Mothers

In the news recently, a claim that ‘missing microbes cause childhood cancer’. New research, apparently, suggests that a child’s immune system can become cancerous if it is not exposed to enough bugs early in life:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-44199844

Although we are reassured that ‘This study is absolutely not about blaming parents for being too hygienic’,  imagine the impact if you are the mother of a child with cancer? As well as dealing with the distress of witnessing your child’s illness, you are offered the possibility that your own care-giving practice might have been responsible. ‘Another way to knock mothers’  I thought to myself when I read the report. I’ve about had my bellyful recently…

Mother blame

Last semester I was asked to take a seminar group for a module which focuses on psychological perspectives on educational processes. I don’t usually teach on the module and I found the opportunity interesting and often valuable. One thing I was struck by, however, was how often mothers are blamed for poor educational outcomes.

I was already aware of the link between early literacy and maternal education, a relationship which tends to act as an indicator of socio-economic class.  Last semester, however, I encountered research which linked  child outcomes to psychological factors such as maternal self-efficacy, maternal self-esteem and maternal resilience. While these may also be associated with social class, I found it interesting that there was no mention of paternal well-being; rather than associate poor outcomes with the broader context of home, they were laid firmly at the feet of the mother.

As well as linking mothers to outcomes in relation to child development and achievement, research studies have suggested a relationship between mothering and a child’s experience of school. Studies of bullying, for example, have suggested that ‘maternal hostility’, ‘maternal mental health’, ‘maternal demand’ and early motherhood all positively correlate with a child ‘having a participant role in bullying behaviour’.

A framework of ‘cumulative risk’ identifies ten key factors which affect educational outcomes, four of which focus explicitly on mothers: mother-child interaction during infancy; maternal mental illness; maternal education; and maternal anxiety (the other factors involve  structural risks, such as family size and minority ethnic group, and circumstance, such as life events and family support). Mothers have also been blamed for not doing enough to assuage educational disadvantage;  not only do they comprise 40% of the cumulative risk to children, mothers are the key  to protection as ‘maternal resilience’ is identified as most likely to offset risk.

Had I been resilient when my children were young, I asked myself?  Was I emotionally available through those difficult post-diagnosis years?  Did I control my anxiety about the future? Make appropriate demands on my children?  Had I kept my spirits up and sense of identity intact? I couldn’t, in all honesty, answer Yes to any of these questions…

Bettelheim and beyond

Most mothers with a child who has been diagnosed autistic hear about Bruno Bettelheim’s ‘refrigerator mothers’ at some point. Even though we are assured his work is now discredited, for the mother of a newly-diagnosed child it is very difficult to encounter Bettelheim’s claims. I certainly experienced them as cruel following Dylan’s diagnosis: I was doing everything I could to support my child, yet here I was being framed as the problem.

You’d think this was a thing of the past. In recent years, however, a new form of mother blame is gaining currency. Mothers (for it is typically mothers, not fathers) are framed as ‘infantilising’ their autistic children by over-protecting them and failing to recognise them as autonomous individuals. This is a discourse which has emerged in tandem with a commitment to developing independence, an agenda freighted by the voices of self-advocating autistic adults.

Two assumptions seem to be at work here. The first is that a non-autistic mother of an autistic child will necessarily privilege the neurotypical and try to ‘fix her child up’ and/or be over-protective and infantilise her child.  Allied to this is the suggestion that mothers who are not diagnosed as autistic themselves have no right to speak for their autistic children due to their lack of understanding of autism.  A recent blog by Paula Sanchez refers to the “warring factions of ‘autism moms’ and autistic activists”. In the article, Sanchez caricatures a neurotypical  ‘autism mom’ and an ‘autistic mother’:

https://autisticmotherland.com/2018/04/20/from-autism-mom-to-autistic-mother/

Sanchez  urges  ‘autism moms’ to ‘prioritise your child’s autonomy over and above everything else’  and to encourage their autistic identity as part of the process of self-advocacy.  While of the view that non-autistics can probably never understand being autistic, however, Sanchez acknowledges: “it wasn’t working out I’m autistic that influenced my parenting. It was much more that as I became more confident as a parent I became more able to do what my son needed. I no longer felt like I had to perform some idealised version of the ‘good mother’.”

Who speaks?

As the mother of a non-verbal autistic man I find it useful and often illuminating to hear the testimony of autistic adults who self-advocate.  Their voices give me new ways of thinking about Dylan and how he might experience the world. The demand by autistic self-advocates for ‘nothing about us that isn’t by us’, however, challenges parents (such as myself) who advocate for and on behalf of a son or daughter.

Once again I find myself struck by the complexity of the intersection of intellectual disability with autism. As someone who lacks mental capacity, my son is not able to take part in the conversation; not only does he not have a ‘voice’, he is unable to make informed decisions about his life.  As I have argued elsewhere, concepts such as ‘independence’ and ‘autonomy’  take on a different shape when viewed through the lens of intellectual disability.

So who should identify Dylan’s best interests? Who speaks for Dylan and other autistic adults with intellectual disability? Sanchez acknowledges, in the post referred to above, that: “My autism does not give me some special power to intuitively know how to parent and support other people’s autistic children.” The fact I don’t have an autism diagnosis might prevent me from understanding some aspects of Dylan’s experience,  but the deep and enduring relationship I have with him as a mother must surely have heft? And, as I have argued elsewhere, the alternative to advocacy for those with intellectual disability is not self-advocacy, it is silence.

Liminal mothers

Some academics (mothers of disabled children themselves) have questioned the assumptions which have been made about the role of parents in a disabled child’s life. Ferguson (2001) argues that parents carry their child’s impairment as part of their own lived experience and are therefore well placed to advocate for their disabled children and bring about positive change in their lives. Similarly Kelly (2005) observes that parents ‘act as experiencers, interpreters and agents’ through their intimate connection to the experience of their disabled child. Parents’ embodied experience of care-giving is not ‘second-hand knowledge’ of disability, Kelly argues, but rather a ‘partial knowledge’  which allows parents to share some of their child’s experience and meaning-making.

Ryan and Runswick-Cole (2008) have described the position of mothers of disabled children as ‘liminal’, rather than partial. They argue that mothers who are not themselves disabled must operate in a landscape of ‘oppressive mothering ideologies and disabling environments’.  Because of their distance from mothers of non-disabled children, as well as their tenuous position within the disabled community, non-disabled mothers of disabled children occupy a liminal space. Ryan and Runswick-Cole refer to the resulting ‘difficult and contentious debates about the role of non-disabled people within the lives of disabled people’ and the way in which ‘the actions of mothers have been interpreted as constraints within their children’s lives’.

