Tag Archives: Transitions

Separation Anxiety

In our ongoing “spring cleaning” (which never seems to end) I came upon a large spiral notebook filled with notes from the dozen or so ABA therapists who came to our home beginning in November, 2004 through August, 2005.  Emma was just two years old when all of this began.  It’s a fascinating document of that time period and it depresses me to no end.  Over and over the notations remark upon Emma’s “clingy-ness to Mom”, her “whimpering” and “despondency” when I would leave the room and her internal discomfort.

It is impossible for me to read the notes and not see an obvious pattern.  For a therapy that prides itself in collecting data, it is curious that this larger and, what seemed to me anyway, obvious pattern was largely ignored or, perhaps it is what naturally happens when we pathologize a neurology.  Emma’s desire to seek comfort and assurance from me, her mom, was seen as a negative, something to be trained away, something that was getting in the way of more important things.  It is ironic that this was being said about a young child who was diagnosed with autism, which has, according to all those experts, as one of its most defining characteristics, “social impairment” and an inability to form close bonds.

A two-year old not wanting to go off with a stranger is considered a “good” thing by most people.  That this same child would prefer being with their mother, even after getting to know someone else, would still, in most instances, be thought of as an excellent example of bonding and having a close relationship with one of the most important people in that person’s life – their mother.  After all, if you cannot trust your mother to protect you, to be there for you when you are two, how will you learn to trust anyone later in life?

Richard and I talk about “what we would have done” all the time.  Not as in – what would we have done if we could do it all over again – as much as, what would we do now if we had a two-year old today who was just like Emma.  And the first thing, the absolute first thing would have been PRESUME COMPETENCE.  That is the key, the foundation by which everything else would have been gauged.  This does not mean expecting a two-year old to understand, know and behave as a twenty year old.  It means we would have presumed she understood and felt what a two-year old is capable of understanding and feeling not less.

When Emma began her ABA based preschool in the fall of 2005, I was told to drop her off and immediately leave.  Yet when my non autistic son went to preschool they had a three-week “transition period’ in place where parents routinely stayed with their child, slowly reducing the time they stayed until eventually the child separated from their parent when they felt comfortable to do so.  Each child was different.  Some children ran off within the first few days, others needed more time, some needed several weeks, but no one said, “Leave now, even though your child is hysterically crying and clinging to your leg, it will be good for them.”  I remember asking about this at Emma’s preschool and being told they didn’t allow parents to stay with their child as this only prolonged the child’s suffering.  How is it that one method is good for one child, but not another?

Knowing how sensitive my daughter is and was, knowing how intensely painful this must have been for her, I can only sit here, filled with sadness that we just didn’t know better.  It was as though, when we got her diagnosis, all common sense left us.

So I am asking all my Autistic friends – What would have helped you when you were a small child?  Would it have been helpful to have your parent stay with you until you were comfortable and felt safe enough to go off on your own?  Would you have liked knowing your parent was there, even if you didn’t need to be right next to them?  What do you advise parents new to all of this?

OT session ~ 2005

OT session ~ 2005

Returning Home

Em and I returned home Friday night.  It was an exhilarating trip, but also an exhausting one.  These trips always are.  We went from having daily sessions with Soma (you can read more about Emma’s experience working with Soma ‘here‘, ‘here‘ and ‘here‘ and more about Soma and RPM by clicking ‘here‘) that were so incredibly exciting, I could barely take in all that my daughter was writing.  Personal, gut wrenchingly, painful insights, loving notes of gratitude to my husband and me that made me weep with joy, but also bittersweet because it is she who has had to put up with us and not the other way around.  Her writing displays an almost unfathomable intellect, wisdom beyond her years as well as compassion and patience for all who do not understand her, for those who doubt, for those who do not believe her and all she is capable of, for all who talk down to her, my daughter is a beacon of kindness, forgiveness and compassion.

I do not want people to come away with ideas about saintliness, holiness or angels being dropped down from the heavens and inhabiting her body.  I cannot and do not believe in any of that and it dismisses the many challenges and struggles my daughter must endure.  Above all else my daughter is a human being, just like you, just like me, very much grounded on this earth and in this life, but she is also exemplary in her ability to see the good in others.  It is something I am trying hard to emulate.  It is as though the more she writes about what she believes and thinks, the angrier I become.  The more enraged I am that we have all believed so easily, without question, the standard assumptions about Autistic people and autism and what that means.

