ASPIES--A place for self-advocacy

Yes, I'm still here, part II

2008-11-11T10:36:00.002-05:00

I think those of us on the spectrum are always living close to our outer margins. We use so much of our available resources coping with the sensory barrage and the emotional confusion of the typical outside world, that there is not all that much left.

Add illness, stress, or time pressure to that mix, and things fall apart.

Last spring, I ran, full-tilt, into the metaphorical wall.

My younger son was falling apart and the school was playing its typical delay game. (Fiddling while Rome burns, anyone?) My father went into acute kidney failure and almost died. He is now only alive because of dialysis 3 days a week. My mother needed urgent spinal surgery and has not fully recovered, either mentally or physically in the past 4 months. Add to that, the fact that they live a 3 hour plane ride from me and I am their health care proxy.

By late summer, I was a wreck.

I made the difficult decision to stop working for a while, an extended sabbatical. I have been working in my profession for 22 years, in this practice for over 10. It is a job I have always loved and one that is emotionally fulfilling, as well as emotionally draining. But I realized that I had hit a point where I was taking care of other people in every facet of my life. And not taking care of myself.

Two months later, I am starting to feel better. I still have to fly down to where my parents live and help them make difficult decisions about their safety and their living situation. But my younger son is *finally* on an appropriate IEP, getting the appropriate help in school and for the first time since last year, I am seeing his face light up in smiles.

I know how blessed I am. If it were not for my incredible, patient, supportive, loving husband, I wouldn't be here.

Contrast

2008-07-11T16:24:00.003-04:00

My 12 year old son can charm the rattles off a rattlesnake when he wants to. Other times, he retreats into himself, avoiding confrontation like the plague.

He can't remember where he left his backpack/towel/glasses/shoes/book/etc.

He gets easily frustrated at the first roadblock of any task.

He still has difficulty tying his own shoes.

. . .

And yet he very calmly and competently flew on his own from Boston to Portland, Oregon yesterday, easily navigating the transfer/change of planes in San Francisco.

According to my dear friend who picked him up at the Portland airport, my son was 'holding court' with a group of the flight attendants as they all walked off the plane together. Now, he *didn't* fly as an unaccompanied minor and the attendants had no responsibility to take care of him. They just gravitated toward him. He must have been in full charm mode.

For the next 3 weeks, he will be with his best friend's family touring the pacific north west in their RV.

Not too shabby for the kid who was nearly destroyed by 6th grade.

I'm still here. . .

2008-05-30T22:47:00.002-04:00

It's been a difficult year. Since the fall, I've been dealing with one thing after another, and it's taken its toll, particularly in my participation in this blog and the greater internet sphere of the Autism Spectrum.

In September, I broke a bone in my foot and spent most of the fall on crutches.

My younger son 'crashed and burned' in 6th grade and I've been advocating for him since October, watching his anxiety spike and his self confidence erode.

Early in 2008, I had some abnormal test findings on a routine mamogram.

In the Spring, I got involved in an advocacy project to fight for the middle school's newspaper. Little did I know it would involve nearly every waking hour and meeting with city, school officials, and parents, putting me in 'center stage', when I prefer being behind the scenes.

Last month, my father had orthopedic surgery, was sent to rehab, went into acute kidney failure and nearly died. As his health care proxy and the only member of the family with knowledge of the health care system, it falls to me to coordinate his care and advocate for him.

In the process of dealing with his medical needs, it became clear to me that my mother's cognitive status is slipping. And she also needs urgent surgery.

So, my resources have been taxed to their utmost, with nothing left to offer to this blog or to the autism community. For that, I feel badly. At least many of the issues that became issues this past year are now resolved.

My foot healed.

The paper was saved.

My son has an appropriate IEP (though it took from October, when I raised these issues with the school to May until we had his IEP meeting) so 7th grade won't be the wasted year that 6th grade was.

It is highly likely that my own health issues are resolved as well.

What is still highly distressing is my parents' health. My father is on dialysis, which he is not tolerating well. He's been in and out of the hospital 3 times in the past month, is there right now again. My mother's anxiety and depression are decreasing her cognition. She is also experiencing leg weakness from a back problem and is a falls risk, but refuses to use a walker or a cane. They live a 3 hour plane ride away, and advocating for them largely falls on me to accomplish via telephone. I've already flown out there for a week, returning home thinking they were stable, only to find out they are not.

I have appreciated the comments of support and the emails I have received from commenters. Thank you all very much.

I am hoping for a boring summer and a time when I can recharge my depleted emotional batteries and be able to be a better blogger and aspie-advocate.

Round 3. . .

2007-12-18T07:58:00.000-05:00

I've been blogging of late about my younger son, E. (Rounds one and two, here and here. If our family lives on the spectrum with P and I on the Aspie side of the ledger, and my husband on the (possibly) ADD side, than E is somewhere in the middle. In the alphabet soup of "diagnoses", he has NLD. What I know is that he's a bright, articulate, motivated kid who struggles with organization and output.

Yesterday, he came home with his interim progress report (midway through term 2) for his 4 core classes, Language Arts, Social Studies, Math, and Science. He is currently failing Language Arts, Math, and Science.

Looking at the components of those failing grades, I am struck by a pattern. Work that he had handed in: A's and high B's. F's (automatic zeros) for missing assignments. If it were not for the missing work, he would be doing extremely well in all subjects. (Well, except Math, but that's another conversation for another time.)

So, one could look at that pattern and name it laziness. I can almost hear the conversation: "E. has so much potential. If he would just apply himself. . . "

Let me tell you something about my younger son. He isn't lazy. What he is, is hampered by a brain that doesn't multi-task and doesn't shift attention (transition) rapidly. What limits E the most is his impaired executive functioning. He has little ability to employ systematic strategies, so whatever he does, it's like he must start from scratch each time. That's evident whether he's looking for something in his room, searching for a homework assignment in his backpack, or organizing for homework assignments.

Penalizing him for his lack of organization and his poor executive function will only drive a dangerous cycle that will ensure continued failure for this child who has enormous potential.

Success builds on success

2007-12-13T08:53:00.001-05:00

I had a parent/teacher meeting this morning with my older son's special ed resource teacher. P is now a 9th grader at our (large) public high school. The building itself is overwhelming. To an outsider looking in, it looks a bit like the Escher painting . Then, it's enormous--2,000+ students. I had all sorts of worries even before thinking about the curriculum and the challenge that might provide.

The things we worry about are almost never the things that actually happen.

P. came home with a first term report card with mostly A's and a few high B's. This with a demanding schedule, including 2 languages (French and Chinese). His teachers uniformly consider him a delight in class and his math teacher has recommended that P move into honors math. (We're still considering that.) To top it all off, P was nominated and accepted for a peer mentor program where students are called to orient transfer students to the high school.

I was floored. Not because I didn't think P capable. He is and I know that he is.

It's because the early years were such a struggle. He was in such distress all the time and as a parent, I felt helpless in the face of his depression and anxiety.

Teachers complement me all the time on what a wonderful job I've done in parenting my AS kid. I'm uncomfortable with that kind of praise. I parented my *child* in a way that respected him and responded to where he was. Not because he is an 'Aspie', but because that's what I needed to do as a parent of any child. P has had one huge advantage: I lived through the anxiety and the stress, the sheer confusion of feeling out of phase in the world. And all without the benefit of recognition and assistance.

Early on, my husband and I made a decision to make home a safe haven. There was enough stress in his daily life, at school, with peers, that he needed a place to simply *be*. That was home.

I keep harping on this, but managing anxiety was the single biggest factor in P's success. Anxiety is the terrible background noise that interferes with every aspect of an Aspie's life. It is a set of blinders. Full arm and leg shackles. A prison cell. As long as his anxiety level stays under control, P can be his happy, goofy, gentle-giant self.

I hope and pray that P continues to feel safe, loved, and supported; that he has the grounding he needs to keep moving forward in his life.

Round 2. . .

2007-12-12T09:35:00.000-05:00

In my last post a little over one month ago, I talked about my younger son's difficulties in middle school. We are now one marking period into 6th grade and week by week, the picture is becoming clearer to me.

His report card was all over the map--a mixture of A's and C's. On the face of it, that's not such a bad thing--a "C" is, after all, considered a passing grade. However, it's the pattern of the component scores leading to his quarterly grade that is one of the issues.

My son struggles most with organization. Both personal organization (aka--his backpack is a rat's nest) and cognitive organization. In assignments that have a high degree of structure, he does well. *Even if the work itself is fairly abstract.*

If the assignment is highly unstructured, than he will struggle with it. It's often not the content. Most often it's that he doesn't understand what is being asked of him. If I can get to him and look over his assignment before he's used up his reserves, I can often rephrase the question and the lightbulb clicks on.

When I see how like swiss cheese his individual marks are, then I understand there is a problem. For example, in Math class, he received A's and B's on his homework assignments, but did extremely poorly on quizzes. That brought his term grade down to a C. He didn't understand *how* to study for the quizzes, though he seems to understand the content when I ask him to show me his work at home.

The same thing occurred in Social Studies. (I discussed the geography problem in the last post.) In addition, students receive a 'O' on homework assignments that are not turned in on time. My son constantly misfiles assignments in the wrong binders and then can't find them to turn them in. One or two zeros can torpedo even an otherwise perfect term.

Understand, it's not the grade I care about. What I care about is that the stresses of this year have turned my eager, school-loving son into an emotional wreck. He's anxious and depressed and often explodes at home into anger.

This is what I need the school to help ameliorate.

How do we learn how to learn?

