Autism & my dead father

There is no cheeky substitle this time.

Disclaimer: Forgive me for posting this a day late. Writing this post was incredibly exhausting. Paying tribute to the departed is always tricky, and a son’s father is no exception.

Leong Ka Cheong Christopher died on January 25th, 2025. His death had a discombobulating effect on me. Even though cancer had emaciated his body, my mother and I could’ve sworn he was making progress. His oncologist was adamant that his aggressive treatment plan was working. My father was not only resilient but was slowly but surely conquering his disease. The latest scans showed that the tumors were still growing (albeit very slowly). Dr. Gill had insisted that this was pseudo-progression. While my father’s body was failing, his mind was still sharp and stimulating. “I will never leave you,” he said.

Dr. Gill may have been one of the most compassionate physicians I had ever met, but he rarely made the time to discuss my father’s progress with anyone besides my mother. That led to a deep reservoir of hostility and skepticism towards him and his interpretations. However, he would end up being right. The chemotherapy and immunotherapy had worked too well. One of the tumors shrank so much it ripped a hole in his intestine. Despite countless surgeries, the doctors couldn’t really patch it. Dad’s condition seemed to worsen with each intervention. One evening, my mother made a rash decision. He died the morning after.

I am still devastated. Dad was everything to me.

My father and I rarely agreed on anything. Most of you reading probably believe that differences in success and intelligence are more genetic than environmental. Dad may not have been a blank slatist, but he thought people made their own luck. Like a lot of asian men of his generation, he had little to no sympathy for the unsuccessful and even less for those he considered dead weight.

Even though he had told me otherwise constantly, my mind continually wonders if Dad ever believed in the existence of mental illness. My father was certainly skeptical of psychiatry and did not like seeing his son being analyzed and scrutinized by what he felt were incompetent clinicians. If it was difficult for him to accept that his son was autistic, he couldn't believe that my severe innumeracy was anything but a product of laziness. “Why don’t you pick up a workbook?”

And yet, for all my infractions, Christopher Leong loved me with such deep and abiding devotion. He could’ve cut me off during the Hong Kong protests. He could’ve made his financial support conditional on learning Chinese and showing appreciation of my Chinese heritage. He could’ve demanded that I never talk about mental illness or autism in front of him or other people. He could’ve spent years trying to constrain and shape me into someone completely different. Instead of doing the smart thing, my father did what was hopefully the right thing. He showered me with an endless supply of love and never looked back.

I am still lost without him. That is why I am sharing the eulogy I gave at his funeral.

My father was sitting across from four teachers in a cold meeting room. Even though the lights were on, the atmosphere felt subdued. The only bright light that was penetrating this strangely frosty setting came from the stained windows. The old section of the school building was formerly a resplendent mansion, but he felt anything but splendid when he had to listen to an hour’s worth of concerning analysis about his son’s future. Christopher Leong was used to listening to and debating with a rotating cast of teachers, clinicians, advocates, and administrators. He had developed an uncanny ability to intuit which complaints about me were genuine and which were simply attempts at retaliation. He had heard it all before; he had crossed swords with so many well-meaning professionals. Christopher Leong was not afraid to humiliate someone if it meant they would get off my back. However, this meeting was much different. The teachers had nothing but good things to say about me. They loved me so much; they thought I should stick around for another year or two after graduation. “We think that Lap would benefit tremendously if he entered our transition program”, the kind old lady said. My studious history teacher chimed in, “It would ease his path into college or training”. Instead of asking probing questions or grilling the teachers, he smiled and thanked them for their time. As we walked through the parking lot, I could tell that he was incensed. We suddenly stopped. He took me aside and said, “Don’t listen to them.

You can do whatever you want.” It was all I needed to hear from him. Whatever my decision was, Dad would never stop being my biggest cheerleader and my most relentless advocate. Whenever he was around to assert my interests, I would feel invincible. And when I felt invincible, life no longer felt so uncertain. Such was the power of Christopher Leong’s undying love.

A decade ago, after graduating from high school, I spent many a night pacing my apartment, trying to solve a great mystery: my father had the time, energy, and resources to do whatever he wanted. He had dreams of driving around the Italian countryside in a Ferrari and wanted to spend more time in Hong Kong. However, instead of traveling the world with my mother or spending weekends with his grandchildren, he continued to work late into the night to support me. “I work 14 hours a day”, he said, with pride. Why would he do this? He no longer needed to drive me to and from school, nor did he have any desire to accompany me to the psychiatrist's, yet, for one more glorious decade, he’d continue to be there when I needed him the most. Whenever he thought a physical trainer was overcharging me, he’d send stern emails before meeting them in person. Whenever a therapist needed to know more about my situation, he’d always have the time to be at their office with me. When it came to my community college education, he’d make sure to secure every possible accommodation.

I can still see him at the Office of Accessibility, sitting down and patiently explaining to the deputy director why his son needed double time on tests and for his class notes to be transcribed by an aide. Why's relaxed, yethe'ss ded till upright. His tone is empathetic, sharp, and clear. His words are concise and calculated. Christopher Leong was taking Mrs. Leach on a tour of his long journey so she could see what he saw in me. For a man who was never entirely comfortable with the concepts of Autism or learning disabilities, he spent his days trying to find the best people who would help make my life happier, more meaningful, and more independent. His deep doubts about the efficacy of talk therapy or the scientific validity of psychiatry didn’t stop him from providing the deep support that I took for granted. To this day, I am still dumbfounded as to why Christopher Leong went through all this effort to help me. The best answer he ever gave me was the simplest one,” You are my son, I love you.”