It is interesting that the two concerns highlighted by Ryan and Runswick-Cole  – advocacy and autonomy – are the same as the issues identified in this post, written ten years later. It seems the current wave of mother blame may have been a long time gathering. In their 2008 paper Ryan and Runswick-Cole suggest that one of the reasons mothers might seek diagnostic labels for their children is in order to shift the discourse from ‘mother-blame’ to ‘brain-blame’.  While this may have been the case ten years ago, particularly in relation to autistic spectrum conditions, there has been a significant shift in the discourse to a celebration of neurodiversity and the claiming of autistic neurology as a vital part of self-identity. Against this backdrop, perhaps, there is a tendency to reposition blame (for a perceived lack of independence and the appropriation of voice) with the mother.

Liminal sons and daughters

Although I am uncomfortable with the way in which it is the mother, rather than father, who is subject to surveillance and criticism in relation to the ability to parent a disabled child, I am not averse to critical feedback and scrutiny. I often wish it were kinder, more supportive and more sympathetic. I would also prefer those without experience of parenting (even if they are themselves autistic) to acknowledge their own partial knowledge. Sanchez, in the post referred to above, makes some helpful observations and suggestions for building bridges between the ‘warring factions’ of autism parents and autistic adults.

What is still absent from these conversations, however, is any acknowledgement of autistic adults with intellectual disability. If the position of mothers of disabled children is liminal, then the space occupied by adults with intellectual disability is a similar limbo. As I argue above, the position of autistic adults who lack mental capacity is often unrepresented and overlooked. In challenging the ability of parents to advocate for their disabled sons and daughters, I would argue, we are putting the welfare of adults with intellectual disability at risk.

There is a legal system in the UK for the protection of the financial and welfare interests of those who lack capacity. It is a little-used system and one which is not easily accessed or much discussed.  In the last year, increasingly frustrated by the position of parents in relation to an adult child with an intellectual disability, it has become clear that it is a system I need to engage with.  So, once I’ve finished work and the football is over, my plan is to start the process of applying to the Court of Protection to be Dylan’s Deputy.  More about this in a future post…

Note:

The claims in the section of the post entitled ‘Mother Blame’ are from chapters 8, 9 and 11 of Woolfson (reference below). The images are sourced from the internet and to the best of my knowledge are copyright free. I’ve been unable to identify an artist for the image of the ‘floating woman’ but it was used as part of a lecture series on liminal space by Dr KD Farris. The image of the floating man is ‘Liminal Space’ by Nicholas Scarpinato.

Sources:

Barrett, E. (2017). Tied to the Worldly Work of Writing:  parent as ethnographer. Journal of intellectual Disabilities.  https://doi.org/10.1177/1744629517741008

Ferguson, P.M. (2001). Mapping the Family: Disability studies and the exploration of parental response to disability. In G.L. Albrecht, K.D. Seelman & M. Bury (Eds.), Handbook of Disability Studies (pp. 373-395). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Kelly, S.E. (2005). ‘A Different Light’:  Examining Impairment through Parent Narratives of Childhood Disability. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 34, (2) 180-205.

Ryan, S & Runswick-Cole, K (2008). Repositioning mothers:  mothers, disabled children and disability studies. Disability & Society, 23 (3) 199-210

Woolfson, L.M. (2011).  Educational Psychology:  The impact of psychological research on education. Harlow:  Pearson

 

Awkward Greetings: a neurotypical in autistic space

For many academics, now (before the marking comes in) is the ideal time to get away to a conference. As well as providing feedback on work in progress, conferences are a chance to network with colleagues from other institutions.

“You love it, don’t you.”  I said to a colleague as she put the finishing touches to a paper she is presenting in New York this week.

“Love what?” she replied.

“The conference thing.”

“Oh yes.” she said. “Absolutely. It’s my thing.”

Conferences aren’t my thing. They make me anxious. I have three issues with them. Firstly, they tend to be held in venues I find difficult to navigate;  I don’t like unstructured or open plan spaces with confusing layout and flow.  Secondly, I hate the eating arrangements at conferences; typically these involve juggling with a plate, cutlery, drink and conference papers while making small talk with a stranger, standing up. And thirdly I dislike the constant social demands. I don’t have an autism diagnosis but put these things together and a conference is likely to trigger my version of a meltdown: imploding in my room, avoiding everyone. I imagine the way academic conferences make me feel may be similar to the way Dylan experiences the world much of the time.

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Developing enough self-awareness to recognise  conferences make me uncomfortable was helpful but it took years for me to admit that I didn’t enjoy them, even after I’d stopped going. Then, a couple of years ago, I was asked to give a presentation at a National Autistic Society (NAS) conference. This presented me with a dilemma.  I had been asked to contribute a parent’s perspective of supporting a young person with autism and intellectual disability (i.e. Dylan) into adult services.  This was a story I felt passionate about sharing; the experiences of ‘non-verbal’ autistic children and adults with a co-morbid diagnosis of intellectual disability are so often overlooked and I was delighted that the conference organisers were making  space to represent a narrative from this group.

I find it frustrating that Dylan is usually absent from accounts of what it means to be autistic:  the representations on TV, in film, in books, on the radio, on social media, in campaigns and (sadly) in training sessions and at conferences (even those which purport to focus on ‘autism’) tend not to have much relevance to my son’s life. I understand why this might be the case.  Those with intellectual disability as well as autism don’t always make for easy footage; there may be behaviour which is difficult to understand or which may challenge. If the young person or adult is also non-verbal the narrative is difficult to access; the process of advocacy is mostly conducted through language and without this people tend to be invisible.  Perhaps more importantly, those who are judged to ‘lack capacity’ as well as being ‘non-verbal’ are not only incapable of self-advocacy but unable to give consent to someone else to advocate on their behalf.  It is hardly surprising, given these layers of complexity, that people such as Dylan should be absent from accounts.

I am of the firm belief, however, that it is better to have the account of an advocate than to have no account at all; as I argue elsewhere, “if we are to include the perspectives of those with intellectual disabilities, we must accept the voice of an interlocutor” (Barrett, 2017, p. 5).  The invitation to speak at the conference was not something I could dodge; however difficult I found the process, I had to do this for Dylan. Besides, this was an NAS conference;  I would probably find the practices designed with autistic delegates in mind helpful.  I could, for example, wear a red badge to signal ‘please don’t approach me’ if I felt overloaded socially.  If I could be comfortable at any conference, surely it would be here?

