By Elliott Jones staff writer
January 19, 2003

Seven-year-old Townsend Connors' quietly looked at his teacher with a perplexed look that pleaded for her to help him.

A classmate sitting next to him dominated the computer that Townsend was supposed to be using at Dodgertown Elementary School.

Townsend didn't yell out. He just sat in his seat and looked.

In class, Townsend is meek. "He's a people-pleaser," said special education teacher Amy Quint.

As his classmates joined in a sing-a-long about putting peanut butter on their heads, he slightly smiled and softly clapped his hands on his knees, just like his teacher.

***

Townsend's long black eyelashes opened on his pale face, letting his dark-blue eyes see the glow-in-the dark stars studding his jade-green walls.

The Indian River County resident jumped up -- in pull-ups and an old T-shirt -- to see a room that he feels is his, including the VeggieTales stuffed animals and the "T," for Townsend, among the stars.

"Like my cool room," he says. That isn't a question. It's a statement.

Just down the hall his step-father, Lane Hudson, was ready to make the boy's favorites: Hash-browns or pancakes.

If his ever-vigilant mother Priscilla Richardson-Hudson, 41, accidentally served hash-browns, the boy would squeal and go into a tantrum far bigger than his size: 45 pounds and 45 inches tall.

He also may erupt if the television wasn't showing what he expected such as a videotape of Junior Asparagus, which in Townsend's g-less vocabulary is pronounced asparabus.

He's autistic. Because of it, at times he's "a ball of irritability" that can go into emotional fits, said his physician, Dr. Jerry Kartzinel, of Melbourne.

Most of the time he is just a disabled boy with communication and learning problems that seem to cut him off from participating in the world around him. He can seem stuck in place, unable to engage in the flow of life around him.

Yet in first grade he is learning to be assertive enough to speak up about more than not being able to open his pre-packaged drink.

That self-confidence is gained small steps at a time, like letting go of the hand of teaching aide Priscilla Sammons last year and walking by himself in the annual Christmas parade on Ocean Drive.

***

Townsend Connor's muscles tightened as one nurse gripped his left arm about a year ago at the International Autism Research Center in Melbourne. Then another nurse grasped his right arm and put a needle in a vein.

He freaked, fearfully screaming while trying to wrestle himself free.

It was his first time undergoing a new anti-autism therapy -- an infusion of medicines -- that he now gets regularly every three weeks.

Through the needle -- for four minutes -- painlessly flows 4 ounces of a blend of water and two chemicals: Glutathione and Secretin.

Glutathione helps improve mental focus by clearing away brain cell wastes. And Secretin helps with intestinal disorders that autistic patients can have, said his physician Jerry Kartzinel.

The infusions are helping him "focus longer," said his mother, Priscilla Richardson-Hudson. "He can sit at home and at Dodgertown Elementary School and concentrate on a puzzle," his mother said.

After two weeks, the infusion treatment loses its effect, leaving him antsy, easily frustrated. He notices that. He pats his right arm and says, "Medicine in my arm."

***

Townsend Connors walked slowly, admiring the jets of water coming up around him in the fountain at Vero Beach's Royal Palm Pointe Park.

He seemed contentedly bemused as if he was alone in a flower garden, even though other children were around.

For him it is a personal oasis. He is there every day except for when weather is unfavorable.

Sometimes he hops in the water or stands as a jet of water flows on him like a giant water fountain.

"Each time he comes it's like the first time," said his 42-year-old stepfather, Lane Hudson. "He gets the same joy." When the youth has had enough, he goes up to parents and says, "All done."

***

By age 2, Townsend Connor's fountain of baby-babble dried up. He stopped rolling over.

He had developed normally until then. His mother, Priscilla Richardson-Hudson, hoped it was just a momentary setback. After all, Townsend's older brother, Austin Lockwood, developed normally and went into sports: T-ball, Mighty Mites and then soccer.

But now in her lap was a baby who for some unknown force was "pulling out of my arms," his mother said. At an age when mothers and infants are bonding, "The tighter I held on, the more he slipped away.

"It was overwhelming," she said.

Finally, she went beyond her own denials and started an emotionally wrenching, two-year-long journey of trying to find what was wrong. For months, she drove each weekday morning to West Palm Beach to a state-funded child training program that helped her child.

About four years ago, a program specialist suggested that he might have autism.

"In my ignorance, I was scared," she said. All she knew of autism came from seeing the 1988 movie "Rain Man" that portrayed a man with extreme autism, completely out of touch with time and place.

Townsend, she said, was just having delays in speech and com- prehension. Yet she suspected that something more was going on.

The college honor student began reading everything she could find on autism. "I began pealing away my denial," she said. "I am his mom. I needed to make his life easier."

In late 1999 she finally turned to an autism center, in Melbourne, that diagnosed him as having the condition.

At first, the International Autism Research Center in Melbourne treated the youth with nutritional supplements that barely changed his behavior, his mother said.

About 1 1/2 years ago the doctor recommended a drastic diet change. His parents took away the box of vanilla wafers that he used to eat at one sitting. He could no longer get his cherished Goldfish snacks.

All wheat and dairy products are off limits. He can eat corn, rice and potato products.

Townsend revolted, his mother said.

Yet through time his mother noticed that he gradually "could handle change more agreeably." He wouldn't automatically throw a fit if she added an extra stop to her errands.

***

As Priscilla Richardson-Hudson turned onto Interstate 95, she directed her son, Townsend Connors' attention to palm trees on the roadside. She talked about a metal box on the power pole, an airplane in the sky, the blue sky, the white clouds.

