A Very Careful Listener

Autism myths abound and Kev is collecting, and dissecting, them at this new site. One myth that especailly irks me is the notion that autistic kids are “in their own world” and “withdrawn into themselves” and, generally, “out of it.”

My son Charlie is thoroughly engaged in and attuned to the goings-on of the world all around him. He may not look like he is, and he often does no respond in the usual ways that people are accustomed, to indicate social awareness. Due to his limited language, people tend to assume, or too quickly assume, that he does not understand what is said to him.

But never underestimate how carefully someone, and someone who doesn’t have the “usual,” “expected” responses, might be tuning in.

It’s apparent to everyone—Jim and me, Charlie’s teachers and therapists—that he has a lot of feeling about the arrival and departure of my parents, aka “Gong Gong” and “PoPo” (that’s the Cantonese for “maternal grandfather” and “maternal grandmother”). Charlie gets visibly, thoroughly anxious a couple of days before they visit, in the middle of their visit (as he senses that they’ll be departing at some point), the day before they leave, and the day of their departure. He’s less in control of his nerves, one could say, and generally on edge.

This is painful for Charlie, and for everyone (and certainly my parents who are regular readers here). We all spend a fair amount of time strategizing about how to help Charlie deal with so many feelings, with anxiety, joy, anticipation, happiness; with a host of contradictory feelings that are all mixed up and experienced at once. We’ve tried photos and picture schedules but sometimes those set Charlie even more on edge. I usually try to mention that my parents are coming and going in a rather casual, nonchalant manner, in the course of a general conversation about things, in the hope that it’ll sounds like a routine occurrence, and so be felt more like that by Charlie.

Charlie gave my parents an enthuasiastic and smiley send-off Monday night. He’d gotten a buzzcut at the barber and my parents had take photos of his new ‘do; my mom made vegetable soup and paper-wrapped chicken and Charlie played the piano with brio. He said good-bye, went straight to bed on Monday, and woke early on Tuesday, and got himself ready for the bus. His teacher wrote that he was agitated getting off the bus and had one tough moment in the morning, and then was finishing off a great rest of the day when something seized him just as he was to get onto the bus. He sat for almost five minutes in his seat as I stood in the parking lot and then Charlie ran out, visibly unhappy. I followed him into our condo and he sat in the black chair by the window for 45 minutes with shoes and coat on and—I guess the word would be—-moped.

Then he got up and took his lunchbox out of his bookbag, told me what he’d done at school, and went to find his Leapsters in his room.

The rest of the day was properly boring and routine. We went for our usual walk, well-bundled up and with Charlie slushing through piles of leaves, and then to the grocery store. Last week, the store had lost its electricity earlier in the day and had to throw out many refrigerated and frozen items, including Charlie’s latest favorite, vegetarian egg rolls. The bins were properly well-stocked Tuesday afternoon and he filled a basket and contemplated, and ultimately turned down, some hot dogs. We went home, ate, did a homework sheet, and I recorded hic haec hoc.

Charlie was talking in the background of my first attempts. After the second, he started repeating what I’d said (”hic, haec, hoc, huius…….“). When I tried out the podcast I’d uploaded, he came right over to my laptop and stood listening with a smile.

All while saying, hic, haec, hoc, hu……...