*

So I went to the conference and, happily, all was well. I think this was because of the company of a couple of people I felt comfortable with and the privileged access I enjoyed, as a speaker, to a  sort of ‘green room’. I made heavy use of the room, retreating there with my plate of food at mealtimes and in-between sessions. I was conscious, during the conference, that I would probably not have found the event so comfortable were I attending as a delegate.  The NAS had introduced some thoughtful practices (such as the red badges) but these could not counter the usual challenges.

The venue involved difficult mezzanine spaces with noisy break out areas and cavernous rooms with difficult acoustics. As well as the lack of physical boundaries and the noise and cold, there was a lot of juggling with difficult food and a lack of private space. And I don’t even have an autism diagnosis, I thought to myself as I scuttled back to the Speaker’s Room after a presentation on the second day. But then neither did the majority of delegates, I reminded myself.  It was, after all, a Professional Conference, aimed at those who work with and support those with autism; a delegation from my son’s NAS residential home were attending the conference, for example.

The NAS annual conference provides an opportunity for autism professionals to reflect on their knowledge and skills, review new resources and network with colleagues in other settings.  Why, you could ask, should adjustments be made at a Professional Conference where the target audience are not (typically) autistic?  Well, yes.  Except that the NAS  (quite rightly) prides itself on making space for autistic voices. These were much in evidence at the conference; I probably heard more autistic than neurotypical voices, certainly from the floor and in the social space.  This is a good thing but, I reflected after the conference, it has implications…

*

Soon after I returned from the conference a friend told me how, meeting a new group of people for the first time, she had taken the hand of a man to shake it in greeting. But, she cringed, it turned out he wasn’t actually offering his hand:  “imagine how embarrassed I felt”, she said to me.  I could, I reassured her;  I had been equally embarrassed not to take a hand that was offered to me at an event at the NAS conference.  The hand I failed to shake belonged to someone who identifies as autistic and (I realised later when she confronted me about it) it had mattered to her that I hadn’t returned that handshake.  “I hadn’t meant to offend”, I told my friend. “Like you, I just misread the signals.”

Why was that I wondered? My undiagnosed autism or my neurotypicality?  Or perhaps simply because hand shaking  occupies an increasingly blurred space socially with many of us unclear of the rules?  And there is no agreement about the meaning of such behaviour either. While I may have upset the woman whose hand I failed to shake, not everyone would have shared her reaction.  This was brought home to me when a woman sitting next to me at dinner the next night told me that there was, apparently, someone at the conference who doesn’t shake hands.  “Isn’t it marvellous”,  the woman said to me, “that they feel able to say this?”  She seemed to enjoy the idea so much I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was me and that, actually, I did shake hands really.

I don’t know whether this is an example of being ‘a neurotypical in autistic space’ or ‘an autistic in neurotypical space’ but I recall it as an incident which made me think about the challenges of being truly inclusive and enabling everyone to feel comfortable in a social space.  I have no idea whether autistic delegates felt any more comfortable with the social space than I did but I’m guessing that at least some of them may have shared my neurotypical discomfort.

*

What I quickly realised at the conference, however, was that autistic delegates were made very uncomfortable (understandably) by presentations which adopted a medical approach to autism and by the use of terminology which is not that preferred by the ‘autistic community’. One presenter came in for a particularly rough ride. He was presenting research from a project which drew on  development psychology and which was not framed within the discourse of a social model of disability. A number of articulate autistic delegates challenged the project’s attempt to scientifically classify different ‘autisms’ and the medical language which the presenter used. While I understood the objections of autistic delegates, I didn’t share the view that the presentation should not have been included in the Conference programme; on the contrary, I welcomed the challenge and an opportunity to think differently.

This was a couple of years ago now and I’m conscious that my recall may be blurred and even distorted by time. But the gist of the presenter’s argument (as I understood it) was that if we  can clinically identify different ‘autisms’, with differing profiles and needs, then we can plan more efficacious interventions.  This is an argument I find attractive; although I understand the ways in which Dylan’s autism links him with others who share his diagnosis, I am conscious of the way in which his co-morbid condition (intellectual disability) means his experience and needs are significantly different. If the clinical identification of different ‘autisms’ allows individual needs to be met isn’t that ‘a good thing’?

Well, not necessarily. The problem with identifying different ‘types’ of anything is that it divides people; the larger population is divided into sub-groups which do not carry the same weight as they did together and, inevitably, competition emerges between the groups for resources and representation.  The attempt to support a sub-group by specifying their particular needs can thus undermine support in two ways; firstly, by the articulation of multiple and competing messages about the thing in general (‘autism’) and secondly through the emergence of hierarchies in relation to things in particular (the different ‘autisms’).

An example which the presenter gave struck a chord with me. He described how (in the US, where he is based) a group of autistic people without intellectual disability and with self-care skills and the potential for independence had initiated a campaign to close down the residential settings which had previously provided accommodation for autistic adults. The group had been well-organised, vocal and very effective in articulating their position in the community and on the media; their aim  was to challenge the concept of residential care and the discourse around such provision.  The presenter described how he had  challenged the campaigners:  ‘But the homes are not for you!’ The problem, the presenter explained, was that these autistic campaigners were undermining the availability of provision for other groups of autistic adults; for those  adults with co-morbid diagnoses who need additional care, residential living may be a good option.

The suggestion that different ‘autisms’ should be clinically classified did not go down well with autistic delegates at the conference because of the framing of the presentation within a model of disability which appeared at odds with the current discourse.  As the mother of an autistic son with additional needs, however, I could see the potential value in such sub-classification.  It is fantastic that autistic people who are capable of representing themselves are doing so but the problem with listening to some autistic voices is that others get lost. What are we going to do about the autistic people with intellectual disability who lack capacity and who don’t use speech to communicate? Without someone to advocate for them, they are not even in the conversation.  The idea that there is an ‘autistic community’  and that it speaks for all those with an autism diagnosis is, of course, a myth.

*

One of the best sessions I went to focused on language; a panel of ‘experts’ made position statements before a general question and answer session with the audience. The discussion was useful with deep attention paid to choices about person first and identity first language. The knotty issue of whether autism could ever be an ‘identity’ for someone with intellectual disability and who ‘lacks capacity’, however, was not tackled.  Nor was there a single mention of the difficulty posed by ‘learning disability’ as opposed to ‘intellectual disability’. As is perhaps clear from my own language choice, I prefer the term ‘intellectual disability’. This is because I find it a more exact way to describe Dylan, who is perfectly capable of learning and who is learning all the time; the fact that Dylan has not learned the same things as other people of his age is because he has a cognitive ‘impairment’ – a disability of the intellect – and not because he is unable to learn.

