While it’s often frustrating trying to find some time at our YMCA pool for Charlie to swim in—-because, in the late afternoon and evening, the pools are primarily for the use of the numerous swim teams—-on Wednesday night, Charlie and I found ourselves by the “family pool,” with its water slides and 3 1/2 foot pool. He had asked to swim and then gotten his swimsuit on. At the pool, his eyes drifted towards the big pool. It was filled with lines of teenagers swimming up and down and up and down and (as I had done in the car en route to the YMCA), I carefully explained why we would not be able to swim in that pool.

Charlie sat on a bench for a few minutes with his head down, before taking off shoes, socks, blue coat, and blue sweatshirt. At the far end of the pool we saw some of the lifeguards we knew from swimming in the big pool in the summer and fall. One lifeguard—she just got her teaching degree and is still looking for a position—waved and called out that she was doing some sort of water safety training: Another lifeguard (who’s a very conscientious pool manager, and also recognizes Charlie) was holding onto a backboard; after a moment, another dunked himself under.

Feet dangling in the water, Charlie sat a few feet from them and watched, and didn’t move for several minutes. He watched as each lifeguard took turns pretending to be drowning the water and be lifted up, strapped onto the body board, and their head secured. Aside from two boys, the elder a few years younger than Charlie, no one was in the pool and soon Charlie slid in and started splashing and gliding and grinning his way up and down the water.

The elder boy stood still for a moment, eyes on Charlie. He said something, though I couldn’t hear with the noise of the water and the coaches calling out instructions and all the other noise and voices. Charlie kicked his way down to the shallower end and when the other boy, eyes still on Charlie, was closer to the edge, I mentioned “autism.”

“What’s that?”said the boy.

I’ve never done a great job answering this question to children—always seems like I’ve so and too much to say, and too many words come out. I mentioned, and as quickly explained, “neurological.” The boy listened, looked at Charlie, said “ok” and swam off.

Charlie remained relaxed and swam again near the lifeguards, always staying carefully out of their way. The other boy and his brother went up and down on the slides and splashed and swam, often passing close to Charlie and he to them.

“How did he get it?” the boy suddenly asked me. “How do you get autism?”

“He was born with it,” I said.

“Oh,” said the boy, and paused, and swam.

We stayed for about 40 minutes total, and then Charlie climbed the stairs and I picked up the coats and his shoes and we went to the family locker room, to shower and get dressed and head back home, after swimming in good company.

Size 7 1/2.

That’s the size of bowling shoes I got for Charlie on Wednesday afternoon, when we go to a local bowling alley with a group of kids like Charlie and their families. I loosened the laces and pulled out the shoe’s tongue so Charlie could slide his feet in and as he did I remembered how, last week, he’d had to struggle to shove and, really, jam his heels into a size 7—a size that was simply too (duh, Mom!) too small for him. No wonder he’d been on edge last Wednesday, told me “no bowling,” sat unmoving on a bench with his head adamantly down, and swiped at a plate of fries. Too tight shoes and smashed toes and trying to let me know by his asking to leave: I didn’t get it and Charlie’d gotten more and more frustrated until there was some loud loudness and much, too much, unhappiness.

It seems like, oh, a month of two ago that Charlie was a size 6. He likes to wear black suede-y slip-ons, as does Jim—I’d just ordered Jim a new pair last week and couldn’t help but be struck by the size similarity, which is pretty notable from this photo:

Talk about like father, like son. The question for me is becoming not how long will it be before I buy Jim and Charlie the same size shoes (pretty really soon) but how soon will Charlie be wearing, oh, size 13.

With feet where they should be on Wednesday, Charlie concentrated on bowling. He got into a rhythm of choosing a swirly chartreuse ball for his first bowl, and then a neon orange one (which was heavier) for the second. He was careful to insert his fingers in the three holes and throw, I meant roll, the ball with significant force a few times. He knocked over 8 pins one time. He shared a plate of fries and ketchup without incident and was still game to go swimming afterwards.

If the shoe does fit, we go for it.

Tuesday afternoon I got into a long conversation with a friend about race and a sociology class she’s teaching and had to run out to my car. I made it home with five minutes to spare, Charlie looked at me intently through the window as the bus pulled up and the aide said “hurry Charlie time to go and get a snack,” he indeed ate a (large, as usual) snack, we went the pharmacy to pick some things up, we came home and we went to the pool.

