Tag Archives: echolalia

Finding Ways to Connect With Other Human Beings

Posted on June 26, 2012 | 24 Comments

I have a relatively new friend.  We’ve been talking a few times a week.  She makes me really happy because she’s funny, smart and kind.  You know that magical feeling when you connect with another human being?  Someone who is special?  It’s a deeper bonding than with most people, you can’t explain why that is, you just feel it and it’s mutual.  I feel safe enough to confide in her.  I’m pretty sure she feels the same.   When we aren’t talking I think about her.  I wonder how she’s doing, is she okay.  And then one of us reaches out to the other and we start talking.  Only with my friend we don’t talk in the conventional sense, we type back and forth in real-time.  My friend reads very quickly, she’s hyperlexic; if I mention something that she hasn’t read, she’ll zip off and do a little research while I’m still typing out a sentence.  Then she’ll reply with the knowledge of someone who knows, but didn’t in the previous sentence.  It makes for an interesting conversation.

As a teen she had alexithymia.  Meaning it was difficult for her to use words to describe the emotions she was having, as well as understand other people’s emotions, which combined with her literalism, caused a great many problems.  So yesterday she was telling me about how she used echolalia and physical actions as a way to connect, but it didn’t always work out so well.  People misunderstood her.  And I thought of Emma.  Because Emma doesn’t have the language to describe her more complicated feelings.  So when she wants to connect, she’ll hit or she’ll say, “No, you cannot pull Mommy’s hair.”  Which means that she’d like to, but she knows she shouldn’t.  At her school she pulled her friend’s hair and was punished.  Emma knows this is something that while she enjoys doing it, the recipients often do not.  That must be very confusing to her.  Emma will say things like, “No you cannot pinch Mommy.”  Then she’ll look at me with a mischievous look and will wiggle her fingers at me as though she were about to pinch me.

“No Emmy!  Don’t pinch Mommy!”  I tell her.

Emma thinks this is the height of hilarity and will say again, “No.  You cannot pinch Mommy!  Pinch Mommy!” and then as though the feeling is too powerful for her to control, she will.

“Ouch!”  I will say.  And Emma will double over in laughter.

Last night we went out to dinner in town.  It’s very warm here, so we sat outside.  One of Emma’s favorite games is to pretend to give me a shot.  She “washes” my upper arm by rubbing it with her hand and then pinches me.   “Swish, swish,” Emma said, while pretending to put a band-aid on my arm.   “Now you do it,” she said, covering her eyes with one hand, while offering me her arm.  We play this game often.  It is also her way, I think, of working through her fear of having a shot or the finger prick they sometimes do at the doctor’s office.

Yesterday as my friend and I were talking I realized something else.  Emma is doing these things, punching, pulling hair, pinching, because she wants to connect, she wants to get a response, she wants to interact.  It’s not just a one-sided gesture.  She is trying, in the only way she knows, to make contact.  Sadly her gestures are often ignored or she is told no, she cannot do that, so she is then further limited.  She doesn’t have the words, she cannot always make sense of what she’s feeling, but she really wants to interact, to develop a method of “talking” with another person.  She’s doing the best she can with the limited tools she has at the moment.

I realized I needed to help her find physical ways to connect that will not be perceived as “harmful” by the other person, but that are also meaningful to her.  I will have to speak with my friend about this, because she will undoubtedly have some good ideas, besides I haven’t spoken to her in at least 16 hours and I already miss her.

Last night at the restaurant, Emma wearing Richard’s hat

This morning – sunrise on the ranch

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Posted in Autism, language, Parenting

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Is There A Future for Emma in the Theatre?

Posted on June 11, 2012 | 24 Comments

Yesterday, as we were leaving Nic and Emma’s gymnastics class, Emma found a stray balloon.  No doubt left by one of the children who attended a birthday party there earlier, Emma looked at me with a sly grin, then grabbed the balloon and said, “Look!  It’s a birthday party balloon.  Take it home?”

Emma loves nothing more than birthday parties, balloons and singing Happy Birthday.  ”Sure Em.  But remember to hold on to it, because if you let go, it’ll fly away,” I said.

Emma nodded her head gravely and said, “You have to hold it.  If you let go, the balloon goes up in the air.  Oh no!  Don’t go away balloon.  You have to hold it.  But listen, if you let go, there will be no more balloon!”

Emma’s way of coping with anxiety is to repeat a script of sorts.  These are things she’s heard from a variety of sources.  She pulls together threads and combines them to make a dialogue that she then repeats.  Many Autistics script.  Some people feel scripting is to be ignored and even discouraged, but I find Emma’s scripts are informative and useful.  It is the way she is attempting to communicate.  I don’t believe they are nonsense or meaningless.  I believe she uses them in situations when she cannot come up with words of her own.

