Tag Archives: language

The Early Signs of Autism

I have been thinking a great deal about those first clues, the things Emma did that we now know were the first warning signs of what ended in a diagnosis of autism.  The CDC has a website with a checklist – “Learn the Signs” .

According to their checklist, at 3 months, Emma was developing as any neuro-typical child, by seven months there were only one or two things on the checklist that she didn’t do.  Both fall under the “Language” category.

“Responds to own name” is the first and at 7 months Emma did respond to her own name, but not all the time.  I remember a friend reassuring me that her kids, who were older than Emma, didn’t respond every time she called to them either.  Still, it was the first red flag.

“Can tell emotions by tone of voice” – this is difficult.  I made some notes in her baby journal that she seemed preoccupied, but I can see how I and others would have dismissed this as being overly worried.

Everything else on the checklist were things Emma was doing – Ability to track moving objects, transfers object from hand to hand, sits with, and then without, support on hands, rolls both ways, (front to back, back to front.)

The 1 year checklist has more things that Emma was clearly not doing, but again, they were not black and white, such as:  “Shy and anxious with strangers.”

Emma wasn’t shy or anxious around anyone.  In fact, I remember thinking, with a certain degree of pride that this was an expression of her self confidence and independence.

“Cries when mother or father leaves.”  Again, a sign of her independence, I thought and sometimes she would cry when I left, just not often.

“Shows specific preferences for certain people and toys.”  She did, but not to the degree Nic had.  She seemed indifferent to people and rarely asked for toys, something I attributed to her solid sense of self.

“Maybe fearful in some situations.”  Emma showed no fear toward anyone or anything.  We had no idea this was not a good thing.

“Does not search for objects that are hidden while he or she watches.”  I remember Nic loved a picture book by Richard Scarry.  It had a little animal (I can’t remember what kind) that was somewhere on every page, but often difficult to find.  He loved scanning the picture and pointing to the mouse.  When Emma was his age, she had no interest in the book, let alone locating the tiny hidden creature.  It was the same with the mouse in “Good Night Moon”.  Nic loved pointing out the mouse that is always somewhere on each and every page.  Emma would push my hand away when I said, “Emma!  Where’s the mouse?”

I told myself it was because the book didn’t interest her and not because it was indicative of a larger problem.  I remember being baffled by her degree of disinterest.  But I also remember telling myself that children are different and she just wasn’t as interested in books the way Nic had been.  Finding the hidden animal, something Nic and I spent hours doing, was not enjoyable for Emma and while it made me sad that I couldn’t share this with her, I shrugged it off as yet another example of her temperament.

When I look at these checklists I am still struck by how many more things Emma did do than didn’t.  Even on the 2 year checklist, the majority of bullet points were things she did.

Which is why diagnosing autism is so tricky.  Many believe “autism” is a misnomer.  They believe it is actually a word being used to house a wide variety of different issues.  If they are right it would explain the intractable nature of “autism” and why it continues to confound.

For more on Emma’s journey through a childhood of autism and a trip down memory lane, go to:  www.EmmasHopeBook.com

Building Blocks & Autism

Sadly, I have no new photographs of Emma petting Merlin.  After that one brief encounter she has returned to ignoring him.  He seems to take it all in stride, poor kitty.  But it leads me to another topic I keep meaning to write about – building blocks.  Not the literal kind, but the developmental kind.  Children typically go through a series of advancements in their speech, physical abilities, etc.  There are specific physical milestones –  lifting their head, turning over, crawling, standing walking, and on it goes.  A foundation is being laid down which further progress is built upon.

What I have seen with Emma is less a foundation and more a series of seemingly unrelated events.  We see her do or say things never to be repeated or if they are, not for many months or even years.  I’m not sure I would have noticed this, except that I’ve made a habit of noting everything she does and then writing about it.  She pets Merlin and then instead of tentatively reaching out to him again the following day, it’s as though she never spent those few minutes petting him.

It reminds me of when she was just over a year old.  She would learn to say something – “play catch” and we assumed that these two words would now be added to the other words she had, such as ba-bye, dada, ah da (all done), hi, okay and no.  We expected to hear them uttered again.  At the time, knowing absolutely nothing about autism, we weren’t looking for signs of anything being wrong.  When she didn’t repeat – play catch – we assumed it was because she didn’t want to play, not that it was a one time event, never to be spoken again.

When I look at her baby journals, (which I discontinued after she was diagnosed – more about that some other time) the first two and a half years of her life, I am struck by the words she knew by the time she was thirteen months old.  Including the ones I’ve listed above she said, Bertie (the name of our elderly cat), Ma-ma, Nic, and Ra-ra (our caregiver).  I was concerned with her lack of language, but it wasn’t as though she wasn’t speaking at all and then she’d come out with something like “play catch” and I would sigh a huge sigh of relief and push my concerns aside.  Except that she never said play catch again.  The full list of words she spoke as a thirteen month old were either salutations or proper nouns of the main people in her life.  Other than the one time she said, “play catch” she did not use any  verbs or nouns.  It was at around this time, between thirteen and fifteen months of age that she would seem to learn a new word or phrase – “play catch”, but also, “chase me” and “go out”.  Some of them, like “chase me!” she would say many times but at around eighteen months she suddenly stopped.  We never heard her say those two words again.  It was as though there were some sort of black hole sucking all those words and phrases away.