2007-11-01T15:46:00.000-04:00

How do we learn how to learn? It seems like an odd question to ask. But it's one that I've been mulling over in the context with my younger son. With a learning profile similar to his brother's (and mine, for that matter), he struggles with organizing and consolidating what he knows.

If you want to put a label on his profile, the alphabet soup that the psychologist came up with is "NLD", or non-verbal learning disability.

In practice, what this means is he has trouble when:

the work moves from the concrete to the abstract,
an assignment is ambiguous,
he is given a complex project that must be broken into component parts,
he must organize and synthesize information

In elementary school, he did well academically because the learning was almost always more concrete than abstract, the assignments specific (easier when the only demands come from a single teacher), the projects organized for him, and models of finished work provided. This year, he started middle school and moved into a larger building with 4 times the number of students and moved from 1 main teacher to 6 teachers.

He is a bright young man, articulate, eager to learn, and with an enormous memory. To any teacher, he looks the model of a successful student.

His social studies teacher contacted me last week because he had received two consecutive 0% on geography quizzes. The teacher asked my son why he thought he had done so poorly and my son's answer was that he didn't have time to study.

That's not really the problem. The problem is he doesn't understand what studying is, nor does he know how to do it. It took me a little bit to figure this out. I watched him attempt to study his geography. What he would do was stare at maps for a good half hour to forty five minutes and declare himself done.

Today, I hit on a metaphor that I hope was helpful to him. If you are target shooting and want to hit a bull's eye, you would want to use a pistol versus a shotgun. The pistol is more accurate. With the shotgun, you could pepper the target with shot and hope that maybe one of them would hit the bull's eye. That's how he was studying. Look at everything, but without having the context, and hope that he would answer the test question right.

I taught him a 3 step process to studying today:

1--Define the target
Find out what material you are responsible for learning for the next test. Be specific. "I need to identify all the major rivers in western Europe" is more specific than "I have to know the geography of Europe."

2--Study
Practice, staying focused on the specifics that you'll need to know. Study actively, not passively, ie, *do* something rather than just read. Answer practice test questions or use a sample map, for example, to fill in the blanks.

3--Assess Look at the how much of the material you got right. For example, returning to your atlas, look at the number of Rivers you answered correctly and those you answered incorrectly. Highlight your wrong answers and go back to step one. These are your new targets.

This is probably obvious to many, many children. It's just not to my child. His mind hopscotches all over the place, following thoughts that interest him. This, to my thinking, is a good thing. He is highly creative and takes imaginative leaps. However, he needs to learn how to do the more systematic thinking or risk failing in school.

I wish someone had taken the time to teach me study and learning skills. It would have saved a lot of heartbreak in college and graduate school.

The Danger of Anecdotal Experience

2007-10-30T17:18:00.000-04:00

Last night, I happened to be awake late enough to watch the news show, Nightline. One segment of the program highlighted a program that takes autistic individuals, primarily children, surfing.

What I found bizarre, is that this surfing program, no matter how well intentioned, was developed after one father (a professional surfer) found that taking his autistic son surfing, helped calm the boy down. Now this man and his wife have devoted their lives to running an all-volunteer assisted surfing program. All on the strength of his belief and personal experience.

In the segment, Nightline showed screaming children in life jackets being carried out into the waves by volunteers. The parents stood on the shore and watched through binoculars. Although they reported the children involved were all happy and relaxed after their surfing experiences, the one child they did follow closely through the segment, when asked if he would go out surfing again, threw himself in his mother's arms and begged to be taken back to their hotel.

The program director appears to believe passionately in the power of the surf to calm autistic children. I can't fault his intentions. Finding activities that help regulate anxiety and increase calm is a good thing. Is surfing the answer? A more fair question might be: is surfing *an* answer? Probably for *some* individuals. What I fault is that this is another example of the 'it worked for my child, lets do it with everyone' mentality.

Anecdotal experience is not scientific evidence.

And I worry about a belief that the outcome justifies the process.

From an autistic child's perspective, I could imagine how frightening the morning must have been. A crowded, unfamiliar environment, an uncomfortable life vest, the potential sensory assault of beach sand, the sound of the waves, physical contact by strangers, forced separation from parents/caregivers, immersion in roiling water.

Does the fact that some of the children were calm and relaxed when it was over mean it was the right thing to do?

Looking forward to Autreat

2007-04-19T11:21:00.000-04:00

I've blogged about Autreat before. A retreat, once a year, a week free from the endless pressures to conform in the neurotypical world. I was worried that we might not be able to attend this year, as the school year ends quite close to the dates of Autreat. If we'd had more than 1 or 2 snowdays, the Autreat dates would have been while school was still in session.

(There weren't snow days, and thus no overlap)

The other issue was a possible move.

Now that it's not going to happen, I can talk about it and process how it affected me. My husband has been having a difficult time of it in his job and was offered a position that would have entailed a relocation for the family.

In terms of sheer miles, it wasn't that far. Just a few hours from where we live now, but in terms of life change, a huge rift.

Maybe that sort of change is hard for everyone. Certainly neurotypical teenagers resent having to move in their high school years and it is difficult to get used to new neighborhoods, schools, routines. For me, it would have been hard on many levels at once.

I would leave behind comfort with geographic place. I know my way around here. That might not seem like a big deal, but it took me years to feel secure driving in my town, and navigating the highways here. My sense of direction is very poor and I used to get panic attacks when I didn't know where I was.

I would leave behind several really supportive friends. Friends who understand my oddities and appreciate me for them. Friends who only ask for what I can readily give and who have found that without pressure, I can give quite a lot.

I would leave behind a private practice in physical therapy that I have taken years to build, knowing that I would not have the time or personal resources to start all over again.

I would leave behind the familiarity of a school district, that, for the most part, has served my boys well.

I would have to deal with managing my own depression and stress while being the conduit for my boys to manage theirs.

I would have to learn a new school system without the support and advocacy of others I know who have worked with that system before.

I would have to learn how to navigate, both in the literal sense and in the metaphorical sense, a new place, with new people, and new expectations.

All while my husband was settling in to a new work community in a demanding job, that no matter what the employer assured us, was going to entail long hours away from home.

We have lived in the same place for nearly 15 years. That *is* my children's lifetime. A long time, even for a grown up.

I can't say I'm sorry my husband turned down this opportunity. Even though it would have entailed more money and (perhaps) less work stress for him. I still worry about his physical and emotional health, working the way he does, and I hope that he is able to find a way to manage it. But I think even her realized that the net result of this move would have been much more stress, rather than less.

So we stay.

In our lovely home.

In this familiar neighborhood.

And we will be at Autreat this year, enjoying the familiar comfort of its support.

Today's Post: Part 2--IEP redux

2007-01-10T13:06:00.000-05:00

This morning was my 8th grader's IEP meeting/3 year review. As part of that process, I requested that his psychological testing be repeated. There were no surprises. A 65 point discrepancy between his verbal comprehension and his processing speed subscores. (>99th percental vs 16th percentile).

It's no wonder that he excels at tasks in which he can use his verbal/language abilities and struggles with more abstract tasks (like math tests) that are timed or induce stress to the mix.

The split amongst his subscores is even more pronounced than it was in his prior testing of 5th grade. So as his peers have matured and improved in their processing speed, he has not.

I think the test results and they way they were explained by the psychologist even startled some of my son's current teachers. P is so good at covering for his difficulties, that it's sometimes hard for me to see his performance accurately.

I am quite concerned about the math. Currently, he has provisions in his IEP to take untimed standardized tests, but there isn't any accommodation for his class-based math exams. And he's failed 2 exams. Amazing to realize he's still pulling a solid B average in this accelerated math class. When he has time to process, he seems to be able to understand and demonstrate his knowledge. But he is not successful with the same kinds of tasks on tests.

I can help him organize and plan for all of his other subjects. The math is beyond me. And it's not an issue a basic tutor is likely to be able to help him with. It seems to me that in a typical testing situation, he is unable to call on his own resources to overcome his cognitive/learning deficits. It's not exactly a math problem, nor is it a study habit's problem, but a problem of matching the testing to his cognitive abilities.

I think I will be meeting with the school and his math teacher to discuss testing accommodations.

Today's post, part 1: Thank you

2007-01-10T12:57:00.000-05:00

I appreciate those of you who commented on the blog or via email about my last post. I am less stressed a week later, having had some process time.

Am I any more disposed to move? No. But my fight or flight response has damped down and I can work through the process without the sense of impending panic I felt in the past few weeks.

One of the reasons this problem has been so difficult to work through is that it concerns the future/wellbeing/success of the person I generally problem-solve with. Normally, my husband is the impartial and reasoned sounding board. This time, he's drowning in the same fears and anxieties as I am.

To his credit, he knows how difficult even the idea of moving is for me and he's arranged for me to spend a day in this town to get a sense of what I think of it before we talk further. I'm a kinesthetic processor--being there will do what internet research and brochures cannot.

I'll keep you posted.

My long absence

2007-01-04T17:11:00.000-05:00

I'm sorry for my long absence from blogging here. First an update: my father's health is stabilized currently. I appreciate the notes and emails of support I received. The news is mixed--he won't need dialysis emergently, but he will likely need to start with it within a year. His kidneys have been slowly failing for many years (undiagnosed hypertension) and there's little they can do to halt the process. He is on a kidney sparing diet and off some medications that actively harm the kidney. And he's determined to stay as healthy as he can. In fact, he's doing better than the rest of us in adjusting.

