12-21-2006, 06:07 AM
http:// seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2003486439_needy20m.htm
Fund For The Needy
Center offers treatment, education, hope to families coping with autism
By Kyung M. Song
Seattle Times staff reporter
JOHN LOK / THE SEATTLE TIMES
Kimberly Walsh comforts her son, Ian, 4, at the ASTAR (Autism Spectrum Treatment and Research) Center.
Kimberly Walsh wasn't unduly alarmed that her newly adopted son weighed just 17 pounds at age 3, barely toddled and uttered nothing intelligible. Severe neglect and deprivation at his orphanage in India likely stunted Ian's growth.
But nutritious foods, a skilled pediatrician and a devoted mother failed to help Ian thrive. Walsh endured a year of vexing frustration before learning why: Ian had a form of autism.
The diagnosis initially crushed Walsh, a health-care executive with fortitude enough to adopt two boys as a middle-age, single woman.
"I was devastated because I thought autism was a dead-end disease," Walsh says.
Walsh, 49, has learned otherwise. Ian was diagnosed with a high-functioning form of autism, a neurological disorder with no known cause or cure. With intensive treatment, Ian may attend college and get married.
Ian is among the hundreds of autism patients who foundered through misdiagnosis or missed diagnosis before arriving at Seattle's ASTAR Center. Dr. Gary Stobbe co-founded the center in 2003 to focus on treatment and research of disorders on the autism spectrum.
A cognitive behavioral neurologist, Stobbe became frustrated that so many kids with autism were diagnosed late — only then to face months-long waits for occupational or speech therapists or other treatments. He created ASTAR as a treatment and education center not only for people with autism but for their families, on whom autism takes a huge financial and emotional toll.
ASTAR is in a former Taco Del Mar site whose utilitarian look suits the nonprofit's scrappy zeal. Stobbe's wife, Mari, co-founded the center and acts as its advocate, insurance collector and coffee fetcher. The couple formed ASTAR as a nonprofit because they knew that treatment fees would not cover their costs.
ASTAR
Autism Spectrum Treatment and Research Center offers diagnostic testing, therapy and support training for patients and families with autism spectrum disorders. Autism requires many hours of one-on-one therapy that most insurance plans do not cover. Private donations made up more than half of ASTAR's $440,000 in revenue last year.
ASTAR's mission: to get help for those with autism before it's too late.
Effective treatment, Stobbe says, "is the difference between a child who is institutionalized for life versus having a job."
Autism is estimated to affect one in 166 American births, 80 percent of them boys. It impairs brain function that controls language and social interactions. Some autistic children and adults are mentally impaired. Others have normal IQs. All have varying degrees of language deficits, social detachment and persistent, even obsessive, behavior.
Misha Lynch has a son, Zane, with Asperger's syndrome, which is like a mild form of autism. For the past year, Lynch and her husband have also been caring for a younger boy with autism with help from ASTAR.
Autism in the two boys manifests itself in some strikingly different ways. For instance, Zane, 13, is hypersensitive to touch and finds even hugging painful. He spent his only day at an infant day-care facility screaming nonstop. The 3-year-old, on the other hand, has an insatiable need for touch, wanting cuddles, kisses and pinches until Lynch can give no more.
A succession of medical specialists and psychiatrists gave differing labels for Zane's condition: bipolar disorder, oppositional defiance disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder. It wasn't until Zane was 9 that a neurologist finally diagnosed Asperger's.
Lynch says it's not unusual for families of autistic children to experience repeated erroneous diagnoses and indifferent doctors on top of dealing with a demanding disease.
"God knows I went through that for years with Zane," Lynch says. "ASTAR has renewed my faith in the medical profession."
Autism is more prevalent than cerebral palsy, Down syndrome or juvenile diabetes, yet few therapies have proved helpful. Treatment must be tailored and requires many hours of one-on-one educational therapy, much of it with the parent.
"The parents have no real life outside the child," Stobbe says. Going on a vacation, securing a baby-sitter and even fetching groceries can be Herculean tasks.
Walsh, the adoptive mother, knows that as well as anyone. She took most of last year off from her job as a clinical research director for a German prosthetics company, forgoing much of her $125,000 annual salary. She has taken out a second mortgage on her Mill Creek home to pay for Ian's care. Walsh's elderly parents in Mississippi have begun lending her money against her inheritance.
Walsh says the sacrifices have been worth it. Ian's impish personality is emerging. He waves goodbye to a stranger, though he averts his eyes. Now nearly 5, he can say, "Me go school today."
Walsh calls Stobbe her hero. It is in part because of him that Walsh dares to dream that autism won't confine Ian forever.
"Ian is going to overcome it with a lot of help," she says.