Still we fully expected to hear her say those words again, that she did not was something we didn’t realize until much later.  At the time we were sure it was because she chose not to, as opposed to something neurologically wrong.  Why would one assume something was terribly wrong when she would come out with a new phrase or word the next week?  It wasn’t until we were told she was autistic, and only after much research did I begin to look back on all those hopeful notes from her baby journals and see a pattern.  There was not the steady building of a foundation of words, ever added upon to become an extensive and diverse vocabulary.  Instead there were a few scattered words and phrases some repeated, some never heard again.  Arbitrary words, perhaps she heard us say and repeated, but the milestones were not being reached in the time frame one normally would expect.

What I see now is that Emma is slowly, slowly building a vocabulary, but it is at a snail’s pace and it does not follow a neuro-typical trajectory.  Still she is advancing in her own haphazard way.  Who knows, she may even pet Merlin again.

For more on Emma’s criss-crossing journey through a childhood of autism and my ongoing attempts to make sense of it all, go to:  www.EmmasHopeBook.com

Emma and The Peach Gum

Last night Emma arrived home in tears.  It turns out she had swallowed a piece of peach flavored gum and her therapist, Joe, who had warned her that if she swallowed the gum he would not give her another piece, wouldn’t allow her to have another.  He offered her two other flavors to no avail.

“No!  Peach gum!” Emma cried when I went into her bedroom to sit with her.

“But Em, you swallowed it and Joe told you, you couldn’t have another piece if you swallowed it,” I said, stroking her hair.

“No!” Emma shouted, tears streaming down her face.  “NO!  Peach gum!”

“How about a different flavor?  But you can’t swallow it or you won’t be able to have another piece of any kind,” I offered.

“No, no, no, no.  Peach,” Emma insisted.

I often wonder, when Emma is derailed by something, seemingly rather insignificant, if there isn’t a whole series of events – perhaps unrelated – that have lead up to this kind of monumental upset.  It reminds me of days I’ve had, when everything that could go wrong does.  I get to work and my printer won’t scan, the cartridge is out of ink and I don’t have a back up, I can’t remember my password to upload images that have been requested to my FTP site, my merchant account isn’t showing my latest sales transaction, my gem setter calls to tell me he’s chipped a stone, I forgot to bring some documents I need from home, etc.  and then after all that I go home, having put in nine or ten hours of work, tired and grumpy and find a light bulb has blown in the living room. It just seems too much.  Meanwhile my husband wanders in, sees me and says innocently, “Hey, what’s going on?”

Those words are what flip the switch and suddenly I feel nothing but rage.

Is that what it’s like for Emma sometimes?  Only she can’t take a deep breath and explain that her day has been a nightmare of frustrations and mishaps, while the other person nods their head and says things like, “God that sounds awful.  Here why don’t you put your things down and let’s talk about it.”  Or “I know just what you mean.  It’s been a hell of a day.”  Poor Emma can’t say any of those things.  She doesn’t have the words to tell me how she’s feeling she can’t keep it together for one more second, so she just screams and cries and if things are really bad, bites or hits herself.

This morning one of her therapists emailed me, telling me about some of her frustrations at school yesterday.  I thought about how upset she was when she came home and it all began to make sense.  She had a bad day.  I can relate to that.  I have bad days from time to time too.  But I can pick up the phone and rant about it to one of my girlfriends or I can call my husband and tell him or I can sit and try to be quiet for a few minutes, “sit with the discomfort of it all”, as a meditation teacher I knew referred to those moments when it all feels unbearable.  The point is I don’t have to be alone with those feelings of frustration.  I can reach out and by reaching out I mitigate the feelings.

“You were frustrated, you scream, you bite,”  Emma told her therapist yesterday.  Emma was doing what we all do when we’re upset, trying to communicate her feelings with another human being.

Emma on a good day when she was seven.

For more on Emma’s journey through a childhood of autism and how that effects her older brother, go to: www.EmmasHopeBook.com

How We Communicate

Recently someone commented on the “I Believe” post.  She wrote:  “She is communicationg to you, she communicates to you ever day. With her body language, with her expression, with her unusual use of language.”

I loved receiving this comment (I love receiving all the comments people have sent over the past year, they are always informative, interesting and often provocative), which adds to the earlier discussion in the post “Embrace-ness-ness” regarding how we view intelligence in non-verbal people and what that means.

As I have mentioned before, my father spent the last 15 years of his life in a wheelchair and though he was cognitively unimpaired, he was treated differently, almost as though people thought his brain had somehow been damaged too.  His accident and disability profoundly altered my view of the world.  I came to see first hand the pain and suffering caused by people’s responses and misunderstandings of his disability.

When we are out in public with Emma, she is a free spirit.  I have never seen her look in judgement at another human being, no matter how deranged they may appear.  Emma will sit next to a homeless person on the subway without a second thought.  If someone smiles at her, she will smile back.  Emma is without malice.  She is utterly void of judgement.  And yet, I see the looks of fear and confusion on the faces of those who see her and do not understand what they are seeing.  I see how their eyes watch her and then move to us, trying to find a clue as to why this child is behaving so oddly.  Many times people assume she is behaving as she is because of our parenting or lack of parenting.  We have been given well meaning advice from countless strangers over the years, people who feel they are, no doubt, helping us.  Yet, if we tell them she is autistic, this explanation is rarely met with understanding.

