In the line of duty

FigureThe morning session is over. The scheduled patients have been seen, attended to, and ushered out the door. The nursing staff has already cleared out, leaving their desktops in disarray. The receptionists have turned the phones over to the answering service; my colleagues departed the premises through the back door to run their midday errands. Only I remain behind, ready to delve into the brown-bag lunch in my valise. I walk down the long hallway to secure the front door to the office. As I reach for the deadbolt, I notice a police cruiser pull into the parking lot and edge into a space. Momentarily, an officer exits the vehicle and approaches the entrance. I wait behind the glass door and push it open for him as he steps inside. “I was just closing the office for lunch,” I say. “Can I help you with something?” Hat in hand, he stands erect in his blue uniform, badge centered over a shirt pocket, firearm in the holster at his hip. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you,” he says. “I hoped I might find you here today.” “Of course,” I say. “Can I ask what this is in reference to?” “It's about a patient,” he says. “It's about my son.” I focus on his face. All men in uniform look the same: anonymous. Up until that moment, I regarded him as a cop. Now I see him as a man, one whose visage I vaguely recognize. “Certainly,” I say, gesturing to the doorway of an examination room off the waiting area. “We can step in here.” He sits down on one of the orange plastic chairs while I pull up a stool. “What's up?” I ask. “His mother brought him in to see you the other week,” he says. “I guess his teacher had some concerns about him. She sent home a note, and his mother made the appointment.” He clears his throat. “I guess I'm just looking for some information. His mother isn't very forthcoming when I ask. As the boy's father, I think I've got every right to know—” “Of course you do,” I say. “I recall meeting you some time back. You had come in with his mother.” “That's right. I remember that visit. You brought up some concerns you had, but his mother countered them. We left it at that, but now with this note from his teacher and this latest turn of events...well, I just want to know what's going on.” “Have you spoken to his mother?” “She won't say, other than that she's handling it; but I don't know how much she acknowledges that there's a problem.” “Yes, I sensed some pushback when I spoke to her at his last visit.” “It's been like that since he was born,” he says, shifting in the chair. “We were together for a year or so before she got pregnant. I thought things were good. I was excited about being a father, especially after I knew it was a boy. “But things changed after we brought him home from the hospital. She mothered him like mothers do—breastfed him and all of that—but she kept him to herself. She wouldn't let me change his diapers, wouldn't let me hold him—and he was my son, for God's sake....” His eyes mist up. “He is my son.” I sit with him in silence; time stands still. “Things just went downhill from there on out,” he says. “She became more and more distant. I would come home off shift, sit and stare at the TV while she stayed in her bedroom with the baby. We had words; eventually, I moved out. But I'm still around to ask about my boy.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “And that's what I'm asking you now—what about my boy?” I let out a long, low breath, then gather my thoughts, asking for the right words. Somehow, they come. “I hadn't met your boy or his mother before his 5-year checkup last winter,” I say. “I had some concerns about him, mostly because of how he responded to me, to my questions; his overall demeanor. Of course, it's hard to say with any degree of certainty, having just seen a child for the first time—” He stares at my face, hangs on my words. “—but now we have these additional concerns raised by his teacher, and I've had the chance to re-evaluate him. I let his mother know that I suspect that he falls somewhere on the autism spectrum.” The big uniformed policeman drops his head into his hands, his shoulders shake. No longer a public servant making a routine inquiry in the line of duty, before my eyes he has become a father, grieving for his only son.