COPEPOD AUTISM pt. 1
(Neurodivergent author)
"What's for dinner tonight?"
Karen asks her husband
Plankton the kitchen.
"I'm trying out something
new today!" He replies.
Plankton moves about with
surprising grace for
his small size. Karen
watches, admiring his
enthusiasm despite her
skepticism of his culinary skills.
"Careful with that pan!" she
calls out, noticing the way he
flips it in the air. But it's
too late. The pan slips from
his grip, and as it hits his
head with a deafening clang,
Plankton crumples to the floor,
out cold. Karen sprints
to the kitchen
and crouches beside her
unconscious husband.
"Plankton! Wake up!" she says,
shaking him gently. His eye
remains closed. She notices
his pulse and breathing so
at least he's alive. She scans
him and the results show he
acquired Autism. She's heard
about it, how interactions with
others are hard and how sensory
shutdown can cause episodes
similar to a seizure.
Panic starts to set in. She
has to get him to the couch.
With a deep breath, she hoists
his limp body over her
shoulder and carries him
carefully to the couch. She lays
him down, his head resting
on a pillow she grabbed
on the way. Karen's
attention is solely on
Plankton. She strokes his
forehead, feeling the warmth
of his skin and the steady
beat of his pulse beneath
her fingertips. The house feels
too quiet, the air thick with
concern.
Her eyes dart around the room,
looking for anything that
might help him feel comfortable.
Karen starts to
hum a lullaby,
hoping the tune might
calmly wake him.
Only the next afternoon does
Plankton start to wake. His eye
began to flutter open. "What
happened?" he mumbles.
Karen smiles, relieved. "You had a
bad fall in the kitchen. Do you
remember anything?"
Plankton's eye widens as
his hand shoots to the spot on
his head where the pan had
hit. "Oh, cooking,
right?" His voice is groggy,
his memory foggy.
"Yes, but let's not worry
about that now," Karen says,
squeezing his hand. She notices
his confusion, the way
his gaze flits around the
room, searching for clues.
"You acquired Autism."
Plankton blinks a few times,
taking in the soft light and
the worried face of his wife.
He tries to sit up, but a wave
of dizziness washes over him.
"Autism?" he repeats, the word
foreign on his tongue. Karen nods
gently. "It's ok, Plankton," she
says, her voice soothing.
The revelation hangs
heavily in the air between
them. Plankton's mind races.
The room seems to spin as he
tries to process the news.
Rocking back and forth, he
starts to self-soothe, a common
behavior among those with
autism when overwhelmed.
Karen, who has read about
this, understands it's his
brain's way of coping with
the onslaught of new
information and sensations.
"It's ok," she whispers,
her voice steady. "You can
stim however you need to."
Her words act like a key
unlocking a door. Plankton's
hands begin to flap, and he
lets out a soft hum, a melody
that fills the silent room.
"It's ok," she says softly,
"Stim if it helps."
The rhythmic motion and
soothing sound of Karen's voice
help to calm him down. He
stops flapping, but the hum
continues, a gentle echo in
the quiet. Plankton's eye
locks onto hers, searching for
comfort. "I'm here," she says,
her tone a gentle reassurance.
Suddenly, his eye lit up
as he repeats her words,
"You're here," his voice a
mirror of hers. It's echolalic,
a common trait in those with
autism, where they repeat
sounds or phrases. "You're here," he
repeats, over and over, the
phrase becoming a comforting
mantra. His palilalic speech
is a bridge between the
overwhelming confusion
and the familiar presence
of his wife.
Karen nods. She's read that
palilalic repetition can be
soothing for those with
autism.
"You're here," Plankton says
again, his voice growing stronger
with each repetition. The
words become a rhythm, a
heartbeat of reassurance that
he clings to as the world
swims into focus.
Plankton's eye refocus
on Karen's screen, and a
tiny smile appears as he
understands her acceptance.
He starts to rock more
comfortably, matching the
rhythm of his humming.
The house feels like a
sanctuary, a bubble
wrapped around them,
their shared breaths the
only sound. Karen's eyes
well up with tears, but she
holds them back, not wanting
to interrupt this moment.
His humming
gradually fades into
silence, and he looks at
Karen.
"We'll figure it out,"
she says firmly, her voice
a lifeline in the stormy
sea of uncertainty. "We'll
learn about Autism and adjust our
lives. You're not alone
in this, Plankton."
Her words seem to anchor
him. He takes a deep
breath, and his body relaxes
against the couch cushions.
"Thank Karen," he whispers,
his voice cracking.
Karen nods, blinking away
her own unshed tears. "We're
going to be okay," she says,
more to convince herself than
anything. Plankton's smile
grows a little wider, and
his hand reaches for hers.
"What's next?" he asks, his
voice still weak but steady.
Karen rises from the floor
and moves to the bookshelf.
Her fingers trace the spines,
landing on a worn-out book titled
"The Art of Cooking." She pulls
it out gently and holds it out to him.
Plankton's eye lights up at the
familiar sight. It's his favorite
book, filled with recipes and notes
he's collected over the years.
He takes it with trembling hands,
feeling the weight of the pages.
"Let's start slow," Karen suggests,
sitting beside him on the couch.
"We'll go through the book
together, and maybe we'll find
something simple for tomorrow's dinner."
Plankton nods, flipping through
the pages with newfound
carefulness.
"How about we start
with spaghetti?" Karen offers,
pointing to a simple
illustration on the page.
It's a dish they've made
together countless times.
"Spaghetti," he repeats, the word
like a warm blanket around
his new reality. "How about we start
with spaghetti.."
They spend the rest of the
day going through the book,
discussing ingredients and
steps, Karen explaining things
in a way that's easy for Plankton
to understand. His focus
intensifies, his eye lighting up
with every new piece of
information. The kitchen
accident seems like a distant
memory, replaced by the
comforting familiarity of cooking.