Autism is an almost meaningless word, at this point.  It covers such a vast array of behaviors and issues, it is no wonder people feel confused.  Many people know someone who is autistic and assume all autistic people must share the characteristics of that person.  This could not be farther from the truth however.  There are people who are verbal, non-verbal, semi verbal, highly verbal, but echolaic, verbal with perseverative tendencies, etc.  Some people who have received the autism diagnosis are highly functional, go on to have successful careers, excel in their chosen fields, others maintain jobs, never missing a day of work, while others cannot hold a job and will need assistance for the rest of their lives.  Meeting one person with autism is like meeting one person anywhere.  If that person is not able to communicate in a language we know, it doesn’t mean they can’t communicate or do not want to.

We all want to communicate.  Perhaps the single most destructive belief about autism is that those who are diagnosed with it have little desire for human interaction.  Just because they may not be able to communicate their desires in ways we are used to, does not mean the desire doesn’t exist.  If I want to communicate with Emma I just have to spend time with her.  She communicates with me in a wide variety of ways constantly.

Emma with her beloved balloon string – recovered from the laundry hamper.

For more on Emma’s balloon string and her journey through a childhood of autism go to:  www.EmmasHopeBook.com

I Believe…

Every year we have a meeting with the Board of Education aka BOE.  Yesterday morning was our scheduled meeting time, but because Richard has been ill, I went alone.  I do not look forward to these yearly meetings.  And as yesterday morning got off to a bumpy start I was doing my best to bolster myself for what I knew was going to be an emotionally  difficult time.  They always are.  It is at these yearly meetings when we go over Emma’s IEP (Individualized Education Program).  Each year the BOE sends someone from their department into Emma’s classroom to observe her for a half an hour.  From that observation, a report is written, almost always a report we read with dread.  It’s not that they are unreasonable or unfair, though sometimes Emma is unrecognizable, it’s that they are stripped down to the basics.

A sample from one of these reports:  “Emma came down from the cabinet and lay down on a rug.  At 9:07, she remained lying on the rug.  At 9:08, she went out of the classroom and came back barefooted with a plastic box.  A teacher assistant showed her two bottles of paint.  She said, “no” loudly…”  The report goes on to depict a low functioning autistic child (Emma) who is somewhat responsive to the teacher’s assistant, at times non-compliant and with almost no verbal language.

This year Emma was also assessed by a psychologist sent from the BOE.  This report was even more troubling: “Emma is minimally verbal, spoke in single word utterances, or short, attenuated sentences for the most part, was able to repeat simple phrases heard, and was echolalic.”  The report goes on:  “Emma was able to hold a pencil somewhat awkwardly and make a scribble, or simple circular motion.  She was unable to copy simple vertical and horizontal lines, or any simple recognizable geometrical designs.”

As her mother it is difficult to read these reports.  I look at my daughter, my beautiful, funny, athletic Emma and I see her potential.  I choose to believe she is capable of so much.  I choose to believe she understands so much more than she appears to.  I choose to believe she will one day read and write.  I choose to believe one day she will communicate with us.  She will tell us what it’s like for her.   I choose to believe these things because to do otherwise is not a life I want to live.  But when I am confronted with reports such as the ones I’ve quoted from, it makes me question, even if for only a moment these choices, these so called beliefs of mine.  What if I’m wrong?  A question I always follow with – what does it matter if I’m wrong?  Because if I’m wrong, I won’t find out until I’m very old or will never know because I’ll be dead. I will always choose to believe I’m right about Emma.  I have to.  All the work we do with her every single day is because I believe in her abilities.  I believe she can do more.  I believe she is capable of so much.  When I tell her we have to do yet another reading exercise or writing exercise I am doing so because I believe she can.  When I read to her about Harriet Tubman or Helen Keller or Balto or the discovery of King Tut’s tomb,  I believe she is taking it all in.  When I ask her if I should keep reading and her answer is always – yes – I take that as confirmation of my beliefs.  I know I am making a choice.  I know my decision to believe these things are based on very little, but never-the-less I believe.

I believe in Emma.

For more on Emma’s journey through a childhood of autism and my journey in parenting an autistic child, go to:  EmmasHopeBook.com

Emma waiting for her school bus this morning

An Easter Birthday Party

To Emma a party is a birthday party, no matter what we say to explain that this is not the case in every circumstance.  Yesterday was no different.  When Emma saw me pulling out the linen table cloth and setting the table for our Easter (or as we like to refer to it – Welcome to Spring) party she said, “It’s a birthday party!”

“No Em, it’s an easter party,” Richard said.

“Birthday party,” Emma insisted.

“Today is Easter.  We’re having a dinner party for Easter,” Richard explained.

“Easter birthday party!” Emma said, jumping up and down.

“Not a birthday party, just Easter,” Richard patiently corrected her.

Not easily swayed, Emma cheerfully said again, “Easter birthday party!”