Emma managed to get through the next four hours without losing the balloon.  This was no small accomplishment as those four hours were packed with activities, ranging from shopping for shorts and an awesome camouflage swim cap for Nic, bathing suits for Em, swim goggles for me, ear plugs for all of us, slices of pizza for everyone, before meeting Richard at the local Y to swim.  Emma attempted to jam the balloon inside our locker, (we ended up letting it float outside the locker, with the string inside the locker ensuring it wouldn’t float away.)  After swimming we went to a room where they’d set up an obstacle course and bouncy castle.  Meanwhile Emma’s balloon, which she’d secured inside my swim bag, stayed put.

Once outside as we headed home Emma suddenly gasped.  All of us watched with dread as her beloved balloon sailed out of reach.  In the past, losing her balloon would have induced a meltdown of epic proportions.  ”Oh no, my balloon!” Emma said, her tone and inflection sounded vaguely familiar.  Emma stomped her foot and said again, “Oh no, my balloon!  Can you tell how Katy feels about losing her balloon?  Yes, Katy is mad she lost her balloon.  We can tell she’s mad because she’s raising her fist and stomping her foot.”

I looked at Emma in shock. Emma was repeating the dialogue from an app Marc Zimmerman, CEO of the app The Social Express Lite sent me more than six months ago.  At the time I showed it to Emma who liked it and watched the five different lessons a couple dozen times and so a few months later, I bought the long version of the Social Express, but other things took precedence, so it was soon forgotten.

“Emma lost her balloon,” Emma said looking at me as I awaited the meltdown I was sure would come.  Instead, Emma stood still, gazed up at the balloon floating farther and farther away and said, “Emma’s mad she lost her balloon.”  Emma stared at me for a moment and began to laugh.

I was amazed.  This was NOT the reaction I expected.  ”Katy’s mad.  Emma’s mad,” Emma laughed.  She gave me her pretend “mad” face –  frowning, mouth set in a silent scream – and dissolved into peals of laughter.

I was reminded of a conversation I had with a friend of mine (who’s autistic), just two days ago.  She told me how going into a theatre program changed her life.  She told me how theatre taught her a range of things, including an increased desire to read because there was a reason to,  she learned how others thought and what motivated them.  She said, “In theater, everyone is honest, they have to be.  If they are not, the director says, No, be honest.”

“I am determined to find a theatre program for Emma,” I said to Richard.  ”I think it is the thing that could change everything for her.”

“I’m with you,” Richard said.

When we got home Emma and I watched the Social Express together.  When the story with Katy losing her balloon came on, Emma pointed to the screen.  ”Oh no! Katy lost her balloon too!”

And she began laughing.

Emma demonstrating her angry face

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Posted in Autism, language, scripting

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Cobra aka Daddy

Posted on May 9, 2012 | 6 Comments

Emma began calling her dad, Cobra a few weeks ago.  When she first said it, as in, “That’s Cobra!” while laughing and pointing to Richard, I had no idea why she was calling her father a venomous snake.  It wasn’t until later when someone said, “Isn’t that the social worker in Lilo and Stitch?”  that the mystery was solved, or at least one part of the mystery.  Why she thinks Richard, in any way, resembles Cobra is something we are still pondering, though I have a couple of thoughts. (As usual..)

Cobra, or Cobra Bubbles, as he is known in the movie Lilo and Stitch is a social worker, though he looks more like he’s in the CIA, with his dark suits and dark glasses, which he wears regardless of whether he’s inside or out and is bald.  He is also African American, is huge and speaks in a baritone booming voice and is in a state of perpetual displeasure, which he expresses with lines like, “And in case you were wondering,” said while looking over his dark glasses, “this meeting. Did. Not. Go. Well.”

Emma loves Lilo and Stitch.  She mimics Lilo’s bratty, high pitched voice and recites whole sections of the movie sometimes to comical effect.  Such as when the upstairs neighbor’s kid was running back and forth early one morning, Emma looked up at our ceiling and said in a perfect imitation of Lilo’s voice, “Aliens are attacking my house!”  It was a hilarious moment.  Emma, being the ham that she is, loved that I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe.  So when Emma pointed to Richard last Sunday on the way to the number 2 train, and said, “That’s Cobra,” then pointed to me and said, “That’s Mommy!” we asked her why Daddy reminded her of Cobra.  She grinned and said, simply, “Cobra,” before weaving her arm through her dad’s and then mine.  The three of us walked that way as Emma spoke in Lilo’s whiny voice, “We’re going to go home now.  Take the number 2 train and then eat dinner.”

By the end of the movie Cobra has become very much the family friend and is no longer threatening to put Lilo in foster care.  On the contrary he is intent on keeping the family together and has become their protector.  Which, my guess is, where the association with her dad lies.  Daddy, the larger than life protector of the family, kind and loving.

Daddy aka Cobra (Bubbles.)

To read my latest piece, Emma’s New Shoes, in the Huffington Post, click ‘here‘

And if you haven’t already done so, do vote for Emma’s Hope Book by clicking this ‘link‘ and clicking on the “like” button opposite Emma’s Hope Book.

