-size-fits-all system.
But education has changed, and the results, some say, are remarkable.
‘The sky is the limit’
Anthony Brown, assistant superintendent for federal and special programs in the Columbus Municipal School District, remembers a classmate who walked to the bus stop with him every day. He went to regular classes and she was shuttled off to special education, kept apart from her peers until the end of the day, when she rode home with him on the school bus.
But in the 15 years he taught special education, he witnessed a transformation in both ideology and results.
In 1975, the Education for All Handicapped Children Act was enacted, ensuring a public education for all children. In 1990, with the inception of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, the law was fine-tuned to focus more on the child’s needs and growth than on perceived disabilities and limitations.
Today, the Columbus city school system services 42 autistic children. The Lowndes County School District educates 17 autistic students, including Elisha, who is a kindergartener at Caledonia Elementary School.
In accordance with federal law, once a child is diagnosed with autism or other special needs, schools work with parents, teachers, social workers and other professionals to develop an Individualized Education Program (IEP).
The goal, Brown said, is to place the child in mainstream classes as often as possible. It’s particularly important for autistic children, he believes, because social interaction is such a hurdle and so critical to their well-being and development. But he admitted it’s sometimes a challenge.
“A lot of days, you wonder if this was the right thing,” he said. “But if you see the children and spend time with them, you realize it’s worth the effort.”
Introducing special education students into the mainstream has been a “mixed bag,” Brown said. Some educators and parents embraced the idea, but some resisted. The important thing to remember is the end goal, he said.
“What happens when parents take that child to church or to a restaurant?” Brown asked. “We try to prepare them for life after school. There is no special education world.”
School systems constantly tweak the process. Andra Brown, director of special services for the county schools, said current education protocols employ both behavior analysis and verbal communication skills.
This fall, LCSD will implement a communication system for autistic students, using iPads and specialized training for speech and language pathologists.
But success depends just as much on what happens at home.
“The second best thing you can give a disabled child is a good teacher,” Brown said. “But the best thing is a good parent. If they are lucky enough to have both, the sky is the limit for these children.”
‘God gave me you’
The ball, with its human cargo, rolls across the front lawn and comes to rest at the bottom of a hill. Elisha pokes his head from one of the portals, his blonde hair standing crazy-wild, and calls for his mother and father. He wants to do it again. Nearby, his stepfather and three siblings play baseball.
Though Ashley Birckbichler and Corey Perrigin are divorced and she is now married to Andrew Birckbichler, the three adults keep Elisha — and his siblings — at the forefront of every decision.
Perrigin sees Elisha every other weekend, sometimes more often. He works at Omnova and studies electronics at East Mississippi Community College while handling medical expenses, attending doctors’ appointments and remaining actively involved in his son’s life.
Andrew Birckbichler left his job in the flooring industry to stay home and handle housework and childcare, allowing Ashley Birckbichler to keep a job she loves.
Perrigin said he believes by working together, they can help Elisha surmount autism and meet his potential. Every day, he learns something new about the child who shares his blue eyes and his mechanical aptitude.
Lately, Elisha has started opening up to him emotionally, allowing him to see how much his presence means. Elisha has some playmates, Perrigin said, but a lot of children misunderstand him.
His family fills the gap with as much attention, devotion and love as they can. But still, he is six, and smiles can quickly turn to tears when reality intrudes.
Saturday morning, Perrigin had to rush to EMCC to take a test, prematurely ending their play date. Elisha sat on his knee, his lower lip poked out and his eyes glistening, as his mother held his hands and tried to explain.
“We’ll come back,” she promised, and he brightened like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.
“What did God give you?” she asked.
He jabbed her in the stomach and grinned.
You. God gave me you.
Carmen K. Sisson is the former news editor at The Dispatch.
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Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 35 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