“Whatever Dad,” Nic said, accompanied by the one-two punch that apparently afflicts all tweens – shrugging his shoulders and rolling his eyes.

“Hey Em, sometimes we have a party and it’s not for anyone’s birthday…” I began.

“Christmas,” Richard interjected.

“Thanksgiving,” I added.

“Valentines Day, no wait that’s Daddy’s birthday,” I said, catching myself and realizing this was only going to confuse the situation.

“Birthday party,” Emma chimed in.

“Except no one is having a birthday tonight.  We’re having people over just because it’s fun.”

At this point Emma wandered off, probably feeling we’d exhausted the subject.  A little later she returned to survey the cooking and, since I’d made cupcakes for her and Nic and his friend, knowing they probably wouldn’t eat the meringue & apricot extravaganza I’d made for the rest of us, to lick the icing.

As though to prove her point she said, pointing to the purple, blue and green frosting, “Yum!  Birthday cake,” Emma said.

“Easter cupcakes,” I said.

“For Easter,” Emma said, nodding her head.

“Yes!  That’s right.  For Easter.”

“Easter!” Emma said.  And then as she was walking away she said very quickly and under her breath, “Easter birthday party!”

For more on Emma’s journey through a childhood of autism and an actual birthday party go to:  EmmasHopeBook

Unlocking Emma’s Mind

This morning Emma said, “Play musical chairs!”  Then proceeded to position several dining room chairs in the middle of the room so they had their backs to one another, fanning out in a kind of lopsided circle.  She turned on some music from her iPod and danced for a minute or two, then hit the pause button and yelled, “Freeze!”  She ran to the nearest chair and sat down, staying very still for a few seconds before leaping up and turning the music back on.

When I joined in she said, “Mommy dancing!”  Then she began to laugh uncontrollably.

After about twenty minutes I sat down and watched her continue to play by herself.  She looked up at me and smiled, then covered her eyes with one hand.  “Hi Mommy!”  she said, peeking out between two fingers.

“Hi Em.”

“Playing Freeze with Mommy.”

“Yeah do you want me to keep playing?”

“No.  Nicky hurt his toe in Aspen.”

This is typical of Emma to make a sudden leap in thinking or maybe we all do this, but she just verbalizes her train of thought.  Maybe he hurt his toe while they were listening to music, I can’t remember any more.  Maybe it was simply an errant thought.

A specialist said, while being interviewed about autism, that they thought autism was the disregulation of neural pathways.  They went on to speak of the idea that people with autism have trouble communicating and putting into words their thinking.  But that it was the communicating that is troublesome, not the thinking.  I have no way of knowing what Emma is thinking, obviously, unless she tells me and even then it can be difficult figuring out exactly what she is trying to tell me, but I know her mind is very busy.  I can see her processing information, I can watch her and see that she is thinking, I just don’t know about what.

When I work with her on her reading and writing I can see how she is very clearly understanding the words she sees.  She is learning to read.  Yet if I ask her to read the sentence – Here is a truck – it causes her tremendous difficulty.  I know she can read it because she knows each word when shown by itself.  Yet put it into a sentence and it confuses her.  It’s similar to when she works at the computer.  She seems to have an easier time typing words and identifying words when she’s on the computer than if she’s asked to write those same words by hand.

When I read about autistic children who suddenly begin to type out full comprehensive sentences, it seems like magic.  Usually these same children have displayed nothing to indicate to their caregivers that they can read, let alone spell.  Yet there are numerous cases of children communicating through typing who have never been able to communicate before.

The other night I dreamt about Emma.  In my dream she was talking to me, just as any neuro-typical nine-year old child would.  She was telling me “secrets” and in the dream I thought how profound this information was.  She was telling me about what it was like for her and answering all my questions.  When I woke up the next morning I tried to remember what she’d told me, but I couldn’t.  I kept thinking if I just relaxed I would remember, as though she really had told me, as though it hadn’t been a dream, as though for a brief moment I had the answers, the key to unlocking her mind.

Every time I work with her on the computer I have a tiny hope that she’ll suddenly write something on her own, something that we aren’t working on.  Like magic, she’ll write a sentence that let’s me in on her thinking and her mind.  And each session when she doesn’t do that, I think – it’s okay, maybe next time.

For now, I have a game of musical chairs waiting for me.

For more on Emma’s journey through a childhood of autism and to hear her sing go to:  EmmasHopeBook

“Mommy Cut Hair”

The other day as I was helping Emma brush her teeth, she said, “Mommy cut hair?”

Which could mean she wanted me to cut her hair or she felt my hair was in need of a trim or she was remembering when I cut her hair a few months ago, it’s hard to say what she actually meant without more information.  “Do you want me to cut your hair Em?” I asked for clarification.

“No?” she said as though it were a question.  “Mommy cut hair?” she said again with the same upward, questioning  tone.

“You want me to get my hair cut?”

“Yes?” she said it as though she wasn’t sure or maybe she was asking me if I agreed with her assessment of my hair needing a trim.

“Really?   Do you think I’m due for a trim?” I asked, looking at our reflections in the bathroom mirror.

“Yes!”

“Really?”  I asked again, not at all sure I was interested in getting my hair cut.