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Posted in Autism, Echolalia, Parenting

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Rules

Posted on June 2, 2010 | 1 Comment

Emma can be very strict.  She is a stickler for rules.  Merlin (see yesterday’s post) is not supposed to jump up onto the counters or dining room table.  If he does, Emma shouts, “Merlin!  Get down!”  Even if he hasn’t jumped up on the counter (yet) Emma will remind him, “Merlin!  You may not get up on the table.”

If we have a vase of flowers on the dining room table Emma will repeatedly warn Merlin (whether it applies or not) “Merlin, kitty, you cannot eat the flowers!”  Then she’ll laugh.

These are all things she has heard us say at some point and Emma is a terrific mimic.  She will not only repeat the things she hears us say, but she will mimic the tone.  There’s a word for what she does.  It is – echolalia – common among autistic children.  Echolalia is the parroting or echoing of sentences and phrases heard.   Emma does not make the sorts of linguistic mistakes commonly heard in young children.  She does not say things like – I bringed it to her – something often heard from young neuro-typical children as they try their best to navigate the English language.  On the other hand Emma will say – Bye Emma! When saying good-bye to someone, whose name is definitely not Emma.  It is what she hears them say to her when they or she is leaving.  Why would she say anything else!?  To Emma “Bye Emma” means a parting of ways.  Or, as in the case of a dinner party we had a few months ago, Emma felt it was time for everyone to leave, she announced – “Dinner is all done!  Bye Emma!”  When our guests, understandably confused, said, “Oh!  Are you going now?” but did not themselves show any sign of leaving, Emma began bringing them their coats, saying, “Bye! Bye Emma!”  while vigorously waving her hand good-bye.  Needless to say she cleared the place out within minutes, despite our reassurances that it was not time to go yet and wouldn’t they like to stay and have some coffee or tea.

For Emma, however, we had eaten, she had patiently waited while this occurred.  She knew there would be dessert after which she would be allowed to blow out the candles on the dinner table while singing “Happy Birthday” (Any party is a birthday party and remarkably some guest almost always is about to have or has just had a birthday – so it confirms Emma’s ‘party = birthday party’ theory.)  Once Emma has sung Happy Birthday, usually several times and with all of us joining in for the third or fourth “last time” rendition – it is time to go to bed.  Emma has a difficult time understanding that we may not be ready for bed.  We may want to move into the living room to talk, have some tea or coffee and enjoy each other’s company.  This, for Emma, is not how it should be, it is her bedtime now and so it should be everyone elses too.  This sort of flexibility does not fit into her “rules”.  The guests should leave and if they do not, then Emma must remind them.

When Emma was beginning to talk she did not say single words, but whole sentences.  See previous post – “Emma at Ten Months Old”.  As Emma grew older, she would repeat things she heard others say.  But the things she latched on to were things said with a great deal of emotion, or, as Stanley Greenspan used to say, “high affect”.  Sometimes these comments were in context, but other times they were arbitrary.  A dear friend of mine who has two children just a bit younger than mine admonished her son in the playground one day while we were there.

“Rogan NO!”  She shouted, as her son dashed toward the gate leading out onto 10th Avenue.  Emma, for the next four years mimicked her in all sorts of situations.  Often it was when she wanted to go somewhere, but knew she shouldn’t, but just as often it was arbitrary.  Emma would shout, “Rogan NO!”   Sometimes she would add  “You have to come back!”  And sometimes she would just use the short hand version  “NO!”  But we knew from the way she said it, the tone she used who she was mimicking.  She had captured the voice perfectly.  A few years ago we ran into my friend with her children in the park and Emma upon seeing her, immediately said, “Rogan, NO!”  Fortunately my friend has a good sense of humor and didn’t take offense.

Emma does the same thing with another friend of ours.

“Jack!” Emma will shout in a stern voice.  Then “Jack!  Jack!  Jack!”  Said in rapid succession.  She captures the child’s name and the anxiety ridden pitch perfectly.  At Nic’s birthday party a few years back, Emma, upon seeing Jack’s father, started shouting – Jack!  Jack! Jack!

“I guess that’s how I sound, huh?” The father said, looking slightly embarrassed.

How to explain?

For Emma, rules help her cope in a world run riot.  Rules provide sameness and from that, Emma derives comfort.  Though Emma has been known to question some of the rules she does not like.  “We cannot make pancakes,” Emma will say, knowing it is a school day.  She hopes maybe we will make pancakes anyway and this is as close to a question as we often get.  But once confirmed, “No we cannot make pancakes this morning.  It’s Wednesday,” one of us will say, Emma will begrudgingly accept this.  It is our rule after all.

“Sleep, wake up, sleep wake up, sleep wake up, pancakes!” Emma will respond.

“Yes.  That’s right.  Pancakes on Saturday and Sunday.”

“Make pancakes with Mommy?”  Emma will say with a sly grin, trying one last time to see if this ‘rule’ can be suspended if for only one day.

“Pancakes with Mommy on Saturday.  Today is Wednesday.”

“Okay,” Emma will say.

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Posted in Autism, Parenting, Speech, Stanley Greenspan

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