I honestly thought I was holding it together--I even managed to juggle my work around my parents' medical needs and seemed to be doing fine. Then my husband got offered a job out of state. A terrific job. One that pays more money and will probably mean less work stress for him. It should be a no brainer, but I'm a wreck.

I've been in this house for 14 years. I feel safe here--physically and emotionally. I'm connected to the schools and they have been (for the most part) amazingly responsive to my childrens' needs. My boys are happy. They have friends and interests here. *There* is a big unknown. *There* is finding a new neighborhood, new schools, new friends. *There* is leaving the safety of *here.*

*Here* is everything I've ever wanted.

Except for the fact that my husband works close to 80 hours a week, with little control and little support. He cannot continue at this pace--it isn't healthy for him.

If we must move, my children have me to support them in the dislocation. But there's no one to support me in that way. I am anxious and frightened and my emotional first response is an automatic 'no'. I am working hard to stay in the moment and not give in to this blind panic about anything different.

It is so very hard.

Riding the (emotional) roller coaster

2006-11-07T09:44:00.000-05:00

The past few weeks have contained some of the peak moments of my life and some of the most crushing, painful ones.

I held it together through planning P's bar mitzvah, juggling the details, dealing with months of anxiety dreams (dreams in which we forgot about the date, or we showed up at temple in jeans and t-shirts, or we forgot to send the invitations, or we forgot to hire the photographer, or only 5 people showed up, etc. . . ).

The day was beautiful and P was poised and did wonderfully.

Then 5 days later, he shined in his middle school production of "As You Like It"--a Shakespeare comedy of manners and gender identity. He managed to prepare for the bar mitzvah, deal with the demands of the lead role in the play with rehearsals 4 days a week AND keep up with his homework.

I don't know if *I* could have done this at age 13 and in the 8th grade.

But then the crash.

My father is seriously ill.

We didn't realize it at the bar mitzvah--in fact, we were all more worried about my mother. My father has been the family's rock. Several days after he returned home to Florida, he told us that his kidney's are failing. In fact, he is facing dialysis and soon.

They have been failing for quite some time. Nearly two years while his doctors have done nothing.

We circled the wagons.

Flew my parents back here.

Dealing with medical appointments and second opinions.

I don't have a lot of energy left to post here.

The Prodigal Returns. . .

2006-10-09T10:45:00.000-04:00

It's been quite a long time since I blogged here last, and I'm sorry for that. The start of the school year brings a lot of stress to our lives and this year the level of insanity has been racheted up with P's upcoming Bar Mitzvah.

There was a time I wouldn't have believed this day would come. I am one *very* proud mom.

This is the speech I wrote for him.

"Things change and so will you."

When you were quite small--maybe only 4 or 5, I remember you picking out the words 'change is good' on a banner in our local gas station. They were advertising a special on oil changes. You considered it, thinking hard for a few minutes, and then turned to me with your eyes owl large in your thick glasses and said, "No mommy, they lie. Change isn't good."

And you were right. In those years, you struggled to negociate the confusing social world of school, when you needed your daily schedule to be completely predictable.

Once in preschool, you had a panic attack because your father had cut your sandwich into triangles instead of squares. This summer, you traveled through Greece for two weeks with a school group and learned to love gyros and eat eggplant.

I have watched you learn to navigate a landscape of endless change with humor and with grace.

I could stand here and list your accomplishments; academic excellence and straight honor roll grades, being cast as the lead in the school play, a brown belt in karate; but these things tell us what you have done, not who you are.

I am proud of the man you are becoming. You blend your father's gentleness with my curiosity into a personality that is uniquely your own. You are a mensch--even when--or especially when I ask you to do something you don't want to do, like babysit your younger brother instead of having a sleepover with your friends. And speaking of your brother, you are kind to him when you don't think anybody's looking. But don't worry, I'll keep that our little secret.

When it came time to designate a charity for a portion of your gifts, you didn't hesitate to name [local dog charity], the fostering organization we adopted [our dog] through. I am proud of the way you are passionate about ecology, conservation, and animal welfare. You may not remember this, but during recess in elementary school, you used to get the other kids to pick up trash on the playground and lecture them about recycling.

You are funny, with a wonderful sense of the absurd. Because you are a teenager, we give you one free "I hate you, mom" each day. You can say it once, no questions asked, and for the most part, you don't. At the airport, after you had been overseas for 2 weeks and after hugs and pictures, you made sure to tell us you had fourteen of them saved up.

It's been two months and you still haven't used them. But maybe I shouldn't have reminded you!

"Things change and so will you."

There was a time when I wanted to hold the world steady--keep things from changing, protect you from any danger or harm. It's a mother thing and it didn't work. You still needed stitches on your face before your second birthday. Shortly after I started letting you walk on your own to school, you were stung by dozens of wasps. I couldn't help it--the poet in me saw that as a metaphor, but it was just circumstance, bad luck. Pragmatic even at age eight, you kept walking that same route to and from school.

You have been my teacher. You have taught me patience and the power of being present. That we have our own paths and we travel those paths at our own pace. That the things we worry most about are not in our power to change. That laughing at the dinner table is the best medicine money can't buy.

The future is an unknown country that we parents are especially good at populating with monsters. Yes, there will be quicksand and riptides; there will be lions, tigers, and bears, stitches, trips to the ER, wasp stings, and heartache. But there will also be unimagined beauty and the joy of discovering fellow travelers.

"Things change and so will you."

I will hold this moment in my mind, not to capture you, but to remember this point on your journey, knowing your trajectory will take you far beyond my own limited imaginings. And when I feel the pang of that familiar worry, I remind myself that you already have the map you need; it is written in your heart.

Congratulations, P. We are very proud of you.

Another: Marcus Fiesel, age 3

2006-09-01T17:55:00.000-04:00

Another

this one a foster child autistic three
years old feces smeared on the wall
a handful the mother told police
there now he's your problem
so they placed him
with a married couple that's how
the system is supposed to work child
protection child endangerment child
neglect child dead from heat stroke
they went to a family reunion their idea
of respite care a blanket and packing
tape and stuff him in a closet my god
these are foster parents someone approved
of them someone said yes
the boy will be safer there nowhere
in the foster manual does it describe
how to call in a false missing person
report or give directions to burn a tiny
corpse of what used to be someone
for the morally outraged to editorialize
to call for sweeping change oversight
review reform bail is set at over
a million dollars each they both plead
not guilty no matter what
these two will never
foster again the verdict
cannot ressurect innocence and god forgive us
we will actively forget
until its time to eulogize another

ljcohen, 2006

another autistic child murdered

The traveler returns

2006-08-24T10:00:00.000-04:00

We picked our eldest up from the airport yesterday after a 2 week whirlwind tour of Greece. He seems at least an inch taller, his voice is a pitch deeper, and he carries himself with more confidence.

This child with AS who at age 5 had such violent tantrums we were afraid he would inadvertantly hurt himself or one of us. The boy who ended up curled in the fetal position in the corner of the dentist's office when the hygienist tried to brush his teeth with a different flavored toothpaste. This sensitive child who used to run from his classroom and out of the school when he was overwhelmed by the sensory and emotional demands of a group of 20 other 2nd graders.

"Things change and so will you."

The quote I vividly remember from a children's book called "Seeing Eye Willie" by Dale Gottlieb.

At just shy of thirteen and standing 5'6" tall, with broad shoulders and feet far larger than his dad's, P. is a far cry from the wide-eyed kindergartener I took to school for his first day 8 years ago.

Although he had been excited about the trip to Greece all year, when the departure date got closer, I know he was nervous about handling the social demands of two weeks in close quarters with a group of a dozen 7th and 8th graders, some of whom he'd had social 'bumps' with.

And this was the first time he'd been away from home (with the exception of visits to grandparents, which is a different ball game). Traveling so far in space and time (Greece is 7 hours ahead of EST) meant that I was not easily available for him as a touchstone.

The day I packed his suitcase, I imagined folding myself in it between his shirts and shoes.

He managed his money, dealt with different hotels every night and only lost a hat. (Well, he left a pair of sneakers in the hotel at Delphi, but the group returned there for a night on the way back to Athens and they had the sneakers for him.)

And along the way, he learned that other kids felt homesick and vulnerable. That the social dynamics were fluid and the who's in/who's out also affected his companions. That other kids had their own issues. That he could call me anytime of the day or night and I would tell him that I loved him. (He did and I did.) That he had the resources to problem solve without me.

Am I proud of my son?

You bet.

He is growing into a fine young man with a loving heart and a good head on his shoulders.

"Things change and so will you."

Busy, busy, busy. . .

2006-08-08T11:08:00.000-04:00

Summer is a paradoxical time. The days stretch out like a languid cat and in the morning it seems as if there is time for anything before nightfall. And then we try to cram in several days worth of experiences in the finite hours between dawn and dusk.

For the first time in my years of parenting, our children are traveling for an extended period without us. Our 10 year old, E. left a week and a half ago for 4 weeks in an RV trip out West with his best friend's family. So far, he has hiked and horseback ridden in Yellowstone park, soaked in mineral springs in the Grand Tetons, and yesterday did a river rafting trip on the Colorado River.

My nearly 13 year old, P., is flying to Greece for a two week trip organized by his 7th grade social studies teacher. If, several years ago, you had asked me whether this would be possible, I would have said no.

Those were the years when P. would spin into intense tantrums if he missed an episode of a favorite TV show, or if we imposed a change in his treasured routines. When a substitute teacher would send him into a tailspin for a week at school. When stress in the classroom would send P running out of the school building in a panic. When I needed to hover at every social interaction and run interference with our extended family at the few family events we couldn't say no to.