“Yes!  Mommy cut hair like this,” Emma said, reaching over and pulling my hair up so that it barely grazed my shoulders.

“Wow Em!  That’s really short!”  I laughed.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes!”  Emma said and then she ran out of the bathroom.

“Wait Em!  We aren’t finished with your teeth!”  I called.  When there was no reply I left the bathroom and found Emma in the kitchen wielding a pair of scissors.  “Cut Mommy’s hair!” Emma laughed when she saw me.

“Whoa!  Em, no way!  We are NOT cutting my hair right now.  You have to put those away!”

Emma laughed and said, “Mommy cut hair now.”

“No.  Not now,” I said.  “Maybe I’ll get my hair cut later.”

Richard and Nic, who were now both in the kitchen witnessing all of this were laughing.

“Not funny,” I said to all of them.

“Very funny,” Nic said still laughing.

“But that was great,” Richard said to me later.

And it was, because for Emma to express awareness and interest in another person is a huge step.  In fact the entire dialogue was incredible as it did not center around her personal needs.  She was engaged in a playful interaction with another person, about something that had nothing to do with her.  This was a big leap forward.

This morning as Emma was getting dressed, I knelt down to straighten her dress.  She put her hands around my hair and said, “Mommy cut hair like this.”  Then she pushed her face up into mine and began giggling.

“That’s really short, Em.  How about I just get it trimmed. Maybe this much,” I showed her with my hands, cutting off about four inches.

“Okay,”  Emma said.

This afternoon I will go in to get my hair trimmed.  We shall see if Emma approves.

Emma looking at a book before going off to school this morning

“Embrace-ness-ness”

For those of you who have not viewed the interview of Carly Fleishman, you should:  Autistic Teen Finds Inner Voice. (There is a 15 second ad that you must cope with, but the interview is well worth the annoyance of the ad.)

The clip is an amazing example of a severely autistic non-verbal teenager who finds a way to “speak” by typing on her computer.  What occurs as a result is profound with far-reaching implications for all of us.

A follower of  EmmasHopeBook, an English teacher of 7th graders, and I have been engaged in a “cyber conversation” regarding disabilities, “tolerance”, how we view intelligence etc.  She wrote me this morning regarding her english class:  “We’ve also been discussing the semantics of disability (and earlier in the year, racism and homophobia). The word “tolerance” has come up in class, and the kids actually hypothesized and agreed that it’s just not strong enough for the world they want to live in. There were some strong voices saying that they feel it is actually negative! One girl said that, to her, to “tolerate” someone or something means “OK, I’ll put up with this if I have to, not because I want to,” and then they universally decided that the ultimate goal they should be pursuing and activating for is something like equality, or, as the same girl put it “It’s something like ’embrace-ness-ness.’ ”

I love this.  We live in a world, populated by people whom we often judge.  We tend to come up with ideas about other people and the lives they live.  The unknown can be uncomfortable and so we draw conclusions and then behave as though these conclusions were facts.  Someone cannot speak and we conclude they’re intelligence is lower than those who can.  A person is disabled and we conclude their intelligence is disabled as well.  How can we embrace what we do not know or understand?  It can be a frightening prospect and yet it is the key to a better understanding.

When my father finally succumbed to a wheel chair, having had a debilitating accident in his 40’s he was treated differently.  People condescended to him, they felt sorry for him.  He was a proud man, who at one time was extremely athletic.  Being in a wheel chair changed him.  He became despondent, he hated how he perceived people were viewing him – with pity.

When we are out with Emma, people at first believe her to be a “normal” little girl.  But once they speak to her or are with her for an extended period of time, they begin to realize she is different.  Usually they have no idea what is “wrong”, but the way they behave changes ever so slightly.  Sometimes they’ll raise their voice or their tone will change.  They clip their sentences, they speak as one might to an animal.  (I have been guilty of many of these things, by the way.)  It is confusing to be confronted with a child who looks neuro-typical, but who clearly is not.

I wish I could inhabit Emma for a day so I could feel and know what it is to be her.  Would I treat her differently if I knew what it was like to be her?   I hold onto the idea that if I continue working with her on her reading and writing, one day she’ll be able to tell me.

Last night as I lay beside Emma reading to her, she began laughing.  I put the book I was reading down and said, “What’s so funny, Em?”

“Crash into foof!” she said, breaking into hysterical giggles.

“Did you do that at school?”

“Yes!”

“That sounds like fun,” I said.  Emma was silent.  “Do you want me to keep reading?”

“Yes!”

After I finished reading about our moon landing in 1969, I said, “One day Em, you’re going to be able to read and write.  I can’t wait to read and hear what you’ll say.”

“Go to the computer with Mommy and Daddy,” Emma said.

“Is it easier to communicate on the computer?” I asked.

“Yes. Computer with Mommy and Daddy,” she said.

“Okay.  We’re going to work on that,” I said.

“Mommy sing song?”

“Right.  I’ll sing you a lullabye.”  After I sang her a few songs I hugged her.  “I love you Em.”

“So much,” she said.

