"My son has autism."

I said those words today, just as casually as I might say, "My son has brown hair" or "My son is four." I was arguing with someone from Anthem, who insisted that they DID NOT have to pay for any of Liam's therapies because this was not in my policy. I informed her that under Kentucky state law they have to pay $500 toward his therapies; autism has to be treated as any other illness. Which really is a rip off if you ask me, there's no limit for diabetes, or cancer or the like, but I guess we are lucky to get anything at all since some insurance policies can exclude autism. Assholes.

So I got it straight with the insurance folks. Lo and behold after our conversation, this rep from Anthem conceded that they did indeed have to pay for some of Liam's therapies. Some, not all. No shit, I wanted to reply. Like $500 a month would even touch Liam's needs. But still, Angela-1, Anthem-0.

I used to hesitate, gulp, tear up, freeze when I was in a position where I had to say those words, "my son has autism." I would say, "He's on the spectrum," and pray that the person knew what the hell I was talking about. Or I would say, "He has autism-but-he's-really-high-functioning," so that the person I was talking to wouldn't pity us.

I guess I'm in that acceptance stage of the grieving process. My son has autism. This is life, these are the cards we were dealt and we're playing them just fine.