She spoke about whatever came to her attention. She didn't turn on the radio for entertainment. She wanted to directly engage him.

Through the rearview mirror, she saw him looking at a VeggieTales book. In it, Junior Asparagus was drinking milk. "Who gives milk?" she asked while providing the answer: "Cow."

"Where do cows get milk? Water."

By nature, she is high energy. But her talkativeness has a purpose.

"I want to keep him focused and not drift off into la-la land," as many autistic children are prone to do, she said. "I don't want him to check out."

In school, he played a school computer game that taught the number 3 by putting candy drops on a cookie. He paid attention only to the part of the game that fed the cookies to a frog.

In the car, his mother kept trying to engage him, she said. He tries talking back, saying things that may have nothing to do with what she is saying. Or he mimics her conversation.

Then he sinks back into his own state of mind, a state where he likes regularity. As he looks out the car window, he is comforted by seeing the same cows, trees and blue sky that were there before.

And he keeps seeing his mother's glances in the rear-view mirror.

***

At a McDonald's restaurant in Vero Beach, Townsend Connor's mother simultaneously wanted to jump on top of a table and crawl under it.

The lines were long that Sunday. Townsend smelled foods buns and chicken that he can't have for medical reasons. And his anti-autism medicines were wearing off, putting him on edge.

He threw straws and newspaper, expressing his agitation. Then he screamed.

"A year ago, I would have slithered out of there," said his mother, Priscilla Richardson-Hudson. "I hate disturbing anyone. People stare.

"They assume that he is a terrible child, that I have no control over a spoiled brat. They think I'm not doing my job as a mother."

At home, she has put him in time out and spanked him. "Just because he has special needs doesn't mean he shouldn't be disciplined," she said. "He is smart enough to know the difference between right and wrong.

"If Townsend gets upset and raises his hand, like he is going to hit, I say, 'No sir. If you hit mom, you have to go in time out.' "

Townsend's outbreak at McDonald's was more than misbehaving. It was autism.

This time her husband, Lane Hudson, was with her, "Helping me get through this."

Bolstered by his presence, she felt like jumping on top of the table and proclaiming to everyone in the restaurant that her son is autistic. She didn't. She realized she would just become part of the spectacle. "How do you tell people about autism?" she said.

"When you say Townsend has autism, people's first reaction is, 'Oh, I am so sorry. What a waste.'

"Explaining autism is complicated," she said.

On average, her son has had a fit about every other day. After half an hour he finally wears down and becomes exhausted. The outrage stops.

Life resumes with his mother mentally tip-toeing, apprehensive of doing things that might set him off. For the past five to six years, "I have rarely been to a movie or restaurant, except for a McDonald's," said the work-at-home mother.

"Simple things I took for granted are no longer simple, like going to the store."

"I pray for him," she said. "Maybe God will perform a miracle."

***

Townsend Connors fears elevators. So his mother, Priscilla Richardson-Hudson and his former Sunday school teacher walked him up the stairs to his new Sunday school room at the First Church of God, Vero Beach.

Faith helps her deal with her son's autism. "God tells us not to get disheartened and feel helpless," she said. "God designed for me to be Townsend's mom" and to help him through his struggles.

"I am rigorous in teaching him about the Lord and that he is loved," the mother said.

He touched his chest and said, "In my heart," when asked where Jesus is.

Yet he feared leaving his small Sunday school classroom on the first floor. He'd grown accustomed to everyone there. They were his first group of new friends outside of the youths he met in a special class in elementary school.

Now he was entering an extra large Sunday school room and his mother was apprehensive that something would upset him. "There were a lot of things hanging from the ceiling," she said. "There were twice as many kids. He was out of his comfort zone."

She sat in the room until the teacher signaled her it was all right to go.

"God has a purpose," said Lane Hudson, the boy's stepfather. "God is leading us."

***

Townsend Connors is no-nap, non stop.

He even balks at going to sleep. Unless he is really tired, his parents give him a tablet of a sleep aid, Melatonin.

He's so busy and needing of attention, his parents' only time off is when he is in Dodgertown Elementary School or after he goes to sleep about 8:30 p.m.

Then his mother, Priscilla Richardson-Hudson, works at home as a medical transcriptionist from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m., before sleeping until 6 a.m.

Townsend wakes at 6:30 a.m. Yet, he often wakes in the night.

"It is a guessing game" finding out why, his mother said. He has insomnia. "If he seems distressed, I can only assume it is a bad dream, a stomach ache or a bowel movement. He can't say, 'mommy, my stomach hurts.' "

As she is there at his bedside, "He grabs my hands and lays it on his chest. He moves my thumb, almost like a massage thing. It causes him to sleep. Sometimes I stay in there with him" after he falls asleep.

"I'm very high strung," his mother, who was a cheerleader for eight years in junior high and high school. She set goals, graduating third in her high school senior class.

"I'm glad I have this much energy" to cope with a non-stop child. "When I go to bed at midnight, I feel guilty.

Having to cope with an autistic child has "redirected my life," she said.

She has had problems in life: Two divorces and her father died two hours after she received the divorce papers from her second husband.

Autism has done more: "It has made me humble," she said. "I can't be rigid. There isn't a pat answer, no concrete answer. There is always an 'if:' That there might be something that could be done.

"There isn't black and white," she said. Her life is like her nights can be: A blend of dark and light. "All my life is gray.

"You take normality for granted until you don't have it," she said.