Charlie went right to the pool’s edge smiling and stood looking into the water, then sat with his feet in. He often likes to start slow—a change from when he was younger and would hurl himself into any body of water that he came across—and my coaxing, which probably feels more like coercing, is not helpful. So I went to the swallow end and started to swim the length of the pool, back and forth.

Three generations of a family were in the pool. An elderly man was swimming the butterfly in a lane, with powerful thrashes of the water. Three boys of varying ages were at the deep end, and got told not to dive and then whistled at when the youngest started to swim across the ropes setting off the lanes for adult swimmers. Their mother, in a blue swimcap and goggles, hurried over.

Charlie had gotten into the pool and was standing just where the water reached up to his chin. He was jumping and splashing and floating and I called out to him as I swam past; he grinned and twisted in the water. I swam to the wall of the deep end and turned around. From behind me came the mother with the blue swimcap and just as I passed Charlie I went a little to the right to give her room and my foot stopped and I stopped with a bad feeling. I turned in the water and knew I’d accidentally bumped Charlie’s head with my foot.

He cried, softly, and then he wailed. Everyone stopped swimming, the lifeguard blew his whistle and looked at us, everyone was looking at Charlie. I stood and—feeling like a triple times over failed parent—told him that it was my mistake, I was trying to avoid bumping the other swimmer and I made a mistake. I was sorry.

This went on for what seemed like fifteen minutes—Charlie’s voice loud and sad, sometimes saying “I’m sorry”—me trying to speak minimally, calmly, and directly, and sighing at myself. Gradually people started swimming and Charlie swayed a little in the water and started floating about, put his face in the water, dunked himself under. He came up and went under again, blinked the water out of his eyes, put his face in and powered his shoulders and splashed a trail of water behind him.

I followed him. There were even more people in the pool, mostly parents with children Charlie’s age or a little older or younger. As we went through the water, we could hear parents saying “pull your arm back, back, back!” and “it’s your head…..” or, actually, ni-de tou-tz, as the mother was speaking in Mandarin to her son, who was a few years younger than Charlie. At one point two of the three boys we’d seen earlier were all doing the butterfly stroke beside their mother and Charlie and I paused and sometimes treaded water to stay out of the way. In the shallow end, one mother spoke (in Mandarin) to her son, her voice quick. “You don’t need to race me,” she said. “You should race against your team!” “I don’t have a team,” said her son with a little cry and threw himself forward into the water and started swimming, really fast. His mother stood and sighed. An older woman slowly, methodically swam the breast stroke horizontally past us.

Charlie kept swimming towards the deep end and I found myself doing so many laps that I said to him, I might be too tired to blog later.

It was 7.45 when he asked for the stairs. We changed and went home and I stir-fried vegetables and shrimp and made rice and Charlie asked for YouTube.

As for being too tired to blog—-something about swimming with Charlie, in the pool, in the ocean, wherever, always reenergizes me, reminds me, how lucky I am to be the mother to my lovely, lovely boy. And so:

From October 1st to October 10th, I’ll be a panelist on the Science Blogs Book Club for a discussion about Autism’s False Prophets: Bad Science, Risky Medicine, and the Search for a Cure by Dr. Paul Offit. Hope you will join the discussion and would much like to know what you think—my first post appears today and here’s Kev on why Dr. Offit’s book is so important, and Orac on science pushing back antivaccine lunacy. Professor Bob Park, former chair of the Department of Physics at the University of Maryland will also be posting, and Dr. Offit himself, too.

Hurricane Hanna meant rain and heavy, humid air on Saturday and I suggested a trip to the YMCA pool. There’s a long-running association between changes in barometric pressure and Charlie having “thunderstorm” moments of unhappiness, of seeming unsettled and with a kind of worried, frenetic energy and expression. Just getting in the water has long proven to be a good antidote to all that unsettledness in the sky and in a certain boy, and a little exercise workout does not hurt.

The pool was jam-packed when we arrived and four lanes, instead of the usual three, were marked off for lap swimmers. Four boys were kicking and splashing on the red and blue foam boat; one girl was explaining, with quite a bit of fervor, why nothing else would do for her to play with except the boat and there the stamping of one foot and several noooooooo’s.