So much has changed in 8 short years. He is turning into a young man right before my eyes with more resources and more confidence that I had dared believe when he was 5 and newly diagnosed.

The trip that was months away, the Bar Mitzvah that was years away, have arrived with frightening speed on our event horizen. 8th grade looms and then one giant step to Highschool a year later.

But for now, I have 2 days before my precious boy flies overseas, passport and euros in hand for a two week trip that will also fly by.

Impressions of the ASA conference

2006-07-20T08:09:00.000-04:00

It's taken me a week to be able to pull my thoughts together about my experience speaking at the ASA conference in Providence, RI. And it is likely these observations will only be my narrow window on the conference, as I only attended for a small part of thursday and saturday--the days my two panels were scheduled.

I have already blogged about my frustrations regarding speakers *paying* to speak, so I won't say anything more about that here.

I took part in two panels, one about being a parent 'on the spectrum', the other a writer's panel. (In my other life, I'm a poet and aspiring novelist)

The panels were modestly attended; the family one more than the writer's panel. The audiences were respectful and attentive.

I had mixed feelings about the conference itself. While I applaud the ASA for including individuals with Autism in its governance, I felt as if the organization has a split personality.

I spent some time walking around the exhibitor's area and was dismayed to see so many booths focused on quasi-scientific autism 'cures' and 'treatments'. Supplements, therapies, and hyperbaric chambers, oh my.

There was a booth by either "CAN" or "DAN" (sorry, walked past it so quickly, I didn't register which acronym it was). If the ASA is taking money from these organizations, then there is at least the tacit agreement that autism is something that needs to be 'cured' or 'defeated'.

I have very mixed feelings about the hordes of bio-medical treatments that separate desperate parents from hard-earned money for questionable scientific proof.

I want to see barriers to function, understsanding, and employement 'defeated', ignorance 'cured'.

I don't think the ASA can adequately represent Autistic voices and Autistic lives until it resolves this conflict.

On my way to ASA

2006-07-13T07:59:00.000-04:00

I have to admit to a large portion of ambivalence about attending and speaking at this conference. I have visions of security guards accosting me for proof of my "aspie" credentials, or parents booing me for not following a gluten and casein-free diet for my family.

Maybe I'm an outlier, but the truth is, my family life doesn't seem so out of the ordinary. My boys fight like typical siblings. I spent hours in the car ferrying them to karate, ceramics, play rehearsal, hebrew school. We have homework wars. They constantly nag me about getting cable TV and pushing back their bedtimes.

They are happy and even when I have to make unpopular decisions (no, you cannot see that PG-13 movie, or no, thet video game is too violent) they know they are loved, accepted, cherished for who they are. They know I will be their staunchest advocate *and* the one who pushes them to do their best.

There is no one who knows them better than I do. Both because I am their mother and have watched them grow and thrive from their births, and because I can see the world through their eyes. I remember the acute pain and confusion of the social world of upper elementary and junior high school. I know the feeling of being just enough out of phase with the world to make life almost unbearable. I also understand the joys of an all-consuming interest.

I try not to roll my eyes at yet another conversation about manga and anime, remembering my obsession with all things Star Wars in my pre-teen and early teen years. Our newspaper ran a cartoon serial of the original movie and I dutifully clipped the comic strip from the paper every day and taped it up behind my closet door. It was especially important for me to get to the paper after we had returned from vacation so I could collect the whole weeks' strips before the papers were thrown out.

When P was small, our lives revolved around getting home in time to see "Thomas the Tank Engine". Thank goodness for VCRs with timers.

Maybe this would have seemed odd to me if I hadn't had my clear memories of needing sameness and predictability in my early life. Even before "AS" vocabulary entered our lives, we knew that P thrived on routine. Other babies could miss a nap time. Mine could not. No exceptions. Sorry.

This is the life I have. There is no second guessing or wishing it away. Is there sadness? Sometimes. The pain of watching P's friends abandon him in 4th and 5th grade re-awakened feelings of anziety and depression I though I had moved past. There are many times when P and I are at loggerheads--when our rigidity clashes head on and I turn into 'harpy-mom'. Not something I'm proud of. I know I need more time and personal space than most other moms. If I get overloaded, I can't parent effectively. My partner/spouse/main man provides me balance. His love and acceptance makes it easier to get through the hard days.

This is the life I have and this is the life I love.

Because I have accepted my boys, I have opened the door to accepting myself.

Warts and all.

(Figurative warts, not literal ones.)

Points of agreement?

2006-07-01T17:15:00.000-04:00

I have been following autism blogs for some time now, and I'm terribly disheartened by the degree of hostility and deep devisions between constituencies.

It seems as if there are definite 'armed camps'. Cure/not cure, NTs/ACs, High functioning/low functioning. I'm sure there are more dichotomies I could come up with, but you get the idea.

Here's the strange thing--many of us live in *more* than one 'camp', or constituency. I'm a parent of a child on the spectrum. I'm also an "aspie" myself. I'm also a medical professional. (disclaimer--I don't work with autism--I'm a physical therapist) So at different times, I may wear different 'hats'.

But regardless of what role I take at any given time, here's what I believe:

"Function" is a matter of perspective. Someone using a wheelchair in an Escher house would likely be 'low functioning'. There is no clear line between what 'high' and 'low' functioning *is* in the world of the autism spectrum. And even within the same individual, level of function may change depending on outside stressors, physical health, and coping resources.

If 'cure' means obliteration of what makes my brain function in the way it does, no thank you. What I want is to decrease barriers to function and improve coping ability in an often chaotic world.

What is 'disabling' is not necessarily the *autism* but the host of secondary impairments related to fitting a round peg in a square hole.

In fact, I wish we could move the debate along the lines of the World Health Organization's terminology:

Impairment--any loss or abnormality of psychological, physiological, or anatomical structure or function.

Disability--any restriction or lack of ability to perform an activity in the manner or within the range considered normal for a human being.

Handicap--a disadvantage for a given individual, resulting from an impairment or disability, that limits or prevents that individual from fullfilling a role that is normal, depending on age, sex, social and cultural factors.

I'm all for decreasing disability and helping to mitigate impairments. Anxiety? Sure--take it. Depression--nope, don't want any. Face-blindness and difficulty reading non-verbal cues? Love to learn better ways of getting around that.

My autistic-thinking brain? Don't you dare mess with that. My ability to see patterns and hyperfocus is *not* disabling in my life. My sensory processing can get in the way at the grocery store, but my poetry is richer because of it. Special interests? Well, in my world, it's a good thing for a physical therapist to be intensely preoccupied with anatomy and kinesiology.

So what *can* we all agree on?

Maybe for starters, that decreasing disability by minimizing secondary impairments is a good thing. I can stand behind that and not feel as if my self-hood is being devalued.

Perhaps individuals would be willing to ask a different question.

Instead of:
"Will this treatment/medication/therapy/supplement *cure* autism?"

Maybe:
"Will this treatment/medication/therapy/supplement help improve my/my loved one's quality of life?"

Yeah--that works for me. What about you?

"We are here. . ."

2006-06-30T11:28:00.000-04:00

I'm blogging from our last day at Autreat and I keep thinking about the end of Dr. Seuss' "Horton Hears a Who" when the Whos of Whoville shout, "We are here, we are here, we are here."

If you don't know the story, Horton, an elephant, befriends a culture of microscopic people, the Whos, who live on a dustspeck.

Because the other inhabitants of the forest of Nool can't hear or see the tiny Whos, they believe Horton is insane and decide to punish him by boiling the dustspeck Horton is trying to protect.

No matter that Horton get bullied and harassed, he has faith in his friends and begs them to make as much noise as possible so the others can hear them.

At the end of the story, all the Whos begin to shout, "We are here, we are here, we are here."

I am aspie.

I am here.

We are here.

We must not allow the majority to silence us.

We must not allow our fear to silence us.

I will not be silent.

We are here.

Good news for the end of the school year

2006-06-19T16:14:00.000-04:00

7th grade has been a difficult year for P. The academic requirements really ramped up this year from last year with probably twice the amount of homework each night. In addition to the workload, this was his prepare for Bar mitzvah year, with extra lessons with the Cantor, meetings with the Rabbi. Add to that the confusing mix of pre-teen hormones and the social minefield that is middle school, and it adds up to a lot for one young man to deal with.

There have been both high and low points to the year. Some highs: He connected right away with 2 of his 4 main subject teachers, finding a love of social studies (ancient civilizations this year) and math. He also learned and implemented some wonderful organizational skills around homework and planning. And as a 7th grader, had one of the secondary leads in the 7th/8th grade production of Shakespeare's "A Winter's Tale."

Some lows: Subtle and persistent teasing and social isolation. And although he was nominated to become a peer mediator for 8th grade, he wasn't selected. That was a huge disappointment to him and to me. I thought P. would be a wonderful mediator.

Today, P. came home jubillant--the happiest I have seen him in quite some time.

Tryouts for "As you like it" (Shakespeare) were last week. Callbacks were friday. P. was called back for readings of two of the main characters.

This morning, he found out he will be playing Orlando, one of the male leads in next fall's production.

I am so pleased for him to be able to end the school year on a high note, a success, and something to look forward to for the start of 8th grade.

Speaking at the ASA conference

2006-06-15T09:00:00.000-04:00

In a few weeks, I'm taking part in two panels at the ASA meeting in Rhode Island. It's taken me several years to get to the point of feeling comfortable with something like this.