Although ‘intellectual disability’ is recognised terminology internationally, and used in many other countries (including the USA), in England we say ‘learning disability’. I make a real effort to use my preferred term of ‘intellectual disability’, and to apply this consistently, but it is very hard when other people don’t;  because language is about communication, for the sake of clarity I will sometimes adjust my own language so that I am understood by others. It occurred to me, at the conference, that if no one is talking about the language we use about people like Dylan, we are a very long way from bringing them respectfully into a respectful conversation.

I worry that autistic adults such as Dylan are not only absent from the conversation, but not even in the room.  While I was pleased to be invited to speak at the conference, and to describe my experience of supporting Dylan through the process of transition to adult care, there were no other sessions  at the conference which felt relevant to my life or to Dylan’s. The staff who had travelled down from Dylan’s residential home for the conference reported this was typical; ‘it’s not usually aimed at those with learning disabilities’, one of them told me.  An attempt had been made to acknowledge the diversity of interests at the conference through the organisation of sessions into different ‘streams’. I’m not convinced these worked, however; I found myself hankering after a ‘parents strand’ or a ‘Learning (sic) Disability’ strand so that I could find somebody who spoke my language and could understood my silence. Perhaps what is needed before we can find what unites us is a safe space to talk about our differences?

*

I intended to write this piece immediately after the conference; I have no idea why it has taken me so long to write, except that I find these issues challenging and my position is still evolving.  I’ve no doubt that the piece I am finishing today is a very different one to the one I would have written two years ago. What hasn’t changed, however, is the main impression I came away from the  conference with: that little attention is paid to those like Dylan who have intellectual disability as well as autism. Great leaps forward have been made for many autistic people in recent years, largely because of their own efforts and the fantastic contribution they have made to campaigning organisations, such as the National Autistic Society, through self-advocacy.  Part of me is heartened by this but I am also worried that the different interests of those who can’t self-advocate are lost in this process.

The NAS started life as a parents’ organisation and I imagine that, in the early days, most of the support it offered was to parents, such as myself, who needed to learn how to care for and support a child with autism and intellectual disability. The NAS is no longer a parents’ organisation, primarily, and this leaves a gap in provision.  As became clear to me at the conference, the NAS is not a professional organisation either (even though the annual event is billed as a ‘Professional Conference’). I’m not clear who the NAS is for; it  seems to be trying to be all things to all people but in the process is, perhaps, failing to meet all our needs.

Emotes

Dylan turned 23 this month. To celebrate his birthday I took him to Chester for a short break. A trip to the zoo and an overnight stay in a ‘moon hotel’ was followed by a day walking the city walls and looking at the river, canals and cathedral. These are things which Dylan loves and we had a marvellous time.

This year I gave Dylan a remote-controlled car for his birthday. He has taken an interest in cars recently, pointing them out to me and saying ‘car’. His particular interest seems to be black taxi cabs but I couldn’t find one so he has a red saloon instead. Still, its headlights and rear lights flash and it moves left and right as well as forwards and back. It’s quite exciting but a bit tricky to manoeuvre so I’m not sure it will work for Dylan who could find it frustrating  (or pointless).

I didn’t have a particular gift in mind for Dylan this year so I looked around a ‘gifts and novelties’ section of a department store for inspiration.  As well as the car, I picked out a ‘Gentleman’s Hardware’ picnic box which Dylan seems to be enjoying. He often takes a packed lunch on his trips out so this is something he’ll get lots of use out of. While I was in the store, my attention was also caught by a box of ‘Emotes’…

Because Dylan uses symbols to communicate I’m always on the look out for visual resources and the Emotes looked interesting. Essentially, the product is an emoticon glossary, presented as a card index: one side of the card has a picture of an emoticon and the reverse side carries a definition and explanation of use. A fun present for a social media junkie. I flicked through the cards in the box, embarrassed (by how much I had misunderstood) and  amused (pile of poo? really?).

I don’t text very much or use social media language. I understand happy and sad faces, and I include them in messages sometimes,  but that’s about my limit. I’m too scared of making a faux pas after spending years thinking that ‘lol’ meant ‘lots of love’ and wondering why people I hardly knew kept sending it to me. Now, I try and avoid inserting funny faces into my emails and texts.

But while I could clearly learn things from the cards, it wasn’t really myself I was thinking about. Could the emotes help Dylan to understand his emotional life and communicate his feelings, I wondered? Some of the Emotes are the same as makaton signs so would be reassuringly familiar, but there were symbols that might develop nuance and range. Here is worried for example, an emotion which I think Dylan experiences quite frequently:

And this is confused:

Although I spend most of my time encouraging Dylan to find his voice, there are times when this might be useful:

And there’s even a blank to create your own emote. I like the idea of leaving it empty, actually; having an option for not feeling anything strikes me as pretty useful. While the box includes some inappropriate cards (a gun), others would almost certainly amuse (that pile of poo)  or excite Dylan (piece of cake). The set cost £12.00.  I decided to buy one – not to gift wrap  (Dylan would probably think that a disappointing present) but to introduce as part of the on-going attempt to support Dylan’s communication.

I don’t think that, so far, they’ve been of much interest to Dylan.  When I showed them to him on his birthday he had a giggle at the pile of poo and put the picture of a piece of cake in the plastic stand. Fair enough – this was the bit of his day he was most looking forward to.  Dylan also enjoyed the ‘fist bump’ card and quickly grasped this as a greeting or alternative for ‘good job’. Two weeks later, Dylan is still fist-bumping me. The cake is still in the stand, however, and Dylan shows no interest in changing it or in looking at the other symbols. ‘Never say never’, is my mantra, however;  Dylan may pick them up one day.

I do think Emotes are a potentially useful resource for people (children or adults) who struggle to understand socio-emotional communication. And you don’t need to have an autism diagnosis to be in that category lol 🙂

Kicking And Screaming To The Moon

untitledIt’s not Dylan who is kicking and screaming, this time, but me:  all the way into the 21st century. As you might have gathered I am not keen on the digital world.  While colleagues book out laptops for seminars I am still using the laminator and asking the technician for string and stickle bricks.  ‘When you answer the item on your module evaluation questionnaire about my use of technology’, I tell students, ‘please remember that twisting cotton into a ball of twine is technology – it’s just been around a bit longer’.