I understand that for many they just cannot believe someone like my child is capable of knowing so much despite having had little formal education, but instead has spent all of her school years segregated in special education schools where she reads below age level literature and is taught the value of nickels, dimes and pennies because it is assumed she does not understand concepts such as money and time.  I understand.  I do.  I was one of those people not so long ago.  But now I know otherwise.  We are fortunate that her current school is open, willing and interested in learning all she is capable of.  They have expressed interest and their intent to support her and to help in any way they can.  We will be revising her IEP soon.  It will be quite a revision!

Now we are home and I know better than to expect I will be able to pick up where Soma left off.  I know better than to think I will be able to sit down with my daughter and accomplish the same level of writing I witnessed this past week.  I have to pick up from where I left off before our trip to Texas.  This can feel incredibly frustrating and even depressing, but I am learning to not delve too deeply in despair, but rather continue moving forward with the knowledge that I will and already have progressed in my ability to support my daughter better each day so that one day she will be able to converse with me on a similar level as she does with Soma.

This disparity between what Soma is able to do and what those at home then try, has caused a few to claim that therefore Soma’s method is flawed or is cause for suspicion and doubt.  What I have come to understand is that my Autistic child is intensely sensitive to her relationships.  I cannot sit down and expect to have her write to me as she does with someone who developed this system and who has fine tuned it, perfected it along the way, while working with close to a dozen people every day for over ten years now.   It is akin to expecting that I will be able to set a diamond as well as a master jeweler who has been perfecting his craft over the last twenty years or after taking a painting class be able to create something on par with Rembrandt or after taking French 101 go to France and speak fluently.  We do not expect any of these things from each other or ourselves, and yet, people decide something like RPM will be easy and simple and anyone will be able to do it instantly and when they cannot, the flaw is in RPM.  I have met too many other people who are practicing RPM to see that it is this thinking that is flawed.

Em chose toenail polish for both of us!

Matching toenails

Transitions

We returned home last night from the ICI Conference (Institute on Communication and Inclusion) at Syracuse University and though it was wonderful to see those family members we’d left behind, being “back” is hard.  I don’t do transitions well. As a kid I would eagerly anticipate having a sleepover at a friend’s house weeks in advance, only to return home depressed.  It is still like that.  It often takes several days before the weight of sadness, that accompanies returning from a place where I’ve had a terrific time, is lifted.  Even though all that excitement, fun and the constant interaction with lots of people is exhausting.  Yesterday I was so emotional I knew I was in overwhelm, but we had a whole day of presentations ahead of us, so I ploughed through.

When I reach this point of exhaustion and overwhelm I become emotional.  Anything can set off a torrent of tears.  If someone says something even remotely critical the tears begin to flow, watching a movie, saying good-bye, tears and more tears; it’s as though the social dam I’ve constructed gets chipped away until there are too many cracks to hold the feelings back.  Everything becomes intense, my friends become a lifeline, it’s no longer just nice to see them, I feel dependent upon them, as if without them, I may die, words spoken with anything other than kindness, feel like knives, music induces feelings of pain and euphoria all at the same time.  I am hyper aware of and easily overloaded with the feelings and interactions and the sheer numbers of people.  This is how I’ve always been.  I understand this about myself.  I am able to function, barely, but not without lots of tears.  So much so that Ibby handed me her plaid handkerchief at one point, causing me to cry even louder and harder and then came over and hugged me as I sobbed on her shoulder.

I become hyper aware of the injustices of the world, I feel both ecstatic to be among so many wonderfully accepting people, while also horrified by the “real” world we live in and must soon return to.  The disconnect starts to feel impossible.  I begin to believe the change so many are trying to create will never come about.  I slide helplessly into despair.  And then I bolster myself up by remembering other people’s words.  At yesterday’s keynote address with Jamie Burke, Sue Rubin, Tracy Thresher and Larry Bissonnette, Tracy typed,  “Larry likes typing out poking fingers on hurtful labeling to push his wrecking ball toward brick walls of structures of old thinking.  What I intend is to push my own ball of fiery passion of change to the global stage and shatter the glass like Pascal did in the city.  Pascal clumsily broke the water glass; Tracy intends to go about the Inclusion Movement more like George Clooney.  Charming Tracy’s plan; worldly connections repairing injustices is the wretches-in-arms plan.”

