G. Frink's

Autism is briefly- and well-explained here by Joanne E. Gerenser, whose Ph.D is in Speech and Language Pathology.

She is the Executive Director of the Eden II Programs, whose mission is helping people with autism.

She is also Autism Expert at DrMDK.com.

This is National Autism Awareness Month.

In the Washington post today, Linda H. Davis writes of Autism Overlooked in this nation which fails to acknowledge that autistic children rarely grow up to be functional adults.

Ms. Davis, president of the nonprofit SAGE Crossing Foundation, reminds us that they typically grow up to be adults who require lifelong care.

As a nation, we are not adequately supporting that care.

The magnitude of our failure can be corrected, if we inform ourselves, and take appropriate action.

The parents of autistic children can rarely deal with this unassisted.

They need our help, and one measure of our humanity is and will be how much and how effectively we provide the needed help.

Growing numbers of autistic Children

Chart published under the GNU Free Documentation License | (C)Eubulides

Wikipedia's detail on how the chart was constructed:

Bar chart of the number (per 1,000 U.S. resident children ages 6-11) of children aged 6-11 who were served under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) with a diagnosis of autism, from 1996 through 2005.
Counts of children diagnosed with autism for each year were taken from Table 1-9 of IDEA Part B Child Count (2005).
These were divided by census estimates for U.S. resident population aged 6-11 taken from US census estimates for 1990-1999 resident population by age and the similar estimates for 2000-2005; for all years, the September population estimates were used.

Insomnia sent me jogging through downtown Raleigh alone after midnight, past dark windows and young men fighting over money one had purloined from the other.

Just a few miles quieted my heart and I was walking softly toward home when I saw him sleeping, nestled into the recessed doorway of the Christian Church next door.

I mistook him for tools and drop cloths left by painters planning a fast start at sunrise, until I saw the teddy bear.

So white I'm sure he was freshly laundered, the big, curly furred teddy bear was held close to his face by one hand which sleep had relaxed.

I crept past only a few dozen feet away, and could see the gentle rise and fall of his covers as he slept, silent and otherwise unmoving.

He was neither an old man nor a child and while the bear was clean, all its seams intact, it was worn with much handling.

From where I stood, that teddy bear seemed to have no eyes.

They were, I think, loved out long ago.

Without reason other than the gentle intimacy with which he held it, I was certain that teddy bear had been with him since he was much younger and lived somewhere with the family into which he was born.

Then, I think, he was not homeless and now the bear seems to be all he has of home.

Earlier I had seen a lissome woman in expensive jeans and an embroidered blouse run, face wet, from a tony, eight-story condominium, seeking to call back someone who was bent on leaving.

There were no harsh words, yet after only a moment at the closing car door she ran back sobbing uncontrollably.

My mother burned my teddy bear when I was in my second year at North Carolina State University, and took obvious pleasure in telling me she had done so.

This is not the first night I would have back that big, brown-furred old friend, if only to offer his comfort to some distraught friend or stranger, so they could have more home than sorrow.