People who know me express surprise that I have a blog: ‘It’s got pictures in it as well’, someone said to me the other day. But if I can see a purpose to technology I will apply myself doggedly until I have figured it out; Living With Autism arose from a determination to share my frustration at Dylan’s poor experience of transition to adult services rather than the desire to blog.

Purpose. Function. Appropriateness. These are terms I use with students when we discuss the use of technology to support learning in schools.  I apply the same principles to my own use, I suppose, in that I take no pleasure from technology in itself but only in the affordances it offers.  I resist adopting gadgets which I can’t see a role for in my life or from which I think I will derive no benefit. Smart TV, smarter phone, satellite and cable, iPad, iPod, dongles of this and bundles of the other – these might represent wonderful opportunities for others but, I have repeatedly claimed, they are not for me.

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001I might have a heart of string and a head that thinks in pen and ink but there’s nothing like parenting to challenge me – and being the peripatetic mother of an autistic adult, I am discovering, can lead to some unexpected places.

Last week, for example, I bought an iPad. Nothing extraordinary about that but for my steadfast resistance, over the years, to the idea of a tablet computer. So when I announced that I was going to buy one in my lunch break my colleague’s eye-rings widened in disbelief. ‘Have you thought about a mini?’ she asked once she realised I was serious. It would be wasted on me, I told her.

I only wanted an iPad so I could keep in touch with Dylan; as I have noted in previous posts I have found it difficult not to have daily contact since he moved to residential care. Because Dylan is non-verbal I am reliant on staff for information about him during the week. The telephone, however, is not a mode of communication I’m comfortable with and the evening phone call is often a source of anxiety. So when a member of staff mentioned, recently, that some non-speaking residents keep in touch with their family through Facetime my interest was piqued; I had finally been offered a reason for technology I couldn’t resist.

Although I have never owned an iPad myself I bought one for Dylan when he left school in 2013. He has used it mostly for music and film but recently has been developing new skills during ‘iPad time’ which is scheduled on his programme each week. Apparently this has been going well, with Dylan showing an interest in playing games with staff.  It would be great if Dylan could add Facetime to his use of the iPad I told my colleague. ‘You might find your use increases too’, she said as I headed out of the office: ‘If I were you I’d definitely think about getting yourself a mini’.

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WP_20160424_002I did buy one, though not for me. The extra capacity and portability would be ideal for Dylan I decided: I could have his old iPad. So yesterday I rigged up a maybe-system for transferring Dylan’s content to the new iPad mini. My main worry was accidentally deleting the copy of Ariel’s Beginnings I had gone to such lengths to download at Easter. I was also unsure when and how to introduce the idea of a new tablet to Dylan; in the back of my head was the possibility I wouldn’t manage the transfer and would have to have the mini myself instead. So I was hedging my bets a bit; not really telling Dylan what I was doing.

Sunday morning. Dylan hovering. I had promised him a ‘picnic and an explore’ up the next stretch of a river bank we had discovered the previous weekend. I watched with  a sinking feeling as the predicted time for the sync extended itself: 15, 17, 18, 20 minutes the dialog box read.  Dylan was pointing impatiently to the screen. He wanted me to do something but I wasn’t sure what. He gestured to the mouse. To the scroll bar. To the little cross in the corner. ‘We have to wait for it’, I said: ‘Let’s leave it and go downstairs’.

One the final day of our recent Easter holiday Dylan had tried to use his schedule to tell me what he wanted rather than what the schedule told him we were doing. Now Dylan took this a step further: he fetched some brochures and showed me a picture of a hotel bed. Then he pointed to the programme for his week which I had shared with him earlier that morning. ‘Moon’, he said.  He pointed at my computer again and pushed the mouse toward me. ‘Moon’, he repeated.  The dialog box read 5 minutes. This would be five long minutes if we stayed where we were, I thought to myself.  Dylan looked at me and pointed at his programme: ‘Moon bed’. Ah. So that was it!

Dylan had remembered a conversation from the previous week when I promised to take him to a Premier Inn. He’s interested in this particular hotel chain because of the moon logo; every time we drive past one of their hotels Dylan cranes his neck and tells me ‘moon’ or ‘bed’.  Our recent holiday, I assume, has triggered Dylan’s memory of overnight stays in the past and so last week I promised we could do this again.  ‘Soon’, I had said. So when the iPad had finished its sync I decided to search for a moon hotel. It was like magic, I thought to myself as I checked the content, how everything seemed to have restored itself. ‘Would you like to take this special iPad with you to the moon Dylan?’ I said.

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Capacity And Voice: from silent subject to co-author

I was surprised and delighted when someone I had met only virtually, via this blog, asked whether I would be interested in contributing to this year’s National Autistic Society Professional Conference. The conference organisers were keen to involve parental perspectives and to provide a space for the stories of those affected by intellectual disability as well as by autism; would I be able to talk about transition to adulthood in the context of someone who is ‘learning disabled and non-verbal’?

The invitation to speak at the conference came in August last year. In February this year, overwhelmed by marking and the demands of the workplace, I feared I had been too hasty in accepting.  Unable to meet the deadline for the inclusion of my presentation slides in the conference proceedings I suggested I bring them as a handout. ‘How many copies will I need?’ I asked the conference organiser. ‘540 should do it’ she replied.  I stared at the email in disbelief. Could that zero be a slip of the finger?

WP_20160302_001So it was with some trepidation that I arrived at the Telford International Centre earlier this month. The rally-sized hall with two enormous screens and professional sound and lighting engineers were all the evidence I needed that the zero hadn’t been an error. My session was scheduled as a plenary presentation at the end of the second and final day (rather than to a smaller audience as part of one of the four conference strands). Although I am used to delivering presentations and am generally a confident public speaker, this was easily the largest audience I had faced.  As I hadn’t attended an NAS conference previously, this  was also an audience with which I was unfamiliar.  My anxieties were therefore twofold: not just whether I would hold my nerve but if I had pitched my material appropriately.

I had spent some time, on the run up to the conference, pondering the angle for my talk. Although I was happy to tell a single story,  I wanted Dylan’s specific experience to illustrate issues which might be faced by autistic adults with intellectual disability more generally. My instinct to do this arose from my work as an academic where ‘single stories’ are used to illuminate processes and ideas. I was conscious, however, that autism is not my academic field:  I would be presenting material arising from my craft knowledge as a parent rather than from research. How, then, could I identify a conceptual framework against which the experiences of others might be considered?