Charlie stood just beyond the edge of the pool and needed some coaxing to take off his shirt. “No pool,” he told me. “Maybe just a short swim,” I suggested. My mom and dad had accompanied us and were standing by the deep end. “No,” said Charlie and gave me “a look” so I assented “ok, fine” and walked over the deep end and started swimming. This was a not-so-easy task due to the amount of kickboards and other toys, and children, in the water. I did sight Charlie in the shallow end, his buzzcut head rising above those of the other kids who were moving rapidly around him.

The girl who’d wanted the boat was holding it at one end; she called out something to one of the other boys and went under the water. Charlie walked over and took hold of one end of the boat; the girl reappeared for a moment and was face to face with Charlie and then Charlie was kicking the boat to the deep end by himself. He kicked, he sat on one end and figured out how to move the boat with his legs swinging in the water. The pool emptied and it was just him and me and two skinny blonde-haired boys for awhile, and then another wave of children came in, diving and somersaulting. As it’d been quite awhile since Charlie had commandeered the boat, I suggested that he pass it on to the other kids in a few minutes and he slowly scooted himself off and into the water, and did some swims back and forth across the length of the pool, and got that peaceful easy-feeling glow. (Knowing that he’d shared as requested added to it, too.)

The rain and thunder and lightning started just as Charlie and I were getting out of the shower. The family locker room was packed with parents and children, some crying, who’d had to get hastily out of the pool, due to the lightning: Guess we’d timed our swim right.

(We got soaked running back to the car.)

6-year-old Grayson Sherrell drowned in a backyard swimming pool last Friday, today’s Gaston Gazette reports:

Police say Grayson wandered off from the backyard of his grandparents, Robert and Betty Saunders of the 3600 block of Raven Hill Drive, Gastonia.

They realized he was gone after three or four minutes and began searching for him. When they didn’t find him after several minutes they called police, according to a press release.

A resident of 1105 Colony Court found him in the pool after coming home and began CPR. The boy was taken to
Gaston Memorial Hospital where he was pronounced dead.

Grayson was to start first grade in the fall. He was diagnosed with autism at the age of three and, as his mother Donna Sherrell says, “‘was a very loving little boy.’”

Down here at the beach, water safety is Concern #1, and that goes for Charlie, who’s a good swimmer.

Many, many sympathies and thoughts to Grayson’s family.

En route to go swimming at my college in Jersey City, the wail of a police siren behind us made Charlie cringe and cry out. I explained that it was a police car in a hurry to help someone—maybe there was an accident. Charlie sat up straight in the middle of the back seat and looked gravely out the window, and seemed to draw back a bit as we slowed to a halt: A car was turned sideways across the left and middle lanes and, as a state trooper car pulled away, the front of the car was not at all intact. Another car was parked backwards on the shoulder and an EMT was leaning in while another prepared a gurney. There were two ambulances.

“It’s an accident,” I said with one eye on the cars in the other lane jockeying to get into one lane. “That’s where the policeman was going.” Charlie remained solemn and quiet all the way over the Pulaski Skyway and down West Side Avenue and Kennedy Blvd. It was really muggy and we both moved slowly towards the Rec Center with visions of jumping into 12 feet of water.

The doors were locked: Closed for renovation this week.

Charlie tried the door sadly and agreed to go on a walk before heading off. My college occupies just about a block and a half of Jersey City streets. We went through the courtyard, over the bridge (Charlie likes it up there), and down Montgomery to Bergen Avenue where we passed a dollar store, gritty storefront windows with handmade taped-up signs, a bodega. I kept expecting Charlie to ask to go in for a soda but he seemed content, cars whizzing and honking by in the steamy heat. Once we crossed Kennedy Boulevard, he suddenly picked up the pace and we were back in the black car and on our way to the grocery store. On the interstate, we kept passing cars that had pulled over, their owners crouching to change a tire, look under the hood, exchange insurance information with someone whose car they had “tapped.” One man waved at someone driving a freight train in the opposite direction.

Charlie got right out of the car to go into the store; we left with a big hunk of watermelon he’d carefully chosen, a pack of sushi (inevitably, with Charlie), and other good stuff for a hot day’s eating. Charlie helped bag the groceries and carried the watermelon out to the car, light on his feet.

Just before we were going to get back on the highway, we sighted another police car, blue and red lights flashing. “Something else’s going on,” I said to Charlie. I thought I saw a long form close to the ground, shaped like a very slender fan, black but dark dark blue, maybe?

The policeman was standing in front of his car. A peacock stood, tail feathers a bit bedraggled, at the corner of the road.