Emma

For more on Emma’s journey through a childhood of autism go to:  EmmasHopeBook

One Day…

This weekend while working with Emma on her literacy program I showed her an index card with the words – Put the bus here – written on it.  I then pointed to a place on the table to the right of her and waited.  A frog, airplane, bus and kid were all laid out in front of her.  Without hesitation she picked up the bus and placed it where I was pointing.  Were Emma a neuro-typical nine year old child this would not elicit the inward gasp of excitement I found unable to stifle.  But Emma is not a neuro-typical nine year old child.  Emma is a moderately autistic child with massive pervasive neurological issues affecting her speech, imagination, reasoning, ability to conceptualize, communicate, initiate and interact.  To witness her reading and understanding what she’s just read with an action demonstrating comprehension is nothing short of miraculous.

And it fills me with hope.

If Emma is capable of reading, then it stands to reason she will be able to write as well.  What will she choose to write about?  What does she think about?  How does she feel?  Is she aware of her differences?  Does she wish she had friends the way her brother Nic does?  Does she know communicating is more difficult for her than for other people?  What is it like to be Emma?

Other autistic children and adults, many of them non-verbal have found ways to communicate to us about their world.

One such person is Carly Fleishmann, a non-verbal autistic teenager who has found her voice through typing and now has her own blog:  Carly’s Voice

I cannot know what the future holds for Emma.  What I do know is that if we continue to do everything in our power to help her, she will one day be able to answer our questions and communicate with us.  One day Emma will be able to let us in.  One day…

For more on Emma’s journey through a childhood of autism go to:  EmmasHopeBook

“Strawberry Cake”

Saturday morning Emma said, “Make cake?”

“What kind of cake, Em?” I asked.

“Make strawberry cake?”  Emma said in her usual questioning way.

It’s always interesting to me that Emma will make a statement, but will say it in a way that turns it into a question.  For instance when I ask her – do you want  to wear this?  She will answer, “No?”  which means she doesn’t want to wear it, but is asking if it’s okay not to.  Usually my answer is – okay – or – how about this?  To which she’ll then say – Okay or sometimes she’ll offer an alternative of her own, such as, “Wear this one?”  It’s a clever shorthand using much fewer words, but still gets the meaning across.  When we were in Panama having her third stem cell treatment done, another autistic girl a few years older than Emma did the same thing.  I remember after the procedure she kept saying, “Have chicken sandwich?”  She used the same upward lilt to the ending of the sentence that Emma incorporates.

“You want to make strawberry cake?” I asked Emma, somewhat incredulous as this was something she’s never requested before.

“Yeah!” Emma said jumping up and down.

“Okay.  How about we make a cake tonight?”

“Strawberry cake later,” Emma said.

“Yes, this afternoon.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Emma said.

Later that afternoon, Emma came over to me, “Mommy!  I want to make strawberry cake, please!”

“Okay, Em.  What should we do first?”  I asked as Nic ran over to join us.

“Get a bowl and get out strawberries,” Emma said, taking the container of strawberries from the refrigerator.

“Now what should we do?”  I asked.

“Mush them,” Emma said.

“Okay, here,” I handed her a potato masher.

Emma waited as I removed the stems from the strawberries and put them in the bowl.  Then she began mashing them.  After a little while, (about a minute) she took the milk out and said, “Pour in to mush.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said watching her.

“Mom, are you sure this is a good idea?” Nic asked.

I shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Let’s see what happens.”

“But what about the cake?” Nic asked.

“We can make a batter and add the strawberries to it,” I said, wondering exactly how this was going to work out.  “Hey Nic, why don’t you turn the oven on.”

As Nic turned on the oven, Emma continued to mash the strawberries in with the milk.

“Em, I have an idea, let’s use this,” I offered her a hand blender.  “This will mash the strawberries better,” I added, plugging it in.

“Okay.  Have to mush, mush, mush,”  Emma sang as she worked.  “Mush the strawberries, mush, mush, mush, mush the strawberries.”

Meanwhile I had Nic add a little bit of sugar, mix the flour and baking powder, then cream the butter, sugar and eggs in the electric mixer.

“Hey Em, are you ready to add the strawberries to our cake batter?”

“Yes!”  Emma said, pouring the now blended strawberries into the batter.  “Smell!”  she said, lowering her head so that it was close to the batter.

“Does it smell good?” I asked.

“Yum!”  Emma said.

While the cake was in the oven, Nic and Emma helped me make buttercream frosting.  “Em, should we put strawberries into the frosting?”

“No!”  Emma laughed as though this was the most ridiculous question she’d ever heard.  I looked at Nic.

He shrugged and said, “No strawberries in the frosting, Mom.”

“Okay it’s unanimous.”

When the cake was finished we pulled it out of the oven, let it cool and then Nic and Emma “helped” me frost it, which meant licking the spatula, licking the beater, licking the bowl.   When it was finished I said, “Who wants to have some strawberry cake?”

“I do!” Nic yelled.

“Hey Em, want to taste it?”

“Naaah!” Emma said running to the other side of the room.

“Hey Em.  Come on!  It’s your strawberry cake.  Don’t you want to try it?”

“Okay, just a taste,” Emma said coming over to sniff the cake.

“Mom!”  Nic yelled.  “This is the best cake ever!”