Happily, in the run-up to the conference I happened on this (as is often the case, in the most unlikely of places). As the mother of someone who is ‘non-verbal’ I enjoy reading books about silence, an interest which sometimes takes me into theological literature (this post, for example, references the use of silence and hand signs in monastic communities).  In the weeks before the conference I had been reading The Edge of Words by Rowan Williams (the former Archbishop of Canterbury) and it was here I would find my framework for talking about the transition to adulthood of a learning disabled and non-verbal child.

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Rowan Williams’ interest in silence is in the context of his relationship with God.  In exploring the theological implications of silence, however, he considers other experiences of silence including that of non-speaking children and adults with intellectual disability and autism. Autistic people who lack mental capacity, Williams argues, have ‘a point of view and a capacity to create working symbols’ ; our task, he notes, is to make the space to allow these symbols to ‘surface and connect’.

Some of Williams’ illustrations of this process were familiar to me as they are based on the ideas of Phoebe Caldwell whose work I admire. I found Williams’ development  of these ideas compelling, however; both the poet and the autistic child or adult, he suggests, inhabit difficult territory where they are lost for words, pushed into extremis in the search for a language.  Putting language ‘under pressure’ in this way encourages the use of  poetic practices such as symbol and association to resolve the difficulty. Thus both poets and those with ASD (specifically the ‘non-verbal’) trade in paradox and metaphor.

As a poet as well as a mother I found this suggestion attractive. Dylan, I have often contended, is a poet by nature. Many of the associations and connections he makes in his search for ways of communicating would grace any poem (I give some examples in this post). Williams’ observation therefore made sense to me and helped me to an observation that would become the cornerstone of my presentation: that in order to ‘hear’ Dylan’s voice during transition I had to draw on my identity as a poet as much as (perhaps more than) my sense as mother or academic.

To illustrate this I selected five ‘scenes’ from Dylan’s transition. Some were examples of when I had ‘failed’ to hear Dylan’s voice (perhaps because I had been too rigid in my thinking) and others of times when Dylan or I had made creative connections and communicated more effectively. In scene three, for example, I suggest that Dylan might use ears as a symbol of trust and in scene five I give an example of the application of metaphor (getting lost) to my own decision-making. Transferring poetic tactics to everyday practices is something Rowan Williams acknowledges may be efficacious. While not wanting to suggest gut-knowledge as the basis for all decision-making my presentation concluded:

  • ‘Giving voice’ to the non-verbal requires us to be open to instinct and intuition as well as to logic and calculation.
  • Can involve listening to a young person’s behaviour rather than involving them in formal decision-making processes.
  • Requires us to pay attention to silence and absence of language as well as to excess.

As I put the finishing touches to my conference slides I considered ways of framing Dylan’s contribution to the narrative. Could I insert bracketed silences, indicating potential gaps in the presentation? Include a blank slide perhaps? These reflections encouraged me to review my assumptions about authorship. Previously I had thought of my material as an auto-ethnography with two subjects; now I realised the narrative also had two authors. The day before I left for the conference I changed my title slide: this presentation was no longer ‘For Dylan’, it was with him.

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References:

Phoebe Caldwell (2006) Finding You, Finding Me. Jessica Kingsley Publishing
Rowan Williams  (2014) The Edge of Words.  Bloomsbury

Snowdrops, Updates, Opportunities

It’s hard to believe that it’s snowdrop time already; here is Dylan enjoying a woodland walk at Hodsock Priory in the blue yesterday.

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As we were leaving there was an ‘incident’. These are so rare now I was caught off-guard and momentarily thrown back in time to the troubled days I used to puzzle and worry over on this blog. They feel a long time ago, in some ways, but also (literally and metaphorically) like yesterday.

As ever, I’m keeping track of Dylan’s progress by the seasons. When I made my last post, on the 100th day of his transition, we were looking forward to Christmas. With the arrival of the snowdrops I can report that Dylan continues to do well. He seems settled at his new home and to enjoy the rhythm of his days. Dylan has a key worker now and I’m enjoying watching their relationship develop and make a positive difference to Dylan’s life.

Dylan still comes home at weekends which gives us chance to continue the activities, such as walks and visits to the cinema, we both enjoy. In the last couple of weeks, however, I’ve reduced my mid-week visits – a sign of the extent to which Dylan is comfortable and increasingly happy to live his life away from me. Besides, Wednesday night is soft play or Soul Lounge – much more exciting than pizza with mooey 🙂

I haven’t yet claimed the space for myself I said I was looking forward to in my last post; I have been so busy at work, I’m afraid, the poems are still unsprung. I tell myself a little longer under the good earth will do no harm and that, like the snowdrops, they will come when they are ready.

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This week I’m looking forward to an opportunity that has arisen as a direct consequence of my keeping this blog. I have been invited to speak at the professional conference of the National Autistic Society which takes place  1st-2nd March at the Telford International Centre. The theme this year is ‘Exploring New Thinking And Approaches’ and I’ve been asked to talk about supporting transition to adulthood in the context of someone who is ‘non-verbal’ and has learning difficulties. I’m going to use ‘scenes’ from Dylan’s journey to illustrate some of the ways in which I was able to ‘hear’ (and sometimes to ‘mishear’) his voice. My slot is on the Wednesday but I’ve managed to re-arrange my teaching so I can attend  both days; if you’re at the conference, do come and say hello.

Although I’m used to delivering presentations it will be the first time I’ve given a talk based on my experience as a mother. I’m a little nervous about my material but hopefully there will be something of interest in our ‘single story’. My main aim is to find a way of letting  Dylan ‘speak’ through me so that his voice can be heard. If I can manage that, I tell myself, it will be enough.

Here’s a link to the conference: http://www.autism.org.uk/professional2016

 

 

Learning Through Dialogue: reflections on blogging (ii)

Photo075This is the second of a two-part post reflecting on some of the things I have learned through Living with Autism. In part one I suggested that the blog has been invaluable in providing me with a space to reflect on key issues in relation to Dylan’s care; it has encouraged me to think more deeply about a range of topics and to pay closer attention to Dylan than I might otherwise have done.

For one post, for example, I kept a log of Dylan’s vocalisations in order to illustrate his engagement with speech and language, something I doubt would have occurred to me without the blog. I learned a lot from this activity, and from other observations made to inform blog posts, and Dylan and I have benefitted  from this process. I also noted, in my last post, that the blog has been helpful in the sense that writing can be transformative; while drafting posts I found new ways of thinking about familiar issues and emerged from the process of writing having learned something about myself and Dylan.