I have the choice to join all those who are using their “own ball of fiery passion”.  It feels less like a choice and more like an honor.   We can join each other.  Linking our arms, united in making society understand that to include is in everyone’s best interests and all will benefit.

I am ending with photographs from the last three days spent immersed in a world that accepted, appreciated and above all else, presumed one another competent…

Ibby
Ib

Christine Ashby
Christy

Rosemary Crossley
Rosie

Em types with Leah
Leah& Em

Me, Amy & Ibby after our presentation, “Blogging to Communicate”
Ariane, Amy & Ib

Em takes the stage
*Em

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ibby & Larry Bissonnette
Ib&Larrry

Douglas Biklen and Me
Doug &Me

Doug Biklen and Ibby
Ib& doug

Doug Biklen & Amy Sequenzia
Doug&Amy

Mark Utter during the Q & A after the screening of his film, I am in here
Mark Utter

Anne Donnellan
Anne Donnallan

Typing with Emma
Me & Em

Sue Rubin
Sue Rubin

Tracy Thresher
Leading Man Tracy

Emma’s String
Em's String

Em, Mark Utter & Ibby
Em, Mark & Ib

 

A Teacher You Want to Clone

Having had a downright, dreadful experience at our daughter’s ABA based preschool that was publicly funded and had come highly recommended, we were determined not to make the same mistake twice.   We found a private school, the only non-ABA based school around at that time and for the next six years she went to it.  She was loved, she was well taken care of and she learned almost nothing.  It wasn’t that no one tried to teach her, it was that the way she was being taught was not a way she was able to learn.  So we hired a private literacy specialist and over the next two years, Emma learned to read and write.  But there was a “behavioral” piece to this person’s program that came at a cost.  I don’t mean a financial cost, though there was that too, I mean a different sort of cost, the kind you can’t completely assess or gauge until years later.  It was the cost that comes with being put into an emotional strait jacket.  So, at a certain point, as I learned more about autism from Autistic people I realized we could not continue, despite her terrific gains in learning to read, write and type.

A year ago we found a public school (most no longer adhere to any one methodology, thankfully) where Emma is loved and well taken care of AND is learning.  Her teacher is wonderful.  The kind of teacher all parents dream of for their child.  Loving, patient, kind, observant, respectful, presumes competence of all the children in her class, smart, has a sense of humor and open to anything that may prove helpful in teaching.  The sort of teacher who takes time out of a Sunday afternoon to sit in on a session with Soma Mukhopadhyay and Emma and takes notes and then asks to borrow books written by Soma on her method.  The sort of teacher who then comes over to our house to do a strategy session and begins to incorporate what she saw and has learned into her teaching.  Suddenly Em’s backpack is filled with material from a grade level curriculum she is now doing at school with this amazing teacher.  The sort of teacher who seems too good to be true.  The sort of teacher you wish you could clone…  The sort of teacher who is better than Xanax, Wellbutrin and Prozac without any of the side effects.  Except that the school year is almost over and this amazing teacher is leaving to teach somewhere else and Emma is entering middle school, so we must say goodbye to her wonderful school and her incredible teacher.

This morning we toured a middle school.  And guess what?  It emphasizes the performing arts AND it looks wonderful, with a fantastic sensory gym and a “theatre room” with photos lining the hallways of the children performing their own musical that they wrote and performed in.  Could we have created such a place more perfectly suited to Emma?  It could be a little closer to where we live, but that would be nit-picky of me.  So come this September, Emma will go to yet another school.  That’s three different schools in three years.  For any kid, that’s a lot of change.  For Em, who was such a trooper about her “new” school last September, I am keeping my fingers crossed the transition will be as positive.  Anyone have a cloning machine perfected?  Because if her current teacher could just be cloned and her head teacher in this newer new school, I’d have no stress at all!

In the meantime, Em will visit her “new” school a couple of times over the summer months.  From what we’ve seen so far, we are filled with hope!

