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Over my shoulder, I saw flashing lights. Police motorcycles were threading through the pack of runners as people jumped to either side of the street to get out of the way. Had the loud noise spooked him? That was when I saw in front of us, everyone was slowing down.
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Should I have been more strict? Or was I too sharp—did I let my temper get autsitic best of me? But no day before or since has matched the challenges I faced as a parent on April 15, Jamie and I were five miles away from finishing 21 jump street autistic second Boston Marathon. I checked time frame appendicitis time. The level of chatter in the crowd of runners began to rise. Had there been an accident? When could we start running again? Then a siren blast made him jump. Ahtistic put her hand on his arm. Protective and attentive, she is as attuned to his moods as I am, to the signs of unease that can indicate he is on the verge of a meltdown: flailing his arms, stomping his feet, vocalizing incoherently.
It was nerve-wracking to think of an episode like that happening now, when everyone around us was on edge and we were surrounded by 21 jump street autistic cops.
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Jamie is just shy of six feet tall, and in he was twenty-two years old. Was he okay? He knew this was not the way a race was supposed to go. And lately, running—and life in general—had become more difficult for him.
When he and his brother had first started racing at the age of fifteen, Jamie, always the happier and more easygoing of the two, had loved race days. Resistance tetracycline loved meandering peaceably 21 jump street autistic a course. Sharing high fives with other runners and onlookers, basking in the smiles and the celebration, laughing and rocking out to the music. In this way, he was like me; I like the social aspect of racing, too. In a race, I now had to keep him squarely in the middle of the road, away from the cheering crowds that used to fill him with delight. Jamie also began to do everything, from eating to tying his shoes, at a glacial pace.
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Sometimes he froze mid-step in a doorway. Ujmp we tried to hurry him, he often got upset or even had a tantrum. Over the past year, medicine and therapy had helped Jamie to the point we felt we could try Boston again. He had had such a good time in the marathon. link
They liked other activities, too: horseback riding, swimming, basketball, piano lessons. But none of these gave either of them the kind of joy we saw on their faces at a big race.
Robyn and I had decided it was best to—gently, letting him set the pace—push Jamie through.]
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