by Becky Schwepler-Wojcik

Created on: February 28, 2009   Last Updated: August 16, 2010

"So when you're near me, darling can't you hear me SOS?"  Click ... Click ... Click ... Click ...

Matt Hobson's white sneaker taps in rhythm to the beat as his index finger presses the computer keyboard keys, one letter at a time. It's a slow process, but with infinite rewards.

Hobson, 26, of Brownsburg, Ind., is a junior at Indiana University Purdue University in Indianapolis or IUPUI, with a GPA above 3.0. He wants to be a journalist. In a recent assignment, a professor referenced Robert Frost and asked if Hobson had taken "the road less traveled" in his life. Hobson certainly identifies with the poem.

"I have definitely taken the road less traveled. I have had to go my own way."

Indeed he has. Hobson didn't actually speak any of those words, though. He is autistic. He can't talk. And for nearly half his life, he never communicated at all. So like the ABBA song, he was desperately trying to signal his SOS, but his own body just wouldn't allow it. He was trapped in his own private prison.

The Mayo Clinic reports one in 150 people is diagnosed with autism. It is a complex neurobiological disorder that impairs a person's ability to communicate, interact and relate to others. It usually affects language, behavior and social development. There is no cure and no fully effective treatments. Common signs of the disorder are poor eye contact, constant or repetitive movements, fascination with a particular object, dislike of hugging, loss of language and adherence to routines.

Hobson's mom, Nancy, who is a school teacher, remembers the anguish. "I heard him say 'mom' one time," said the petite brunette. "But never again."

She recalls going through the different stages of grief, first denial, and then anger after Matt's diagnosis. One of the worst things about having a child with a developmental disability was the lack of a support system at that time. Nancy didn't know anyone else who had a child with problems like Matt. The doctors offered little hope or encouragement. "Sitting in a rocking chair at Riley Children's Hospital," she said. "I wanted to pinch myself. I was living a nightmare."

They saw many neurologists hoping for something, anything. Nancy thought she would never smile or laugh again. She looks wistfully at her son, curled peacefully in his favorite blue recliner. His hair is tousled. They share the same dark eyes and comfortable smiles. They are like an indomitable tag team.

"Our light at the end of the tunnel was Matt's two physical therapists

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