Kyung Song: 206-464-2423 or ksong@seattletimes.com
Fund For The Needy
Center offers treatment, education, hope to families coping with autism
By Kyung M. Song
Seattle Times staff reporter
JOHN LOK / THE SEATTLE TIMES
Kimberly Walsh comforts her son, Ian, 4, at the ASTAR (Autism Spectrum Treatment and Research) Center.
Kimberly Walsh wasn't unduly alarmed that her newly adopted son weighed just 17 pounds at age 3, barely toddled and uttered nothing intelligible. Severe neglect and deprivation at his orphanage in India likely stunted Ian's growth.
But nutritious foods, a skilled pediatrician and a devoted mother failed to help Ian thrive. Walsh endured a year of vexing frustration before learning why: Ian had a form of autism.
The diagnosis initially crushed Walsh, a health-care executive with fortitude enough to adopt two boys as a middle-age, single woman.
"I was devastated because I thought autism was a dead-end disease," Walsh says.
Walsh, 49, has learned otherwise. Ian was diagnosed with a high-functioning form of autism, a neurological disorder with no known cause or cure. With intensive treatment, Ian may attend college and get married.
Ian is among the hundreds of autism patients who foundered through misdiagnosis or missed diagnosis before arriving at Seattle's ASTAR Center. Dr. Gary Stobbe co-founded the center in 2003 to focus on treatment and research of disorders on the autism spectrum.
A cognitive behavioral neurologist, Stobbe became frustrated that so many kids with autism were diagnosed late — only then to face months-long waits for occupational or speech therapists or other treatments. He created ASTAR as a treatment and education center not only for people with autism but for their families, on whom autism takes a huge financial and emotional toll.
ASTAR is in a former Taco Del Mar site whose utilitarian look suits the nonprofit's scrappy zeal. Stobbe's wife, Mari, co-founded the center and acts as its advocate, insurance collector and coffee fetcher. The couple formed ASTAR as a nonprofit because they knew that treatment fees would not cover their costs.
ASTAR
Autism Spectrum Treatment and Research Center offers diagnostic testing, therapy and support training for patients and families with autism spectrum disorders. Autism requires many hours of one-on-one therapy that most insurance plans do not cover. Private donations made up more than half of ASTAR's $440,000 in revenue last year.
ASTAR's mission: to get help for those with autism before it's too late.
Effective treatment, Stobbe says, "is the difference between a child who is institutionalized for life versus having a job."
Autism is estimated to affect one in 166 American births, 80 percent of them boys. It impairs brain function that controls language and social interactions. Some autistic children and adults are mentally impaired. Others have normal IQs. All have varying degrees of language deficits, social detachment and persistent, even obsessive, behavior.
Misha Lynch has a son, Zane, with Asperger's syndrome, which is like a mild form of autism. For the past year, Lynch and her husband have also been caring for a younger boy with autism with help from ASTAR.
Autism in the two boys manifests itself in some strikingly different ways. For instance, Zane, 13, is hypersensitive to touch and finds even hugging painful. He spent his only day at an infant day-care facility screaming nonstop. The 3-year-old, on the other hand, has an insatiable need for touch, wanting cuddles, kisses and pinches until Lynch can give no more.
A succession of medical specialists and psychiatrists gave differing labels for Zane's condition: bipolar disorder, oppositional defiance disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder. It wasn't until Zane was 9 that a neurologist finally diagnosed Asperger's.
Lynch says it's not unusual for families of autistic children to experience repeated erroneous diagnoses and indifferent doctors on top of dealing with a demanding disease.
"God knows I went through that for years with Zane," Lynch says. "ASTAR has renewed my faith in the medical profession."
Autism is more prevalent than cerebral palsy, Down syndrome or juvenile diabetes, yet few therapies have proved helpful. Treatment must be tailored and requires many hours of one-on-one educational therapy, much of it with the parent.
"The parents have no real life outside the child," Stobbe says. Going on a vacation, securing a baby-sitter and even fetching groceries can be Herculean tasks.
Walsh, the adoptive mother, knows that as well as anyone. She took most of last year off from her job as a clinical research director for a German prosthetics company, forgoing much of her $125,000 annual salary. She has taken out a second mortgage on her Mill Creek home to pay for Ian's care. Walsh's elderly parents in Mississippi have begun lending her money against her inheritance.
Walsh says the sacrifices have been worth it. Ian's impish personality is emerging. He waves goodbye to a stranger, though he averts his eyes. Now nearly 5, he can say, "Me go school today."
Walsh calls Stobbe her hero. It is in part because of him that Walsh dares to dream that autism won't confine Ian forever.
"Ian is going to overcome it with a lot of help," she says.
Kyung Song: 206-464-2423 or ksong@seattletimes.com