Meanwhile Emma poked at the cake with her fork then tasted the frosting and walked away.  Nic looked over, then rolled his eyes at me.  “Whatever Mom.  It’s a great cake,” he said, taking another mouthful.

What remains of Emma’s Strawberry Cake

For more on Emma and autism go to:  EmmasHopeBook

The Bakery

Emma is fussy about what she will eat and drink.  The type of food is sometimes less important than the packaging.  If the packaging changes or varies, even a little the item is rejected.  As with so much in autism it is all about regularity and routine.  Emma is completely thrown by the unexpected when applied to things she is accustomed to.

For the past two years Vanilla Milk from Horizon has been on Emma’s top five list of favorites.  It’s the little milk in a white and purple box with plastic wrapped straw glued to the side.   Except Horizon changed the packaging about three months ago – the colors remain the same, as do the graphics, size, shape and even the little straw. What has changed is they no longer use a coating to make the little boxes appear ever so slightly glossy.  The boxes are now a bit flatter looking.  Honestly, it wasn’t until Emma stopped drinking them, that I realized they had changed.

When we arrived in Aspen, we had a case from Christmas in the mudroom with the original packaging and Emma immediately grabbed one.

“Vanilla Milk!”  she said with pleasure.

We are nearing the end of that case and so she will boycott them once again.  Not that I care much as they are one of the least healthy things she consumes, but I do mind that she won’t eat the Cheerios we buy here, haven’t figured out why.  We bring her special bread with us, which we cannot get out here and her jam, so it was with some dismay when she refused to eat any of those things this time out, as well.  Last night I asked her what she wanted for dinner.  I told her what I was having and asked if she wanted some.  She always answers no, so it wasn’t a big surprise when she again said, “No?” as though it were more of a question, than a statement.

“Okay, so what would you like?” I asked.

“Bread,” she announced and handed me two pieces of her bread, which she had buttered and placed together, like a butter sandwich.

“Oh!” I said with surprise.  “You don’t want it toasted?”

“Yes.  Toast.”  Emma said.  Then she handed the bread to me and said, “Put it in the bakery.”

“In the bakery?” I repeated, looking around, wondering what she meant.

“In the bakery?” she said again gesturing at the oven.

“Oh!  You mean the oven.  You want me to put it in the oven to warm.”  I am often amazed by Emma’s creativity in her choice of words.  She has seen me bake bread in the oven.  She knows bread comes out of the oven and more often comes from a bakery.

“Yes.  Make it nice and warm!” Emma said.

“In the oven,” I said.

“In the oven,” Emma repeated.

“We have to heat the oven first and then we can toast it.  But we have to get a cookie tray to put it on, otherwise the butter might drip out,” I told her.

When her bread was done, I opened the oven.

“You have to stand back,” Emma said sternly.

“It’s okay Em.  Here, I’ll take it out and you can take it to the table.”

After Emma ate her bread she said, “Another bread from the bakery?”

“Yes.   We can do that.  You make it and I’ll put it in the oven.”

“Make it nice and warm,” Emma said.

“It’s Mommy!”

Every evening Joe, Emma’s therapist, and Emma pick me up from my store in town.  Emma pushes the door open and, upon seeing me says, “Hi Mommy!”  Then she points at me and says, “It’s Mommy!” as though this were the first time she’d seen me in a very long time.

“Hi Emma!”  I respond.  “I’m so happy to see you!”

Often she’ll stand back from me.  Looking at me with an expression of pleasure mixed with something else I haven’t been able to decipher, she usually says again, “It’s Mommy!”

It’s almost as though she doesn’t expect to find me there each evening.  As if she thinks I might be somewhere else and my presence is just a fluke.  Or perhaps it’s that she’s not used to seeing me at the store.  We’ve only been open a few months now and normally Joe, Emma and I are home in New York where I go to my studio each day.

After introducing Emma to whoever might be in the store when she comes, I almost always ask her, “What did you do today?”

“Go back to Granma’s house with Mommy?”  Emma will answer with an edge of anxiety.

“Yes, I’m coming with you,” I reassure her.  “What did you do today?”

Typically Emma will respond with a list of things she did.  Though this is by no means a comprehensive list.  Many times it’s not clear whether she is stating what she actually did, what she might have done in the last few days or what she wanted to do, but didn’t have time to.   “Really?”  I’ll say.  “You went bowling, sledding and skiing?”  I’ll ask, looking to Joe for confirmation.

Joe likes to let Emma speak for herself and so he usually will wait to see if she responds appropriately.  If she’s just said something completely outrageous he’ll interject, but more likely Emma will correct herself on her own as she did last night.

“No skiing,” she said.  “Bowling and wheel carousel.”

“Oh!  Did you find a real carousel?” I asked, wondering if this was a new addition to the Aspen area.

“Yeah!  Wheel carousel!”  Emma responded.

“Where is it?” I asked Joe.

“It’s a metal wheel in El Jebel,” Joe explained.

“Oh, like a merry-go-round?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have fun?” I’ll asked.

“YEAH!”  Emma said.  She almost always will respond to that question with enthusiasm.  No one can accuse Emma of not being happy.  She spends the greater part of her day in a state of bliss, always has.

When we drove home Emma waited in the back seat, allowing me to get out first to collar the dogs, before vacating the car.