**Em

A First Day And Life Continues..

Bounce, bounce, twirl!  Bounce, bounce, twirl!  I’d provide a visual, but I don’t have one, so you’re going to have to take my word for it…

Yesterday was Emma’s first day at her new school.  Emma was scared and anxious.  I was scared and anxious.  Every time I tried to do the breathing exercises we’ve been practicing, Emma begged me to stop, “No Mommy.  I don’t want to do breaths!”  So I did them quietly to myself hoping she wouldn’t notice.  We did exactly what we planned.  I took her to school.  I brought her up to her classroom where she joined three other children, two non-speaking and one verbal.  I stayed with her longer than I should have, but seated across the room out of her line of vision.  Her head teacher, who’s been teaching for more than ten years, and special ed for six of those ten, was kind, respectful yet reassuringly authoritative without seeming intimidating.  I set the timer for three minutes, gave it to Em and told her I’d leave when the timer went off.  She said, “Go sit with other kids when Mommy leaves” and I cursed myself for not having set the timer for 10 seconds, at the same time congratulating myself that I hadn’t set it for 10 minutes.  But that was the kind of day it was.  A day of juggling opposites.  Emma’s favorite book kept up a steady patter in my head…  Matman stands, matman sits, let’s say opposites!  Staaaaaannnndddd!   Siiiiittttt!  Staaaaaannnnndddd!  Siiiittttt!

And in between matman’s curious chant, I watched and listened.  I could see Emma relaxing.  I could see her watching.  She began to join in.  The timer beeped, I stood up, Emma walked over to the table to join her peers, just as we’d mapped out and I left.  When I returned to have lunch with her she was happy and laughing.  As we sat in the cafeteria with her teacher, aides and other kids I mentioned the “letter” I’d written.  I said, “I hope you didn’t feel it was condescending, I didn’t mean it…” and one of the teacher’s aides interrupted me and said, “Not at all!”  She then went on to tell me she’d gotten out a highlighter and made notes.  She and the head teacher reassured me that they appreciated it and credited it with the success of Emma’s first day.  I was relieved and grateful for their kindness.  When Emma was finished with lunch, she turned to me and said, “Go with Mommy to the big carousel?”  This was what I’d promised and I nodded yes.  As we got up to leave, Emma turned, said, “good-bye” and then said each person’s name and blew each a kiss (the ultimate compliment from Emma and not something she usually does.)  It was all I could do not to openly weep with relief.

There’s a great deal of talk about us parents.  How we feel, what we think, our emotional state, our perceptions, our understanding of events as they occur, what we think our child may or may not be feeling, thinking, understanding.  All of it is through the filter of our own experiences, what we’ve learned or been taught.  It takes a leap to realize what we think we know or believe may be incorrect.  That’s a hard concept to digest.  It’s taken me eight years and there will always be more for me to learn and understand, I’m still very much at the beginning of this journey.  This fall will mark eight years since Em’s diagnosis.  Eight years ago when I believed I knew things about my daughter, only to learn how very wrong I was.

I think I understand and then find I really don’t.  I don’t “own” Emma, she isn’t “mine” in the sense that she is not my possession.  She is a being in her own right, with her own ideas, opinions and thoughts.  I have ideas about what constitutes a quality of life, I have opinions about other people I meet, I view their lives through the lens of my life, my hopes and dreams.  It’s easy to fall into the idea that my views are the correct views, but I know how often I am incorrect.

I began this blog to record Emma’s journey, but have found I am increasingly uncomfortable making the assumptions necessary to actually do that.  In recent months I see this more accurately as a record of my journey.  I find myself not wanting to talk about Emma as much and when I do, I ask myself is she okay with what I’m writing?  I have her photo splattered all over the internet and while I am perfectly fine divulging the gory, messy details of my past in a public way, I haven’t given Emma the choice.  I’ve just done it.  I don’t know where to go from here.  Just because she often cannot communicate her ideas and opinions doesn’t mean she doesn’t have any.  I know now how incorrect this assumption is.  I’ve asked her about this blog.  I’ve shown it to her.  A few times she’s asked me to read her a post I’ve written.  I’ve asked her which photo is okay to post, but just because she points to one, doesn’t necessarily mean it’s okay.  It’s a dilemma and one I am not clear on, though increasingly I’m uncomfortable with the choices I’ve made.