It's not the speaking part. I've been an invited speaker in dozens of national conferences over the past 20 years, I've guest lectured at Universities, been interviewed on TV and radio. But *all* of that has been in my capacity as a physical therapist and an expert in my sub-field. By all accounts, I am an excellent speaker--I don't read prepared remarks or simply recite the information on my slides, and I connect with the audience. No, the speaking itself is not the problem.

It's the "Hey, look at me, I'm a successful adult with AS" issue. I dislike calling attention to myself. I loathe being turned into "a self-narrating zoo exhibit". (A phrase I first heard from my friend, Phil Schwartz, though I don't know if it is of his creation.)

So why did I agree to speak? Partly because if I don't, than I miss an opportunity to change the conversation--to challenge perceptions in the 'NT' world about living on the spectrum. There is more than one paradox/danger here: If I *do* speak up/come 'out', then I risk personal stress-overload, thus reinforcing stereotypes of Aspie failings. And, invariably, some will simply deny I *am* an Aspie, simply because I can be eloquent and display emotional literacy.

And for the privilege of taking several days from my work (I'm in private practice-if I don't work, I don't get paid), upending my own typical schedule (stressful--'nuff said), spending time and energy preparing my talks, and exposing myself emotionally in a charged venue, I get to pay the ASA.

According to their website, it is a discounted rate. (Gee. Thanks.) In EVERY OTHER conference related speaking engagement I have ever had, I have been given free registration. Even for small organizations that could not afford to pay transportation/hotel/honorarium fees. The registration was free.

Can I afford the $135? Yes. That's not the point. The point is the ASA is, in part, drawing in conference participants (and income) *because* of the work my fellow speakers and I are putting together. We are the value added of the conference.

I wrote a polite email to the organizers pointing some of this out. I received a curt response thanking me for my concerns and a promise to discuss it with the powers that be.

So the ironic conclusion: I am paying, in real dollars, lost work, and personal 'cost', to present in 2 panels for an organization I am not sure I want to belong to because I feel I owe it to my community of fellow travelers.

What's wrong with this picture?

Hitting the wall

2006-06-09T10:19:00.000-04:00

I'm almost reluctant to write this for fear that it gives the 'other side' ammunition to say how hard life is on the spectrum and wouldn't it be so much the better to have a 'cure' for Asperger's Syndrome. I also don't like to whine and I *do* understand how blessed I am with the support and love I have in my life.

Or maybe this is just my expression of a mid-life crisis and has little to do with AS, or raising kids with AS/NLD. I'm tired. Not physically tired, but emotionally tired. I spend a great deal of my life taking care of other people--both in my home life and my work life.

I've been a physical therapist for 20 years and I know I'm good at what I do. I specialize in working with people who have chronic pain and dual diagnoses (psychiatric and physical stresses). I think I'm burning out.

I'm so far behind in my billing that there are months of care provided I won't get paid for and the billing agent I've contracted with keeps threatening to quit if I can't get more organized and timely in submitting my billing. Whenever I think of dealing with my Medicare paperwork, I just cringe inside--the details and the following up are beyond me right now.

I missed almost a whole week of work earlier in the month with a bout of pneumonia and by the end of that week, was happier than I'd felt in quite some time. Getting back to work the following monday brought the same crushing stress right back.

I'm not looking for pity or for solutions, I'm just trying to work my way through what is 'garden variety stress', what is career burnout, what is related to my very Aspie self on the verge of overload.

I need to make some difficult decisions about my PT career, but I can't make them while I'm stuck in the day to day details of keeping my practice running. Currently, I'm planning on taking the month of August off from the practice if only to find a place where I can stand still and analyze what's going on.

"Maybe Sparrow" (a revision)

2006-06-01T10:05:00.000-04:00

Because we are all works in progress, here is a revision of the poem I wrote for Charlie, in response to a blog post by Kristina Chew.

Maybe Sparrow

"I believe that the broken bird knew that it was broken." (Kristina Chew)

I am a killdeer pretending to limp,
leading danger away from our nest.

I sing the song I know best. It is not
always beautiful, but most nights it soothes

us both to sleep. This isn't about broken
things or crows. That black bird shivers

against the base of my spine. Morning
comes. A dark feather spirals to my feet.

You draw it across my cheek, flap it
in your hands, look up through the screen

of trees, a pinion primed for flight.
Sometimes I envy the mockingbird.

I thought I wrote it for her, but in fact I also wrote it for me. As a parent, (perhaps any parent, but as a parent of a child on the spectrum) I must be like the killdear mother--a ground nesting bird that when challenged by a predator will appear to be injured and limp, leading danger from her nestlings. When the predator thinks it has its meal, the killdear flies away.

"I sing the song I know best"--I am doing the best that I can. Perhaps not always the right thing, "not always beautiful", but at any moment, the best I can do for my lovely nestlings, my 2 beautiful sons.

"This isn't about broken things. . ." My life isn't defined by what we can't do, by what is difficult. Nor do I define my children's lives by what they struggle with.

"That black bird shivers. . . " But the fear is always my constant companion. Fear that I'm not doing a good enough job as a parent. Fear that my own AS blinds me to what my kids really need. Fear of what will happen in the wide world when I'm no longer around to advocate for my kids.

"A dark feather spirals. . .you draw it across my cheek" The world is full of beauty, if you know to look for it. And I share that wonder and beauty with my sons.

"pinion primed for flight" (Pinions are the bird's primary flight feathers) We are all primed for flight--made for growth and change.

"Sometimes I envy the mockingbird." The mockingbird can sing all the sounds it hears, I have one song, this one life. Sometimes I envy what my life might have been before AS entered my vocabulary. Sometimes, not all the time, not even most of the time. But sometimes, particularly when the greater world makes our lives so much more difficult than they could or should be.

I thank you, Kristina, for the inspiration to write this. May we all be "pinions primed for flight."

A Gift for Charlie

2006-05-26T18:29:00.000-04:00

I am a poet. Perhaps that marginalizes me far more than being an 'aspie'. :) I find inspiration in many places--my children, the natural world around me, a strong emotion, beautiful words. When I read Kristina's blog post today, I felt moved to write.

I almost never know where a poem's images will take me when I first sit down with pen and paper. Writing poetry is a mysterious process of alchemy, of transformation. And it isn't until I finish a piece that its meaning comes thundering through me. This is still a draft and may undergo change, but then again, aren't we all still drafts? Still in the process of change? We are all pinions primed for flight.

Maybe Sparrow

"I believe that the broken bird knew that it was broken." (Kristina Chew)

This is not a poem about broken things
or crows. That black bird is only fear
huddled against the base of my spine.

I am a killdeer pretending to limp,
leading danger away from my nest.
Sometimes I envy the mockingbird.

I sing the song I know best. It is not
always beautiful, but it soothes
us both to sleep. In the morning

a dark feather spirals to my feet.
You look up through the screen
of trees, a pinion primed for flight.

ljcohen, 2006

Katherine McCarron, 2003-2006

2006-05-24T15:45:00.000-04:00

On mother's day this year, a mother killed her 3 year old daughter. The daughter was autistic.

I cannot control the bitterness I feel when I think about this child and the mother who ended her nascent life. There is no distance I can maintain to study it without becoming enmeshed. I am a mother, an aspie, the parent of an aspie. I have experienced great sorrow, depression, and anguish (mainly in regard to my own assessment of my parenting abilities, not about my son) and have contemplated suicide (in the past). There have been times I wished some alien spaceship would abduct my boys, or that I could sell them on ebay (a recurring fantasy), but I cannot fathom ending their lives.

I wrote this poem mainly for myself--it is an attempt to channel the anger I feel and perhaps come to some peace with the pain.

---

If she were not autistic would she be wearing
a new dress today instead of the plastic bag

you slipped over her head? Her two year old
sister will grow up wondering. "If I am bad,

mother might kill me too." I am trying
to understand whose suffering you meant to ease.

Autreat

2006-05-09T09:21:00.000-04:00

Once a year, my children and I spend a week immersed in autism-centric culture.

Autreat.

I love that name. Autism/Retreat. Not a retreat *from* autism, but a retreat *to* autism. A time in which I don't have to guess if the person sitting near me at lunch wants to have a conversation. I can look at that person's interaction badge--if the green tag is showing--a potential for conversation. If the red tag is showing, I won't intrude on that person's need for private space. Concrete. Simple.

Participants are asked not to wear perfumes or use scented personal care products. I don't have to wrestle with my gag reflex for strong smells.

No one will give me pointed looks when I fidget in a meeting or play with a squishy ball. No one will assume I'm bored or being disrespectful to the speaker if I don't stare at the podium.

If I get up and leave abruptly from a gathering, no one will take it personally. It will be understood that for whatever reason, I am overwhelmed and need increased personal space.

I was scared before I went to autreat for the first time. My boys were (I think) in K and 3rd grade; I was still coming to terms with 'coming out' (to borrow a phrase from another minority movement) as an aspie. I didn't ask my husband to come with us and it was one of the first times I attempted to travel on my own with my 2 children.

This may not seem like a big deal to many of you reading this. A grown woman, a professional, competent woman, taking a trip with 2 school aged kids to a campground where there would be children's activities and structure. But for me, it was huge.

I have a problem with direction-sense and driving on my own to upstate NY from the Boston area, where I had never been before seemed daunting. Planning to spend a week with strangers seemed frightening. That those strangers were individuals on the spectrum, including people who were autistic, seemed overwhelming.