By the time she appeared in the kitchen I had hung up my coat and was talking to my mother.  “It’s Mommy!”  Emma said, pointing at me as though she hadn’t just spent the last twenty minutes with me.

Then she held out her arms to me, indicating that she’d like me to hug her, which I never pass up the opportunity to do.

Tiny Steps

I keep waiting for the kind of miraculous progress you only find in movies or works of fiction.  Every now and then I’ll hear a story about a child who has recovered (or as they say in the field – lost their diagnosis) but these are so rare they fall into the category of fantasy in my mind.  Every now and then, when I find myself longing to wake up one morning and have Emma jump into bed with me speaking in full sentences, a look of cognition unmistakable on her face, I must remind myself of all the steps, the tiny steps of progress she makes everyday.  It isn’t just about making myself feel better, it’s about charting her progress.

Last night she went over to the phone in the kitchen.

“Hey Em.  Do you want to call Daddy?” Joe asked.

“Call Daddy?” Emma responded in her typically enigmatic way.

“I’ll say the numbers,” Joe prompted.

Emma dutifully found the right buttons to push and held the receiver up to her ear.  “Hi Daddy!”  Pause.  “Hi Daddy!”

I stood next to her, wondering if she’d gotten the answering machine.

“Hi Daddy!”  Emma said again.

I tried to listen to see if I could detect Richard’s voice.  I didn’t hear anything.  “Did he answer?” I asked Joe.

“Yeah.  He picked up.”

“I’m fine,” Emma said.

Silence.

“Yes.  Glenwood rec center.  Swimming, ice skating,”  Emma said into the phone.  A clear response to the question – What did you do today?  “Sledding, skiing…”

“No, you didn’t ski today,” I interjected.

“No skiing,” Emma said.  “Sledding.”

By this point I had my ear next to her cheek and could hear Richard’s voice.  “I miss you, Emmy,” I heard him say.

“I miss you, Daddy,” she said.

The conversation went on a bit longer, but I was so overcome by the fact she’d said – I miss you Daddy – in response to him saying, I miss you.  Usually when Emma repeats us she repeats us in total.  In other words she would say – I miss you Emmy.  An exact replica of his sentence to her.  But she didn’t do that.  She responded appropriately with the appropriate pronoun.  I was impressed.

I know this is small, but to us, it’s HUGE.  A huge step for Emma to express emotions regarding another person.

Later I said to Richard, “That was completely unprompted!”

“Really?” he asked.

“Yes!  I wasn’t prompting her to say anything,” I told him.  “She said it all on her own.  It’s the Aspen air out here,” I said, referring to our theory that there’s something in the air out here, which seems to inspire an uptick in her language and cognition.  We have seen it every time we come here.  Blame it on Aspen, blame it on all the exercise she gets out here, blame it on anything, we’ll take it.

Visiting

“It’s Mommy!  Mommy come to visit!” Emma said this morning when she saw me.  It’s an odd feeling to have one’s own child, a child one lives with and sees on a daily basis, exclaim with apparent happiness that I’ve come to visit, especially when I am in my own home.  My first thought was that as Richard and I went out the night before and I only saw Emma for a brief period before we left, she was indirectly expressing her feelings that I haven’t been around enough.  Then I began to feel guilty and consoled myself with the fact that I will not be going out again in the foreseeable future.  “You came to visit!” Emma said, cutting through my thoughts.

“Well it’s not really a visit, when I’m here all the time,” I said in an effort to clarify and unburden myself of just a little guilt.

“It’s Mommy!”  Emma repeated, as though she were surprised.

It reminded me of a time not long ago, when Emma on one of her perseverative loops of anguish, kept running through the house crying out something none of us could decipher.

“What is she saying?” we asked each other more than a few times.

Emma’s upset became more extreme and ended with her biting herself.

Someone (it may have been me) then asked, “Why is she doing this?”

I remember thinking, “Umm, because she’s autistic?  Do we really need to look much further?”  But I didn’t say it out loud, okay so maybe I muttered it under my breath.  The point is, applying my own reasoning to Emma’s behavior usually doesn’t get me very far.  And often it is counter-productive.

“You came to visit!”  Emma repeated again.

“No Em.  I live here.  You visit someone when you go to their house, a different house to see them for a little while or when they come here, to our house, but then leave, then they visit you.”  Okay, so it wasn’t the best explanation I’ve ever come up with, but it was the best I could do in the moment.

Emma stared at me for a moment and then said matter-of-factly, “Have breakfast now.”

“Right,” I said.  Too much information.  Got it.

When Emma and I were in her bathroom, getting ready to brush her teeth, she stood on her little stool and while looking at herself in the mirror, put her arm around my neck, pressing her cheek against mine.  “It’s Mommy!” she said, pointing to my reflection.  Then she gave me a kiss on the cheek.

It was one of the moments you wish you had a remote control to hit the pause button on.  I thought of how it was such a typical little kid thing to do, how wonderful it was to see her do something like that.

“Let’s go visit Nic,” I said after she’d finished brushing her teeth – meaning we should go find him, see what he was doing.  And I caught myself.  I understood how and why she said, earlier – I was “visiting.”   Emma was hearing the word used and applying it as best she could in a similar situation.