“A peacock!” (In very suburban New Jersey.)

Charlie echoed me.

It was a mom-and-son afternoon, and—-as we could only guess at answers for what we say—-an afternoon of the unexpected.

A lovely 97 degrees here in New Jersey today and Charlie just requested to swim in the big pool at my college (ABC filmed him swimming some in this pool last Monday and I hope some of the footage makes it on the segment to be shown tomorrow, Tuesday). If you can’t get to a pool, here are some really cool pools courtesy of Oobject—-something about that underground pool is looking really appealing as the sun beats down (not a great day to have a black car!).

(Then again—-today 12 year-old Connor Folkertsma fells into the rain-swollen waters of the Indian Mill Creek in Walker, Michigan, and was swept out of sight; he was seen getting out of the water about a third of a mile downstream, after the Grand Rapids Fire Department had been dispatched, MLive.com reports. Connor, who has autism, “likes to watch the waters and they were especially intriguing after a weekend of heavy rains turned the normally knee-deep waters into a swift-moving stream high enough to go over the head of an adult.”)

10-year-old Johnny Jackson died last week while taking a nap in his house from “asphyxiation due to drowning”—-according to today’s ABC News, Johnny may have died from secondary drowning. Johnny, who had attention deficit disorder and autism, had been playing in the neighborhood pool for about 45 minutes. He was wearing flotation devices on his arms and was being monitored by his mother, Cassandra Jackson, and other adults. She noted that he was “taking a little bit of water in and coughing and then calming down” but that everything seemed fine. But then:

But less than two hours after getting out of the pool, Johnny had defecated in his pants twice and was complaining of being tired.

After being bathed and dressing himself, Johnny walked to his bed unaided, leading his mother to believe that he was simply tired from playing in the water.

But shortly after leaving him to nap, Jackson discovered her son unconscious and his face covered in a foam-like substance.

“My friend went back into the room where Johnny was sleeping and noticed what appeared to be cotton balls stuffed in his nose,” Jackson said of what turned out to be the foam from his nose and mouth. “She asked if I put them there and I said no — I went in and saw him and screamed for help.

“I rolled him over and his body was very limp and I realized he’d soiled himself again and was very purplish-blue looking,” said Jackson, who then called 9-1-1. “His tongue was really swollen, too.”

Johnny suffered from cardiac arrest on the way to the hospital, his mother said, and was pronounced dead upon arrival.

Berkeley County Coroner Glenn Rhoad examined Johnny’s body after the incident and told ABCNEWS.com that the preliminary autopsy showed the cause of death was asphyxiation due to drowning. Rhoad added that the boy had a lot of water in his lungs.

The ABC News story notes that, in secondary drowning, a secondary injury is caused to the lung when only a small amount of water—-only four ounces or about six teaspoons—-gets into the lungs.

My son’s a good swimmer but I never sit around and read magazines when we’re at the pool; while I don’t always get in the water anymore, I’m always watching him and following him around. Many years ago, an autism consultant told us about a family whose son was also a great swimmer. They had a pool in their backyard and one day—with both parents eating breakfast beside the pool—-their son drowned. The consultant emphasized that “this kid was a fabulous swimmer,” and that you never can be too careful in the water. Never.

I think I’ll be contacting my YMCA to ask about instructing their lifeguards in assisting autistic and special needs kids in the pool. Spending time in the water is so important for my son and we’ve got too take every precaution.

Last year I more than once expressed my frustration about getting Charlie time to swim in the pool at our YMCA. For reasons that you can read about here, Charlie has not been able to swim in the “big pool” at the hours when we can go (late afternoon/early evening). Our YMCA does have a quite elaborate “family pool” with two waterslides, a wading pool, and 3-4 foot pool, but it’s not the same as swimming laps. Somedays Charlie goes up the stairs and down the slides 20 times; other days (like yesterday) he puts his hands over his ears and just seems to like looking at the foaming water coming out of the slides). Recently, we’ve found a good solution by taking Charlie to swim in the pool of the college that I teach at and Charlie had a good time jumping in the 12-foot deep end on Monday.

And then today, I noticed a single piece of paper on the floor after Charlie had emptied out his backpack and was having his after school snack. It was a request from the YMCA’s Autism Advisory Committee to “discuss how to better serve individuals with autism and their families………..The Autism Advisory Committee is asking parents of children with autism to provide feedback on current programs and to share ideas for future programs.” Have I got an idea for you, I thought……

Yes, my feedback has been sent.

