Thru a Glass Darkly

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Baffled, the young nurse looks to me for direction.
"All you need to do is let us know when you hear a beep, " I prod him soothingly.
"Don't like it!" he squeals, batting away the instrument that would test his hearing. He is using what I call his whimpery "baby voice". Its a sort of mock baby talk he employs at times, for reasons we have yet to figure out. It is extremely confusing to witness by those who have heard him speak "normally." How can a child with that vocabulary revert to such strange behavior?
The nurse tries again, assuring my son that the test will be over quickly.
More strange squeaks emit from his mouth. He again protests his dislike for the noise. Well, at least we know he can hear it.
However, the nurse isn't satisfied. She again repeats the request for the approved responses of either raising the hand or saying, "Beep!" when the sound is heard.
At this point, I am faced with my new conundrum of when is it a good time to "tell." That is, is this a situation where I ought to helpfully mention that my son has autism? As the battle between 5 year-old and nurse continues, I think about what a weird position I am in.
Here is a child who appears physically normal. When he speaks, people are often amazed at his verbal skills or his desire for more complicated knowledge. And so it is during his times of meltdown or anxiety, strangers have felt compelled to scold him -- or me -- for his unruly behavior. I am well-acquainted with The Look. There are times when I feel helpless, times when I cry and apologize, and times when I angrily gather the boys and our belongings and leave. However, I have yet to offer up his diagnosis as excuse or explanation. I have no idea why. But this doctor's appointment was not going to be the first of such occasions.
Gathering my resolve, I put myself within his line of sight and say, "How about when you hear the beep, you just say, 'I heard the beep' ?"
The nurse begins again.
This time he looks me straight in the eye and says ever so softly, "Mama, I heard the beep!"
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Moments later as I stand clutching the child-sized gown he refuses to put on, as he cowers in the corner, whimpering again, I shake my head in wonder at my predicament. Only this battle isn't as daunting, because the doctor we are waiting for understands. His own son has autism. I don't have to apologize for the odd behavior of a seemingly normal child. While my son crawls beneath the exam table, extracting nearly the entire roll of paper covering, we discuss the dark glass that is autism. And I relax, knowing that for the next ten minutes at least, I won't have to explain.

(Dedicated to Dr O -- a true blessing to our family!)