Someone once said to me, “We give birth, the umbilical cord is cut and from that moment until we die our job is to learn how to let go.”  The timer hasn’t beeped yet, but I know it’s ticking.

Chalk Art on 7th Avenue – “Happiness”

“Step Inside”

Emma’s New String And A New School

Emma will be attending a new school this fall.  We were given a placement by the Department of Education mid June that was not over an hour from our home. This new school seems to understand the concept of sensory issues and needs, or at least they’ve heard of the idea and appear willing to consider that this is important to Emma.  They seem interested in my desire to be involved.  We will be working together on a transition.  I plan to meet with her new teachers and the assistant principal.  I will photograph all of them as well as the interior and exterior of the school to put in a book that Emma can look at prior to her first day.

The school has a large gymnasium and a huge auditorium with a stage.  There’s a roof playground and a little area filled with books.  It’s a special education school within a larger “regular” public school.  They seem interested in having Emma do at least some things, like PE, with the kids from the larger school, so she’s not completely segregated out.  It’s by no means ideal, but we have yet to visit a school, private or public, that is.

I took Emma to visit the school in July.  She was anxious, kept saying, “No, I don’t like the new school.  I don’t want to go to new school.”  We talked about how new things are scary.  I told her that at this school she would be able to go swimming in the pool across the street once a week and that there would be new teachers and children.  I could see how anxious she was, just visiting.  I felt the tightness in my heart and stomach.  That feeling hasn’t left me.  I am as frightened as Emma.  This is a big change.  It is an enormous question mark.  Emma has been dealing with her anxiety by saying goodbye to all her old teachers and classmates.  “Lauren is gone.  Charlie is gone.  Soufien is gone.  Rachel J. is gone…” Emma will go through the lengthy list and then always ends with, “Emma goes to a new school!”  I’ve asked her whether she’d like to visit her old school to say goodbye, she is adamant that she does not.  I’ve asked if she’d like to see some of her old friends, she has shaken her head no.

Emma has a new string that she loves.  I’ve written about her string before.  Unlike her scrap of blanket (cokie) which works like a sedative and makes her sleepy, her string seems to help her focus.  She twirls it or will hold it in her hand as she runs, jumps on the trampoline and plays.  Since we’ve been in Aspen she has lost her string three times now, leading to shrieks of terror and screams of “You lost it.  You cannot throw it.  Have to look.  Mommy!  I need help!”  And then tears.  Lots of terrified crying.  Each time we’ve turned the house upside down and eventually found it, but it’s been traumatic for all of us.  This last time it went missing, Richard and I began to think we’d have to place limits on it to ensure it didn’t get lost.  A couple of friends suggested alternate strings, a kind of backup string.  So I asked Em if she’d like to find an “outdoor” string.  She easily chose a long piece of purple ribbon.  She cheerfully took it out with her when we went for our morning ride on the 4-wheeler yesterday.

It occurred to me then that she could have a number of alternate strings.  I thought about her new school and realized she could have a special “school” string too.  I asked her if she liked this idea and she nodded her head vigorously.  “How about a school string and a Saturday string, a back up string and we can find another indoor string,” I said.  “Yes!” Emma replied, clasping her new purple string in her hand as she got on the 4-wheeler.

At her old school several years ago one of her teachers introduced a school “cokie” to detrimental effect.  Emma would sit in the corner with her scrap zoning out.  Over the years her various teachers tried to curtail her use, put limits on her cokie, but nothing they did worked.  Every few months I would get a call from her teacher describing melt downs, her inability to attend, her desire to have it with her all the time.  Each time my heart ached for her as I put the phone down knowing I’d been unable to help alleviate the situation.  At her new school we are hoping by providing her with a school string some of her anxiety may be mitigated. I am hoping she does not latch on to a “school cokie” I am praying some well-meaning teacher does not introduce her to one.  We will see.  In the meantime if any of you have suggestions about how to help us help her with this transition – let loose!

Emma’s Cokie

Emma’s old string

Emma’s new string

Emma’s purple string