I had created a little world for myself where when I stepped out of my house, I inhabited a persona who protected me from the vagaries of "NT" life. That persona was competent, resourceful, successful. But I paid a price in stress and anxiety for using her. Once safely home, I could indulge my sensory needs, my need for predictability and wind-down time. Me and my boys could be ourselves. Home was (and is) sanctuary.

But I needed to learn to be my aspie self beyond the door to my house. So attending autreat that first time was an act of bravery and of faith. A gamble. Would I belong? Would "they" (whoever they were) accept me? Was I 'aspie' enough? Or would I forever feel between two worlds, never fully inhabiting either? How would the kids deal with a non-verbal autistic adult? Would they be frightened? Could I trust them to honor an individual's personal space or interaction preference?

I was just a whole bundle of insecurities.

And in the end, the most difficult part of Autreat was coming home. As my friend Phil calls it, 're-entry'. Having to put on that "NT" persona felt like I was encasing myself in medieval armor--for weeks I was heavy, cumbersome; the memory of lightness almost impossible to hold onto.

In a little over a month, I will be able to shed that armor again for a week where I will be myself.

To use another metaphor, 51 weeks a year, I must immerse myself in a foreign country and speak a language other than my mother tongue. At Autreat, I no longer have to translate my language into another. My passport is always valid.

We are a Multitude

2006-05-02T19:20:00.000-04:00

My son, P. is nearly 13 and we had a long conversation about friendship the other day. He had a very close friend for much of his elementary school career that he had initially met at preschool. When they were in 4th grade, that friendship and the others that P. had carefully cultivated withered away.

I can attribute part of that shift to differences in development. The things that P. was interested in were intellectually and socially a mismatch for other 4th grade children. His intellectual skills were many grades ahead of his peers; his social understanding several grades behind.

But that would only be part of the story. The biggest reason for P.'s social isolation that year was J. If P. was years behind the social development of his peers, J. was years ahead. And in that most cruel way that only socially adept children can, he picked off P.'s friends one by one. There were snide remarks in the classroom--just subtle enough that the teacher never caught them, but the other kids did. There was the not-so-subtle exclusion on the playground, the parties where the rest of the class was invited.

It was painful to watch and painful to re-live my own memories of such insidious bullying from childhood.

Now, years older and wiser, P. and I can talk about 4th grade and the hurtfulness of J. The friends P. lost have not reconnected and J. is still a ringleader and a popular kid. But among the curses of middle school are some blessings--it is bigger with more children and more opportunities to find a peer group. P. has a few kids he hangs out with at lunch and 1 close friend he plays with on weekends. He was involved in the school play this year and felt accepted by the other actors. For the most part, he seems happy.

I have told him again and again that these years are the most difficult. When he is in the adult world, he will find friends that group around common interests in a multi age environment. There is something very artificial about the way we age segregate children in this society. And that the very traits that make him stand out as different (middle school translation: vulnerable) will be what makes him appealing to potential adult friends.

Aspies are 'a multitude'--we exist simultaneously in many developmental pathways. Our intellectual age may be different from our social age and different still from our emotional age. The time these three 'ages' are most discordant is probably middle school.

Based on my own experience, I know the gap narrows later in life and things *do* get easier. There will always be people like J. I have had bosses like him and adults whom I thought were friends, but were not. But I have also made strong, lasting, and healthy friendships with good people both in the AS and NT worlds. The hurts of childhood don't go away, but they do lose the power to wound.

Autism Awareness Month?

2006-04-04T09:35:00.000-04:00

April is the cruelest month. I believe that line is attributed to Shakespeare. It has always been a difficult month for me, a time where my depression flares. In the post before this one, I talked some about this--why the ambient energy of springtime seems to trigger my anxiety. I may never understand it, but life has gotten easier now that I can prepare for it.

So April is the cruelest month. It has also been named "Autism Awareness Month." And many activist autism parents would characterize autism itself as cruel--a 'devastating disease' that 'robs' them of 'their child'.

I find that attitude, along with the yellow puzzle ribbon, and autism awareness month itself disquieting.

How could I be robbed of a child I did not have? My son is who he is. He is not some changeling child left in the place of some idealized NT child. His thoughts wind around a brain wondrously complex and creative. He is a puzzle in the way any pre-adolescent child is a puzzle to his or her parent.

I don't have a yellow autism ribbon on my car, nor do I pay attention to autism awareness month (except with an annoyed confusion). How can I ever not be aware of autism and how it has shaped my life and the life of my son, my whole family?

I am aware of autism everytime I step into the grocery store with its harsh flourescent lighting, the visual clutter, the overwhelming array of choices in the cereal isle alone!

Autism is my shadow in every social interaction when I replay each conversation in my mind attempting to assess my performance: Did I say the right things? Did I make enough eye contact? Too much contact? Did I let the other person speak enough times? Was my body language appropriate?

Autism is there when life overloads me with conflicting tasks and I struggle to sort out what I must do from what I can do. It is a companion when I ache to comfort my son after some subtle but nasty episode of bullying at middle school.

Autism colors our lives, but it doesn't disfigure them. It makes many aspects of living in the world more difficult, but it brings gifts and boons. My fascination with words, my son's abiding passion and patience for animals and conservation are also part of autism.

So for me, the irony is that the NT world thinks we need an Autism Awareness month when in fact it is that same world that never lets me forget I am *other*.

"In May I Never Prosper"

2006-03-12T09:48:00.000-05:00

Kristina Chew has been blogging of late about upheavals in Charlie's life this spring. And many in 'autismland' have been sharing about the chaos that Spring seems to bring to the lives of those on the spectrum.

I posted a long response to her blog entry today and it got me thinking about my own dread of Spring.

One of the things I said in my response was:

"Somehow the shift from winter to spring fills me with a terrible, restless anxiety and I feel like a lion in a zoo cage, pacing, pacing, pacing."

I don't understand why the return of the light triggers my depression and the loss of light in the fall does not. But there is something about the restless energy in early spring that sets my insides roiling.

In a poem called "Narcissus' Lament", I wrote this about Spring:

Worse,
I dread her favor; a glimpse
of her abundance, teeming below

the threshold of my senses. Crawling
on my skin--the relentless pull
to push and thrive, to thrust

through the crust of earth
that imprisons all of us, seed, shoot,
limb.

and

The light
that wakes us, makes us all delirious.

Perhaps it is just too much life, too quickly after the relative peace of winter. I adore the winter; the silence of snow, the cold of clear, starry nights.

In a poem called "Consort", I wrote of the relationship between Winter and her lover, The North Wind:

They embrace
through the longest night while earth's
pulse slows beneath them. They grant
the stillness, not of death, but of life
suspended;

In the winter, I know who I am. The spring is too much like chaos for me to feel comfortable with it.

Addendum:
The post title is my own out of context reading of the lyrics to a traditional Irish song, called "Rares Hill" sung by Mary Black. When I first heard it, years ago, it spoke to me about my dread of Spring. I recently tracked down the lyrics and it is 'may' as in 'will', and it references something completely different than my memory of the song indicates.

The real lyrics are:
"So it's may I never prosper, and may I never thrive/
In anything I take in hand as long as I'm alive/
If e'er I say I rue the day, my laddie had his will/
Success to Lady Mary's fair, and the back of Rare's Hill."

Sick days + homework=insanity

2006-02-16T20:14:00.000-05:00

My son was home sick on tuesday with a terrible cold and a fever. He had a fit when I insisted he not go to school and now I know why he wanted to drag his sorry body out of bed and into class. All the work he would have gotten on tuesday was due today along with all the work he received on wednesday. Double work while still not feeling well.

How does this make sense?

He now faces a no-win situation: hand in what's already a day past due and earn a MAXIMUM of 50% on it, or focus on current homework, earning a 0 on the past due material.

This is 7th grade. Even in college, the standard was lose a letter grade on an assignment each day it was late. Losing half credit for one day's lateness seems rather draconian to me.

I certainly understand the need to motivate students to practice good study habits and time management techniques. But this policy penalizes a child for falling ill. My son is not lazy--he is extremely concerned about doing his work, both because he's intrinsically motivated to learn and because he wants to please his teachers. Tell me what is to be gained except increasing his anxiety level, from pushing a kid this hard?

Riding the Rails

2006-02-06T23:17:00.000-05:00

Riding the Rails

It's your third birthday. We buy
a wooden train, a length of track,
an arched trestle. You line each car
precisely, laugh when the magnets
match engine to caboose, scream
as your clumsy hands marry
like pole to pole and the cars
spring apart. I memorize
the schedule of the Framingham line
so I can drive you to the crossing
in time for nap, the whistle of the 2:20
means an hour's peace, the lines ease
from your forehead and my jaw. I wait
as the rail's song fades, all hope
of me on that train, gone,
no ticket in my pocket.

I think I can, I think I can.

In the Rockies they chop up mile-long trains,
couple an engine every few cars, power
freight through the mountain passes.
I am the only engine here.

You wake grumbling like an old deisel.
If the signals are with me, I can make it
home before "Thomas the Tank Engine."
Mr. Conductor will take us
to the Isle of Sodor. It is lovely
there. You name all your friends, Thomas,
Edward, Toby, James. The phone rings.

Dad is on the 6:20. We race him
to the station. You slip a smiling
Thomas in my hand, your eyes and his,
cartoon round. I park the little train
on the dashboard pointing towards
tomorrow, our only destination.
-------------------

Before AS entered our vocabulary, it had already entered our lives. We just didn't know it. I wrote this poem today for a challenge in a poetry workshop I participate in; I hadn't expected it to take me back to those early and confusing days pre 'aspie'. I truly felt as if I was the engine, pulling the weight of a mile long train uphill every day. I was a first time mother, dealing with toddler behavior that wasn't in any of the 'books.' My own responses and coping seemed ineffective. There were days when I sat down and watched "Thomas" with my son and cried.

