Told with the intensity of a medical thriller, the extraordinary story of how Clay Whiffen and his family conquered autism. The therapy costs $30,000. We'd be mortgaging our lives and our savings on something we're not even sure could help our son. But the clock is ticking: the longer we wait, the harder it will be to pull him out of this shell. How are we going to afford it? How can we not afford it?

When Clay Whiffen was diagnosed on the autism spectrum, his parents didn't know where to turn. They refused to believe that he could not be cured, and began to try every therapy they could afford - and many they couldn't. In this extraordinary story of one family's struggle with autism, Leeann Whiffen gives voice to the fear of losing a child and the fight to reclaim him, exploring what treatments eased her son Clay's symptoms, where the Whiffens found support, and how the family conquered one of the toughest challenges a child can face.

With a foreword by autism specialist Dr. Bryan Jepson, A Child's Journey out of Autism spells out what treatments worked, where the family found help, and how they made it through this crushing crisis. In a time of despair and confusion - when another child is diagnosed with autism every 20 minutes - this is a profound, proven message of hope for anyone whose life is touched by the disorder.

Chapter 1...

I amble out into the balmy June morning with a pregnant swagger. The fog is still heavy in the air at 6:00 a.m. My hospital bag clutched under my arm, I maneuver my awkward

body up and into the car. I hear the thumping of Sean's fingers and turn to see him tapping the keys of an imaginary piano on the steering wheel. As we drive to the hospital, I think about Drew, our two-year-old son, who can't wait to meet his brother. I envision the boys growing up together as best friends, sticking up for each other amidst trouble, playing sports together, sharing a room, double dating. It is then I remember why we chose to have our babies so close together.

Just as I'm settling into my room at John Muir Hospital, gentle music begins pouring through the hallways. I look at Sean, puzzled. He points up at the intercom in the ceiling. As it plays longer, I recognize the familiar melody. Brahms' "Lullaby."

"What's this?" I ask, looking upward.

"Another baby was just born," my nurse says, like she has answered the same question over a hundred times this week.

"Oh, how nice," I say.

I think about how lucky I am that I'm even here on this day, June 20, 2000. I'm overdue. Consuming slice after slice of "prego pizza," a specialty pie with every topping in the house that Skipolini's claims will kick-start labor, didn't deliver anything but severe intestinal distress. When my OB/GYN offered to induce, I instantly took him up on it.

I squeeze Sean's hand, noting his boyish hairline and dark chocolate eyes. His masculine, geometric jawline beckons my gaze. I mouth the words, "I love you." Holding up his hand he grins slightly to one side and flashes me the "I love you" sign.

The entire labor process blurs, setting itself apart from my grueling first delivery. I clench Sean's hand again, this time so hard he pretends to grimace dramatically. I shoot him the look that says, you are silly to try and tease me now.

"Push," the doctor says again. "He's almost there."

"One more time!" Sean says excitedly, leaning in closer. I bear down with all the energy I can marshal. I feel the blood rush to my face and the veins pop out of my head and neck as I strain to deliver this new life into our world.

"There he is," I hear the doctor say in a calm low voice.

A tiny, shrill cry penetrates the air. I lift my head off the pillow and smile, seeing his wet, curly hair matted to his head. His scrawny reddish-purple body swims in the hands of the doctor.

A feeling of peace and reverence fills the room.

The doctor hands the scissors to Sean and shows him where to cut the umbilical cord. The nurses take our son to the sink and wash him. They wrap him tightly in a thin blanket and put a beanie on his head. The room is quiet except for his tiny cries. The doctor takes him from the nurse and places him in my arms. I brush my lips against his face and inhale his sweet smell. I kiss his soft, warm head and nestle him close to me. Brahms "Lullaby" softly plays above.

I hold him only for a brief moment before one of the nurses whisks him away to weigh him and check his vitals.

"He scored a 9 on his Apgar test and his measurements were right on target," the nurse says.

She hands him back to me and places him on my chest. His warm body relaxes me. He stretches and squeaks so much he sounds like a dry hinge. I quickly glance at his hands and feet to ensure he has all five fingers and toes. I pull down the front of his diaper. "Everything is there," I whisper, easing my new mom jitters. I exhale a mental sigh of relief as I look at his tiny hand clasped over my first finger.

"So far so good," I say, looking over at Sean.

"Our baby boy is a healthy, normal little newborn. He's beautiful, and so...

"Leeann Whiffen's fight for her son is a poignant, intimate story of perseverance and love - a reminder to all of us that a mother is the greatest ally a child with autism will ever have. A Child's Journey out of Autism shines a heartfelt light on a future of healing and hope."

Leeann Whiffen lives in Salt Lake City with her husband, Sean, and her three sons, one of whom used to have autism. Leeann serves on the Autism Council of Utah, collaborating with autism organizations and individuals around the state to help families find solutions. Leading autism specialist Dr. Bryan Jepson, the parent of a son with autism, has treated hundreds of children on the autism spectrum. He established the Children's Biomedical Center of Utah to provide the most-up-to-date care and to raise awareness. He is currently the medical director of Thoughtful House in Austin, Texas.