This growth and development does not take place in the writing alone however; it is through dialogue with others that some of the most significant and creative learning ocurred. One post, for example, reports what happened when I tried an approach with Dylan suggested in a comment on my blog. I have previously noted (in a post about autism and divorce) that what single parents of autistic children lack is space and dialogue; these two resources, I suggested, are invaluable if carers are to feel nourished and supported. As well as providing me with a sense of space, Living with Autism has been crucial in providing such dialogue. I am immensely grateful for the ideas, musings, suggestions, examples and encouragement received from others, and for the friendship and support Dylan and I have found here. The rest of this post celebrates the reader’s role by sharing what I have learned from (and about) an audience.

Being careful: reflecting through Chimamanda

untitledI’ve just finished reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s superb novel Americanah (Fourth Estate, 2014). The main character, Ifemelu, is a blogger; when she moves to the US from Nigeria she sets up a WordPress site called Raceteenth or Curious Observations by a Non-American Black on the Subject of Blackness in America (she later changes the tag line to Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black). Later, returning to live in Nigeria, she sets up a new blog, The Small Redemptions of Lagos.

Ifemelu’s reflections on blogging punctuate Adichie’s novel and extracts from it are used both to carry the plot and to illustrate key themes. As well as being an inspired narrative device the material makes fascinating reading for anyone who blogs (especially chapter 33 which is devoted to the subject). We hear, for example, that Ifemelu checked her blog ‘like a child eagerly tearing open a present she is not sure she wants’ and that she received mail from people ‘asking for a drink, telling her she was a racist, and giving her ideas to blog about. ‘ (p. 303) When Ifemelu’s blog starts to generate interest among educators and business leaders and she is invited to speak at diversity workshops, to take phone calls she: ‘wore her most serious pair of trousers, her most muted shade of lipstick, and she spoke sitting upright at her desk, legs crossed, her voice measured and sure’. (p. 304)

Yet, we are told, ‘a part of her always stiffened with apprehension’. Initially this is because Ifemelu fears she will be exposed as a fraud – that she is no expert on ‘race’ and has no particular credentials to speak publically on the topic. She prepares carefully for her first engagement and feels deflated when her talk receives a lukewarm reception. That evening she received an email:

YOUR TALK WAS BALONEY. YOU ARE A RACIST. YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL WE LET YOU INTO THIS COUNTRY. (p.305)

untitledThe email is a revelation to Ifemelu who subsequently realises that the people who extend invitations to her to speak at events want to ‘feel good about themselves’ rather than to be inspired to enact change: ‘They did not want the content of her ideas; they merely wanted the gesture of her presence’. These people, Ifemelu came to understand, were not the same people as those who read her blog. These different audiences were open to different conversations. So, for example, Ifemelu tells her all-white audience at a diversity talk ‘America has made great progress for which we should be very proud’ whereas on her blog she writes: Racism should never have happened and so you don’t get a cookie for reducing it. (p. 305).

Ifemelu’s blog becomes so successful that in time she is able to hire an assistant to delete inappropriate comments on her blog ‘almost as soon as they were posted’. Living with Autism clearly does not occupy the same space as the fictitious Observations by a Non-American Black. While Ifemelu’s blog attracts thousands of readers and comments, this one is much more modest of aim and scope. I’m interested, however, in Adichie’s observations about blogging and particularly in the possibility that a blog audience may be more open to radical thinking than a non-virtual audience.

At the end of my last post I referred to an observation, by one of my colleagues, that the tone of my posts was ‘careful’. I suspect this was partly from my concern to write clearly but mostly because I was anxious. ‘Autism’ is a slippery subject. Nothing about it is generalisable. Everything can be qualified. The concept is contested. The language is different (and differently contested) in different countries and contexts. The ethical issues are complex, particularly when they involve individuals with learning disability and without speech. There are competing philosophical models and oppositional positions on policy and provision. The concerns of autistic people, professionals and parents are different. And (as with everything) there are agendas, trends, fads, heroes and villains. Like ‘race’ it is a topic which challenges and which demands our emotional as well as intellectual engagement.

When I started blogging I realised (from reading other blogs) that there is as much conflict as harmony in the online community and I trod carefully. As well as wanting to respect divergent views, and to embrace professional and personal perspectives, it was important to me that Living with Autism created a space which was accessible to people without a connection to autism. Juggling these different constituencies is perhaps one explanation for the caution in my voice.

untitledIn Adichie’s novel Ifemelu occupies an increasingly courageous space as she becomes more comfortable with her role as a ‘provocative race blogger’. While Living with Autism may not have courted this, I’d like to think that at least some of my posts challenge established ideas. Certainly, as time went on, I felt braver about discussing sensitive topics; recently, for example, I published a post on carer suicide/killing, a subject which has provoked fierce debate and which I would once have been too anxious to tackle. In the event I need not have feared; the ‘careful’ voice that my colleague identified has been equally true of the dialogue on Living with Autism. I’m pleased that the comments on this site, while not always in agreement, have been respectful and non-inflammatory; for this, Dear Reader, I thank you.

Namastē and Olá

wikiindiaBecause Living with Autism has not been as ambitious in scope I have not had to deal with the fear triggered in Ifemelu by the readers of Observations by a Non-American Black:

The blog had unveiled itself and shed its milk teeth; by turns, it surprised her, pleased her, left her behind. Its readers increased, by the thousands from all over the world, so quickly that she resisted checking the stats, reluctant to know how many new people had clicked to read her that day, because it frightened her. (p. 303)

wiki brazilAs I find statistics fascinating I am not capable of exercising Ifemelu’s restraint. Besides, the WordPress data is rich: it is not only possible to identify the popularity of posts and track waves of interest, visitors to a blog can be mapped by location. Living with Autism might have been viewed only five times in Ifemelu’s native Nigeria but I am surprised that it has been viewed at all in some of the 122 countries listed in my blog stats. I love the roll call of Myanmar and Mongolia (1 each), Curaçao and Nepal (2 each), Kazakhstan (3), Costa Rica (4), Georgia (5) and Mauritius (6).

It isn’t particularly surprising that the majority of readers come from five English-speaking nations (UK, US, Canada, Australia and Ireland) but I could not have predicted the position of some countries on the leader board: India, for example, is in 6th position with 287 views and Brazil is not far behind in 7th  (220). I realise these viewings could be from multiple readers or from a few loyal followers; whoever you are, Namastē and Olá.