Life is much different now. The rails are straight and they point us toward a horizen that is full of possibility. I no longer dread the journey.

"Happy Star, Reign Now"

2006-02-05T15:54:00.000-05:00

My son had a large role in his school's production of Shakespeare's "A Winter's Tale." It has been a whirlwind several months for him, juggling the demands of rehearsal, memorizing his lines and blocking, dealing with mountains of homework. The performances were last week and I could not be prouder of him.

Of all the 7th and 8th graders, in the cast, my son was one of a handful who seemed to speak the language naturally, without hesitation, and with a poise usually reserved for older children.

So many on the spectrum have spoken of acting as a way of belonging and as a way of figuring out how to inhabit a role that has benefits 'off stage' as well. Certainly, I found a place of acceptance in Jr High, High School and beyond in the theatre. Even in graduate school, I gravitated to the theatre group, directing a show in my second year of PT school.

I sat in the audience thursday and friday nights and thrilled to see my son so comfortable in his own skin, and in the skin of Lord Camillo of Sicilia. The lines of iambic pentameter rolled off his tongue, the lines that he and I have been practicing in our kitchen for weeks. And at the end of the play, he shared in the high fives and back slaps the cast traded with one another.

It is a happy star that reigns over my son's life now.

After reading Elizabeth Moon's "The Speed of Dark"

2006-01-31T22:53:00.000-05:00

*NOTE* If you haven't read this book and you don't like to have the story 'spoiled' by information about the ending, do not read further.

I found this novel unsettling and I've spent the better part of the past several days trying to pinpoint why.

I think Ms. Moon did an excellent job in portraying the inner life and thoughts/perceptions of an individual on the autism spectrum. There was a clear sense of respect for the lived experience of autism. The main character, Lou, is portrayed as a full human being who grows and changes over the course of the story. In fact, I strongly identified with many of Lou's experiences and personality traits. There were many times in the story arc where I found myself nodding or smiling, having felt similarly in past real life situations.

I saw Lou as a strong protagonist and cheered for him as his life became enriched by the challenges he surmounted. He was not portrayed as a victim, but as a powerful self-advocate.

And then Ms. Moon chooses to end the novel with the 'deux ex machina' of medical treatment for autism and in a scant few chapters, negates the value of all of Lou's hard earned victories. He, in fact, becomes 'other' than Lou, and loses interest in all the people and things that once were the cornerstones of his life. In fact, one of the reasons Lou persues this treatment is to have a chance at what he sees as a normal relationship with a neuro-typical woman. When he sees her for the first time after his treatment, he says he feels nothing for her.

I found this terribly ironic and incredibly distressing.

As I was reading the book, I also wondered if a neuro-typical reader would find this distressing, but in other ways. Would that reader find the first 3/4ths of the book--in which we primarily see the world through Lou's first person perspective--distressing? Could they accept Lou's logic, his perseverations, his non-linear thinking? Or would they slog though that, then sigh with relief at the ending where Lou becomes a neruo-typical narrator?

I welcome your thoughts.

Sometimes it is that simple. . .

2006-01-13T09:31:00.000-05:00

My son is happy. I see it in his smile when he comes home from school, in his quick 'debrief' with me, his endless teasing, his spontaneous hugs. At 12, he is still happy to give his mom a bear hug.

He's in 7th grade in a large middle school. He's an aspie. By all rights, happiness is not part of that mix. But he is happy.

So what have we changed that could create such a dramatic difference from just a month ago? Have we started him on some new powerful medication? No. Has the school suddenly expelled all the bullies? No. What has changed is so small, so easy, that I hesitate to attribute anything to it.

Lunchtime.

For the past year and a half, middle school lunch has been like decending into the ninth circle of hell for my son. He's had money extorted from him, he's had his food stolen, he's been kicked out of his seat, he's had his lunch dumped to the floor, he's been told, repeatedly, that he's stupid, a jerk, not liked, not wanted.

I've been talking about lunch and PE to his school team since the start of middle school. Finally, at this years' team meeting, the team came up with an alternate lunch option that was nothing short of transformative for my son. The 7th grade social studies teacher has an open invitation for certain kids to have lunch in his room. It's not a 'SPED' thing, just a group of interested kids and a teacher they respect. It's not always the same mix of kids, though my son has lunch there every day. And it's been incredible.

He feels as if he has a place where he belongs--where the kids accept and enjoy him. A safe, predictable place.

Total cost to the school district: $0.00. Value to my son: Priceless.

As for PE--that's another fight for another day.

Working through it

2005-12-16T21:49:00.000-05:00

Here is the letter I am sending the parent of the child who harassed my son. I don't hold out a lot of hope that the mother will respond appropriately given my experience of her on the telephone last weekend. But I need to start a paper trail going. I fear this will escalate to police/social services.

Dear XXXXXX,

After unsuccessfully attempting to discuss matters with you over the telephone last weekend, I feel compelled to write you this letter. There is a discrepancy in our children's reporting of the events that occurred on Sunday, December 11, 2005 at the ###### sledding hill.

My son maintains that your daughter, ******, both verbally and physically harassed him, pushing him down the hill and causing him to hit his head on the ice. You stated that your daughter claimed my son was the aggressor.

We may never know exactly what happened last Sunday; however, we do have control of what happens from now on. I am formally requesting that your daughter stay away from my son. I have asked my son to avoid contact with your daughter.

My son has reported witnessing prior instances of *****’s verbal and physical aggression and inappropriate language with other children and I am concerned about this pattern of behavior. Both you and your daughter use language that is unacceptable in our home and I don’t wish him to be exposed to it any further.

I expect that you will take this letter seriously and heed my request to have our children stay clear of one another. In the future, if I discover that your daughter has bothered my son in any way, I will be forced to take further action through the ++++++ Police Department, the school system and/or the Department of Social Services.

Navigating the Bumps

2005-12-13T12:00:00.000-05:00

No. This is not a post about skiing, although that is one sport we all love as a family. The bumps are social ones, and this bump is the size and shape of a mountain.

My 7th grader, who is a big and strong kid, a green belt in karate, is being harassed by a 7th grade girl whom he outweighs and physically outmasters.

But she seems savvy in the ways of social harassment in a way my son will likely never be.

My son reports that this girl verbally accosted him on a sledding hill near the house. When he tried to ignore her and resume sledding, she shoved him and he went down unprepared, fell and hit his head on the ice. He was furious, but understood the 'rules' about retaliation: he went home.

I called the parent, asking her to speak with her daughter about the incident. The mother became incensed on the telephone, rude, swearing at me and ultimately hung up. I called her back. She claims that my son accosted her daughter, both verbally and physically.

Now I know all kids are capable of lying and of making bad choices. But I *do* know my son and he is a lousy lier. He also lacks the social guile to lie to this extent. I also have outside corroboration about this girl's previous aggressive behavior.

My son feels believed and safe within his family. That's no small feat. But he is frustrated, angry, and scared, not knowing why this girl is targeting him or what he will have to do to stay safe the next time.

I can't keep him from experiencing the bewildering array of cruelty in the world. The bumps will happen. And I will not always be there to help him navigate.

I want this girl to understand the hurt my son has experienced--not the physical hurt. That fades. But the emotional hurt that comes from not being able to trust in the 'rules' of social interaction that are supposed to keep him safe. But maybe she already knows--maybe she hopes to inflict that kind of pain. I don't understand it and it makes me doubt my abilities as a parent. How can I help my son when I don't understand the world we have to inhabit?

IEP Annual Review--Beware the Unintended Consequences

2005-12-01T00:04:00.000-05:00

My son's annual review meeting is tomorrow. I should be asleep--it's midnight--instead I'm sitting here quietly obsessing about what's wrong with a system that has so many negative unintended consequences.

"Where all the women are beautiful and all the children above average" (With apologies to Garrison Keiler)
He has an IEP--the Individualized Education Plan that opens the magic doors to classroom accomodations and access to the personell that can shift his school life from living hell to something resembling bearable. But starting off with the name--shouldn't *all* education be individualized? Each child will learn best in idiosyncratic ways. It makes sense for the adults in the system to be flexible in the way education is delivered so each kid gets what he or she needs.

However, that very document, the IEP, is predicated on *impairments*. It, by its very nature, focuses primarily on the things my son has difficulty with or cannot do. I have certainly mused about this before, but there are dangers in letting a list of impairments define reality.

"Accentuate the Negative. . ."
Although provision of 'special education' services is a federal mandate, it is not fully funded at the federal tax level, and so paying for the implementation of federally mandated services falls to the states and local districts. We all know there is no endlessly refilling tax coffer. (I envision some 'Willy Wonka'-like everlasting gobstopper) Districts are between the proverbial rock and hard place. So are parents. So we must accentuate the negative to keep our children's needed survices.

"You say potato and I say Pot-ah-to. . . let's call the whole thing off."
A parent's biggest fear is that once a child gets what he or she needs and starts to thrive, the school will begin to pull back. But that is in fact the success point--the point where everyone has figured out what the child needs to do well. That needs to become the baseline, not an argument for releasing the child from an IEP.

"To be or not to be. . ."
So all this is fairly general and abstract. Lets really take a good look in the mirror here. My kid's an Aspie. I'm an Aspie. Is there a point where it ever becomes useful to disclose this to the team? If I thought for a moment that my disclosure would educate the school, would let them see me as a role model for my son and others, would want to use what I know to help others in the school, I would tell them in an instant. My fear (what keeps me 'in the closet' about this) is that they will completely discount what I say because I'm an Aspie.