Charlie was turning backwards somersaults in the pool the other day but imagine what he can do in more than four foot of water.

Last fall, I wrote about our difficulties getting swimtime in for Charlie at our YMCA pool in the later afternoon/early evenings, the time when he’s most ready to go. Our YMCA has three pools, two of which seem to be perpetually in use for the swim teams’ practices, adult lap swimming, or lessons. The third pool is the “family pool” and consists of a wading pool with a slide and spouting water toys, a 3-4 feet deep rectangular pool, and two water slides.

This is a fine set-up if you want to splash around, shoot baskets into the hoop at one end of the pool, wade, or do a few brief partial laps and Charlie’s always been glad to do this. Charlie is a very capable swimmer—in particular in the ocean—and there’s not too much swimming anyone can do in a 4-foot-deep pool. (Charlie does manage to turn the occasional underwater somersault, frontwards and backwards). As many readers urged, Jim and I called the YMCA management and got the same response over and over, to enroll Charlie in the special needs swimming lesson program, and to take him to a Saturday program for autistic kids.

The swimming lesson program does sound like a good idea, but what we’re looking for is just swim time for Charlie. Apparently when he’s 14 he qualifies for swimming in the adult lap swim times; one of us would have to swim with him, as Charlie often can’t resist ducking under the lane markers into another swimmer’s lane. I’ve thought about just jumping into a lane with Charlie and seeing what happens, but the thought of being asked to get out, and of having to drag out a happily swimming Charlie, have given me pause.

And then, last Friday, a solution unfolded that reminded me, sometimes you just have to stop fighting and let be.

Another professor at the college where I teach had mentioned that she’s been taking her daughters to swim in a sort of “kids’ swim team” at the college’s pool a couple of nights of week. She knows that Charlie loves swimming and kept urging me to come. I noted that Charlie might have some trouble following the coach’s directions and doing the strokes as requested, but figured that we could at least get in some good swim time. And so, after Charlie’s IEP meeting and Charlie had had his usual afterschool snack, to the pool in Jersey City we went.

Neither the coach nor my friend were there but several families—speaking several languages—were in the bleachers watching their children have swim lessons. The pool was huge, 12 feet deep in the middle, edged in fading, worn tile. I walked over to the lifeguard, who was sitting at an old plastic table; she was a student on the swim team who knew a number of my students. “Can my son just swim?” I asked. “Sure!” she said. And in jumped Charlie.

He smiled immediately and paced back and forth in water nearing his chin. I got in at the deep end, leaned forward, and moved easily through all that water. “Come on, come on!” I called to Charlie and, still smiling, he put his face i and moved through the water. He swam the other way on his back; he sunk down towards the bottom and shot back up, eyes closed, relaxed. I got out after we’d done some laps together and stood beside Jim (who was wishing he had brought his swim suit) and Charlie stayed in, swimming, somersaulting, laughing under the high ceiling, rather dimly lit.

In the town we used to live in, there was an indoor community pool and Charlie and I used to go there almost every weekday evening. Sometimes he had a private lesson; other times we went back and forth in the one lane allotted for “open swim” (which we had to share with the ladies’ water aerobics class; I spent a certain amount of time hurrying out of the pool after Charlie when he tried to grab the instructor’s tape out of the boombox). We were regulars at the indoor pool (also a little worn around the edges) and knew all the lifeguards, lap swimmers, and water aerobics class members. We were members and—especially after another trying day when Charlie’s forehead was marked with a bruise—-we both felt safe and at home there.

Tuesday night, Charlie went eagerly down the water slides at our YMCA. It’s a shiny place, with a full battalion of lifeguards wearing fanny packs with first-aid gear and bearing red flotation devices. There are storage benches packed with life vests for younger children, new swim noodles, beach balls and balls of all sizes. Charlie did a few flips in the pool and rubbed hard at his eyes from all the chlorine. He went down the slides time after time and got over-excited and started turning over on his stomach (which he knows he’s not supposed to do). It was good fun and Charlie was completely worn out after a dinner of shrimp, vegetables, and noodles and a few dashes of ketchup, and went to sleep with his right elbow tucked under his head.

But still not quite like last Friday, when Charlie was on his back, blissfully kicking his way through several feet of water—more than enough to hold him up.