Making sense

wikiusThere are other, more complex, statistical analyses which can be done and, indeed, once a year WordPress sends a ‘review’ to bloggers, offering headline statements about their blog’s performance. At the end of my first year of blogging, two things caught my eye. Firstly, the majority of readers of Living with Autism were located in the United States. I saw annual reviews of other UK bloggers (on different topics) and noted with interest that their readers were overwhelmingly British. This could be linked to focus; certainly there seems to be more interest in autism in the US than in the UK (these statistics have recently changed and I now have slightly more British than American readers).

wikiukThe other headline finding from the WordPress review of my blog was that my posts had ‘staying power’. I should ‘consider revisiting some of the topics I’d already written about’, the review advised, as my historic posts continued to receive relatively high numbers of readers. This advice didn’t seem very meaningful as all my posts are on the same broad topic: Dylan and my attempt to understand how best to care for him. It occurred to me recently, however, that what the statistics might do is indicate specific areas of concern within the autism community.

While all blogs have some loyal followers, many readers arrive at a site via an internet search on a topic of interest to them. These searches must sometimes be very disappointing; when I wrote a post called He’s Not My Toy Boy, for example, Living with Autism received a number of hits from people who were probably hoping to find one. Some of my posts, however, are found by people who seem to be searching for exactly the topic I have written about.

Reader Concerns

tears5A post I wrote about Dylan not producing ‘real tears’ (Why Doesn’t My Autistic Son Cry Tears?), for example, receives unwavering attention. Every week it is at or near the top of the week’s viewings and it stands third in the overall rankings. What is distinctive about this post, and what intrigues me about it, is the way it has made quiet progress up the statistics page, overtaking even those posts which received a flurry of attention in the aftermath of being selected by the WordPress editors to be freshly pressed.

The post is actually one of my least favourite pieces of writing; it is short and inchoate, offering an observation but ultimately (I think) unsatisfactory. It is my third most popular post only because people keep finding it when they type ‘why doesn’t my autistic child cry’? (or something similar) into Google. If I were an autism researcher I would definitely be asking questions: if you have such a background, please note that significant numbers of parents claim their autistic children do not cry! Other common interests and concerns (if numbers of viewings can be considered an indicator) include the difficulties of chronological age in relation to autism (my most popular post by a long way); understanding autism through poetry (My Trees Have Grown Hair and The Frog Prince); and the gender implications of autism.

wildlife-imaging.co.ukTwo of these posts were Fresh Pressed so it is not surprising that they are among my most-viewed posts. What I do find surprising, however, is that (with the exception of my post about crying) my top five posts are among the most demanding of those I have written: they are long; some draw heavily on (and include) poetry; and they engage with sociological or philosophical ideas. The fact that these are my most popular posts reminds me to trust the reader; visitors to this blog have clearly been prepared to read longer posts, to engage with difficult ideas and to read poetry. These data also remind me of Ifemelu’s reflection that the readers of her blog were more prepared to be challenged than were the audience at her workshops; I will not assume in future, that virtual dialogue must by its nature (or format) be less challenging.

My Preferences

The readers’ favourite posts are not the same as my own preferences. The posts which I have most enjoyed writing, or which I feel most satisfied by, tend to be those which have made me think very hard (this one, for example, which tries to apply a scientific paper to Dylan’s life history); which I have needed to be courageous to write (such as this one about alcohol and autism); or which have been demanding in terms of format (usually because I incorporated poetry or fiction as in this one about the sea and this one about air travel). I have also enjoyed reviewing films and books  – though, again, my favourites are not the same as the readers’.

caul 002As well as identifying autism and ‘crying’ as a likely subject for further exploration, I have suggested other potential research ideas in some of my blog posts. In this post, for example, I hypothesise that Dylan’s use of the camera suggests lip gaze may be a more appropriate focus than eye gaze when considering the communication of ‘non-verbal’ children and adults, while in this post I suggest that the letters of the alphabet may be ‘read’ by visual learners as objects rather than as symbols. I have also tried to promote lines of enquiry into the role of the senses in memory and the role of art in the education. These, however, have not generated any particular interest 🙂

As well as not being beguiled by potential research questions or hypotheses, the data suggest that readers are less interested in ‘diary pieces’ (recording small incidents in my week) and posts which focus on my life rather than on Dylan’s or on religion/spirituality. These least-viewed posts often (though not always) have ‘less to say’ (i.e. they lack a revelation or transforming moment); like Ifemelu’s readers, visitors to this blog seem to have appreciated discussion of the ‘big ideas’. It seems to be the pieces with a tentative and more meditative voice – often those which incorporate poetic texts – that have been particularly popular with readers. While this doesn’t mean readers demand to be ‘uplifted’ or can’t ‘do dark’, there is an appreciation, I think, of the beauty and the celebration – what I think of as the ‘poetry of autism’.

Not learning from statistics

IMG_0029 (2)My purpose in setting up this blog was to share my experience of attempting to secure appropriate provision for Dylan after he left school. When he finally took up a residential place this summer, that journey came to an end and a new one began. As I noted in a previous post, the initial weeks of Dylan’s placement have felt like a ‘phoney transition’ in that I have been able to see him during the week as well as at weekends. Furthermore, as the majority of Dylan’s things are still with me, rather than at his new home, the full implications of the move have not yet sunk in for either of us.

In a few days time, however, it will be two months since Dylan’s placement began. I have returned to work after the summer break and a new academic year is about to start; I won’t be able to continue the transition activities which I have been able to prioritise during the first eight weeks of Dylan’s placement. The phoney time is over and real time is about to begin.

Rather than close this blog down immediately, I plan to keep a daily diary recording the first 100 days of living without autism. I imagine the pieces will be short and ephemeral and if they contain any ‘big ideas’ at all they will be stumbled upon. I noted earlier that the ‘diary type’ pieces on Living with Autism have been among my least-viewed posts which suggests that the next phase of this blog is unlikely to be popular 🙂 You could be forgiven for asking if I had learned anything at all from the WordPress statistics? Well, yes – but reader numbers have always been a bonus rather than an aspiration and I imagine this will be even more the case in future.

My aim in recording the first 100 days is to observe the impact of separation on me and on my relationship with Dylan. I hope that this will be as helpful to us in learning to live without each other as it was in helping us to live our lives together. Whether you are staying or leaving, thank you for accompanying us this far.

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Reference:
Adichie, C.A. (2014) Americanah. Fourth Estate