PUZZLES & CAMO 

SHELLY HUHTANEN

Level 3

The girl's father told me that he was retired, but his spouse was still active duty. "When you have a special needs kid, it's so hard to get services so we are stretching this post out. My wife is on her third year here."

It was the third time I had read the same page in a novel I kept in my purse. The book I chose started out slow and I was hoping the story would start to pull me in to become an enjoyable read. I was sitting in a salon waiting room while my mother got her haircut. I figured between the book and my phone, I would have plenty to occupy my time. It was only going to be about 45 minutes.

I looked up from my book when I heard the front door of the salon open. It was a man carrying an Army backpack, pushing a girl in a special needs stroller. To avoid staring, I quickly looked down at my book to continue reading after noticing him choose a seat next to me. My eyes kept leaving the page as I watched her in her stroller. She was nonverbal and was reaching out to him. He grabbed several things to appease her, but you could tell that she was not content with the choices he gave her. I smiled and said, "I don't think she wants those pretzels. She wants your phone." He looked over at me. "She's not getting my phone. She destroys everything she gets her hands on." He showed me his phone with a crack in it. Watching her mannerisms, I noticed similarities to my son, Broden. It was evident that she had multiple diagnoses, but I was curious if autism was one of them. After getting a closer look at his backpack, I knew he had to be Army. I asked, "Do you live at Jackson or do you live off post?" He was surprised I asked the question so matter of fact and told me that they chose to live off post this time. I told him that we decided to live on post this time around. He told me that he was retired, but his spouse was still active duty. "When you have a special needs kid, it's so hard to get services so we are stretching this post out. My wife is on her third year here." He was waiting on her while she was getting her hair done. I then looked over and saw his wife with wet hair walk over to make sure he was doing ok. He nodded to her, encouraging her to continue with her hair appointment. We continued talking and he started to open up about how difficult it was serving in the Army with a special needs kid. I nodded and said, "Yea, I get it. I have a son with autism. It's really hard." He leaned in and said, "Really? Well my daughter is a level 3. What's your son?" I knew exactly what he was trying to figure out. How hard did I have it? Level 1 is high functioning autism. Level 2 is moderate, and level 3 is a different story. Level 3 autism is severe. I looked over and responded, "My son is a level 3."

Once I said, "level 3", his eyes opened wide and he shifted his body towards me. "Your son is a level 3? Is he verbal? Does he have SIB (self-injurious behavior)?" I started to answer his questions. He began to open up about how life-changing it was to raise his daughter, including the effort involved when his spouse works such long hours. All I could do was nod in agreement. I got it. He didn't need to prove anything to me. The more I listened to him, the more I admired him. I opened up a little  bit to validate his frustrations and recalled a time at Leavenworth, Kansas when an ER doctor threatened to turn me in to social services because he thought I was hurting our son, only for him be diagnosed a week later with severe autism. His face lit up after I told him the story and said, "Me too! They came to my house! My daughter has SIB and they t my house! My daughter has SIB and they thought I was hurting our daughter.

My wife was sent back from deployment because they thought I was hurting our daughter." My heart ached for him. I responded, "I feel like I have OCD with my son's food and care now. Even though it wasn't my fault when that ER doctor threatened me, I still feel like I have to prove to everyone that I love and care for my son enough." He grew emotional and started to raise his voice, "Nobody loves my daughter like I do! I have fought for her when doctors wouldn't do anything for her! How could they accuse me of that?" He started to wipe away a tear.

I sat in the chair quietly and nodded in agreement. I believed him. No one loved her like he did. He apologized for getting emotional, but I reassured him that he had every right to be upset and it was okay. I kept telling him that he had every right to be upset. The more he talked, I felt like a hole had been poked in his chest, hot steam would shoot out and burn the side of the salon. After sharing stories of Broden and listening to more stories of his child, I looked up and realized that my mother was done and ready to leave the salon. I wish I would have asked for an email or phone number. All I got was a first name. We weren't done. He still had more of his story to tell and I needed to still sit next to him and listen. We both realized it was time for me to go. I looked at his daughter and smiled. He was a true father warrior and I couldn't find the words to express my admiration for his determination to care for his daughter and the loyalty he had to his family. He cares for their daughter so his wife can put on her uniform every day.

As I walked towards the salon door I said, "I will be thinking about you. Thank you for sharing your story with me." He smiled and said goodbye. I don't know if I'll ever see him again, but I will never forget his story. •

PUZZLES & CAMO

Shelly Huhtanen is an Army wife stationed at Fort Benning, GA who has a child with autism. She enjoys sharing her experiences of day-to-day life caring for her son with autism while serving as an Army spouse. She authored "Giving a Voice to the Silent Many" that encompasses many stories of raising a child with autism in the military. Shelly is passionate about autism advocacy for our military and works to bring awareness to our local legislators and command about providing better support for our military autism community, such as better health care and education.