This is Part 10 in the I Think I Might Be Autistic series.
If you’ve read through the components of my ASD evaluation, you might be wondering but what about the Asperger’s questionnaire?
There wasn’t one. I didn’t complete a written screening or diagnostic test like the RAADS-R or AQ. My ASD diagnosis was based on the diagnostic interview, the outcomes of the cognitive/neuropsychological testing and behavioral observations made by Dr. H and B during my visit.
However, between the diagnostic interview and the behavioral observation, the key questions on the screening instruments were addressed in detail. The diagnostic interview covered questions on my special interests, relationships, social preferences, sensory sensitivities, attention, language pragmatics and fine motor skills. The behavioral observation included general presentation (grooming and dress), gait, speech (rhythm, rate and volume), demeanor, verbal skills, eye contact, movement patterns and conversation habits.
The interview and testing took about five and half hours. It was exhausting. We went straight through lunch, though both B and Dr. H told me that I could ask for a break at any time. The thing is, when I’m that engaged in something, I forget that I need to eat. I may be hungry, but the hunger signal gets muted.
So, exhausted and hungry, wishing I’d taken The Scientist up on his offer of a ride, I scheduled my follow-up appointment and stumbled out to the car. My evaluation was done. In three weeks I’d have a diagnosis.
A vague sense of panic settled in as I started rehashing every detail of the appointment. Worse, I knew that I had three weeks ahead of me to perseverate on what I’d said and done and not said and not done. Three weeks to wonder if I’d done “too well” on the cognitive tests, if I’d instinctively made an effort to “pass” in the interview, if I’d withheld key details or reflexively covered my weaknesses.
Three whole weeks to alternately tell myself that this had been the best and the worst thing I’d ever done for myself.
The days passed about as quickly as you’d expect. I was restless and unsettled, plagued by a string of nightmares. The idea that Asperger’s might be something I’d talked myself into or imagined haunted me. My biggest fear–the one I couldn’t shake–was that Dr. H would tell me I wasn’t autistic, that in fact there was nothing wrong with me.
Then what? I’d found this explanation that fit so well. If someone “officially” took it away from me, I would be lost again, left to start over in search of a new, better explanation.