"Time Flies when you're Having Fun. . ."
The other irony is that the areas in which my son needs the most guidance are not traditionally academic concerns. I feel the school is doing a poor job with the social and emotional issues that plague my son. Despite a zero tolerance approach for 'bullying', in actual day to day middle school life, my son experiences quite a large degree of both physical and verbal bullying. By the very nature of AS, he will have difficulty developing and implementing the strategies to assure his social and emotional safety in school. Yes, middle school years are tough for all kids. they don't need to be make frankly impossible for my kid.

/end incoherent rant at midnight-thirty.

A Parent's Pride

2005-11-10T15:33:00.000-05:00

My boys are both wonderful young men. At 9 1/2 and 12, they are maturing before my eyes. We have their school photos arrayed on the fridge and scanning across them is like seeing a time-lapse movie. My eldest has photos from Kindergarten to the most recent at grade 7. My youngest from K through 4th grade. Each stage, each phase has passed in a blink of time. When I read over my own journal from say 1997, the issues that consumed me--day and night--are not even on our radar screen.

Things change. Children grow.

When P. was 3 years old, a change in his normal nap time would lead to explosive melt downs. Long before Hans Asperger was even a twinkle in our diagnostic eyes, our family had already made some of the structural changes that P. needed to succeed. We previewed changes, practiced social interactions, used deep pressure hugs for calming, kept a predictable schedule. No one taught us to do these things; they were what our son needed.

Things change. Children mature.

Now he is tottering on the edge between childhood and adolescence. Some days he leans closer toward one than another, yet he is handling the dangerous quicksands of impending teenage-hood with poise and thoughtfulness.

Things change. Our understanding shifts.

In respecting the struggles and triumphs of my boys, I am healing something in myself. I can look back at my very private battles in childhood and wrap the me-who-was in a deep, fierce hug. When I help P. slice through the tangle of social puzzles, I am doing the same with my child-self. In giving permission for my sons to have their strengths and weaknesses, I also give myself permission and learn to work with my nature, not against it.

"All kids are like that"

2005-10-25T11:39:00.000-04:00

The dreaded phrase that puts me in the awkward position of justifying the very impairments I strive to help my son compensate for. That statement, usually offered by way of support, often leads to 'one upsmanship' (or should I call it 'one *down*smanship') of accentuating problems and reinforcing stereotypes.

On the one hand, I would like to claim membership in the community of more typical parents with more typical developmental needs and crises. On the other, living with AS does come with its own set of issues. I once heard Carol Gray say that AS kids are like all other kids. . . only 'more so'. I really liked the way she puts this.

Just because someone is on the spectrum, doesn't automatically mean everything he/she does or says is *because* of AS. But being an "Aspie" (and I know not all folks like that term) is more than a collection of descriptive signs and symptoms in a medical text. It's a feedback loop--our central processing/wiring effects our developmental path, our developmental experiences effect out central wiring. AS is not just *what* we are, but also *who* we are.

So saying "all kids are like that" or "all kids do that" or "all kids go through that" both minimizes the real struggles that individuals with AS/Autism have as well as (overtly or covertly) accentuates the gap between NT's and AC's.

A Throrough Deconstruction of the Brottman Article

2005-10-15T01:22:00.000-04:00

http://neurodiversity.com/weblog/archives/54/autopsy-full-text

Please do read Kathleen Seidel's excellent article with its section by section refutation of the "Nutty Professor" commentary referenced here.

She has done a wonderful job at investigating Ms. Brottman an exposing her supposed credentials as a psychotherapist.

Bravo, Ms. Seidel.

When Confidentiality Equals Divide and Conquer

2005-09-22T20:01:00.000-04:00

The intent behind special education law is laudable: all children deserve an appropriate education in the least restrictive environment possible. I doubt you could find many people who would argue that automatic institutionalization or segregation of students with educational needs is a good thing. And I think over the past several decades we’ve learned a few things about education. Probably most notably that all students do not learn in the same way and that education is collaborative; i.e., students construct knowledge and learn from one another.

So diversity in the classroom is useful for all children. But the push to apply rigid standards to all children has created some unanticipated pressures for kids, like my son, who have ‘hidden’ challenges. In the effort to preserve confidentiality, and on the advice of our school, the children he interacts with on a daily basis do not know he has Asperger’s Syndrome. On the surface, this seems like a wise idea: why give children any reason or label to make fun of another student. In practice, it doesn’t work. So my son’s ‘disability’ is confidential.

Guess what? The kids know he is different. Non-disclosure does not change his wonderful quirkiness in any way. But it does cut us off from one another. Wouldn’t it be great of all the Aspie kids in middle school could form an advocacy group? Or have the parents create an email listserve to share gripes and successes? No can do. The school cannot disclose that information and we are all so wrapped up in helping our children ‘pass’ that we inadvertently give the message that being themselves is not OK.

And what about disclosing to the other children? If my son had CP, walked with crutches, or was blind, then maybe, just maybe the other kids would cut him some slack. Maybe the teachers wouldn’t forget that he has auditory processing delays and fine motor control issues that affect the legibility of his handwriting. But because he looks like any other kid and has academic strengths, there is an expectation that he *is* like any other kid.

Well, he isn’t and I should know. I was also not like any other kid. There was no language to explain AS in the 1960s and 1970s, but like my son, I’m an Aspie. I emerged from my childhood with some hidden scars, but also with many successes due to a loving family and meeting an amazing man in college who has been my husband for 17 years. I can ‘pass’ for normal, or neuro-typical as we say in the Aspie world, but I am most comfortable alone or with other slightly out of phase folks. I am through being afraid or ashamed of who I am. I am through with listening to the messages that isolate me from those who could be friends and allies. But mostly I am through believing in the wisdom of divide and conquer.

It is time for a change.

Diagnosis by Proxy and other Logical Fallacies

2005-09-14T16:18:00.000-04:00

In the 9/16/05 issue of The Chronicle of Higher Education, Mikita Brottman writes an opinion piece titled "Nutty Professors." In it she makes an argument about the essential inapropriateness of accommodating to potential behavioral issues that she identifies as accompanying Asperger's Syndrome (AS).

It would be one thing if Ms. Brottman were a neuropsychologist or psychiatrist in the autism field. Actually, according to her biography, she is "a professor of language, literature, and culture at the Maryland Institute College of Art." And the argument she makes is based on her reading of the APA diagnostic criteria for AS and on her experience with two faculty members who did not pass their year's probation.

"I can recall two instances where candidates were hired who, in retrospect, appear to have had many of the characteristic personality traits of Asperger's. Both had stellar résumés and impressive lists of publications; they were dedicated and professional teachers, with superlative references. . . .

Neither lasted more than a year in the job. In the first case -- and I'm disguising some details to protect their identities -- the new hire turned out to be dismissive of any student incapable of meeting her impossibly high standards, disturbingly fastidious, bad-tempered, and intractable in meetings. She was also arrogant, petty-minded, and obsessed with such matters as the relative size of her office and quality of its furniture. In the second case, the new star revealed himself to be an abstemious hermit and hypersensitive to imaginary slights; he was also a compulsive hoarder, and frugal to an unusual extreme. He was discovered to be actually living, Bartleby-like, in his office."

Ms. Brottman is making a host of assumptions that she is not qualified to make. First that these two individuals have Asperger's Syndrome, second that their performance difficulties were in fact related to any neurological difference at all, and third that this experience can be generalized to a population of individuals with Asperger's Syndrome.

I find it illuminating that Ms. Brottman considers AS as character disorder (that would be in the same family as Borderline Personality disorder). She states:

"Consequently, like most character disorders, Asperger's is a controversial diagnosis." (emphasis added)

Most researchers describe AS as a neurobiological issue. She goes on to say:

"If our hires had permitted themselves to accept a diagnosis of Asperger's syndrome (assuming that was, indeed, their condition), would we have been expected to adapt ourselves to the neurological differences that make them obsessive, miserly, rude, and truculent?"

This is an interesting statement on many levels. The language she chooses, eg, 'permitted themselves to accept a diagnosis' makes it seem as if for those individuals a diagnosis would give them an excuse for and permission to continue their inappropriate behavior. In fact, a proper understanding of one's neurology enables the individual to compensate for his or her difficulties and alleviates difficulties.

She also 'blames' their "obsessive, miserly, rude, and truculant" behavior on a diagnosis that she has made based on casual reading. For the sake of argument, I am willing to posit that these two individuals may have had Asperger's Syndrome. If that is the case, there are at least two possible viewpoints regarding their bahavior. First, that their behavior has as much or more to do with base personality than neurological hard-wiring. Second, that anxiety and a stressful work environment triggered stress related responses that were misinterpreted as obsessive, rude, etc. In neither case is it appropriate to assume that these negative behaviors are an inevitable result of Asperger's Syndrome

At the end of the day, Ms. Brottman is guilty of the worst kind of generalization--that made from a sense of academic superiority. I must disagree with her thesis and her conclusions and hope she does not speak for either this publication or academia at large.

ADDENDUM: After performing a websearch, I discovered that in addition to being a professor of language, literature, and culture, Brottman is also a psychotherapist. Mikita Brottman MA, Ph.D--her identifying information can be found here.
I was unable to find any publications by her that dealt with psychotherapy or autism. Her bibliography seems to be limited to books and articles about culture and language.

LCohen