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Talking

The 439 Stages of Grief

by Tim on January 6, 2009

[Note from me: This is another draft installment of that collection of essays and reflections that I hope to someday compile into a book. The first one I posted was "What if he never talks?", though I plan for other posts here to someday appear in that collection too. As always, comments are welcome.]

The 439 Stages of Grief

Pretty much every parent who has ‘gotten the diagnosis’ goes through grief, even if they expected to hear the word ‘autism’. We have in our minds from the moment our children are born ideas and images of how we see the story of their lives unfolding. Sitting in a chair and hearing that word used for the first time about our child wasn’t part of that.

Every parent’s story begins with imagining first smiles and first steps and first words. We saw ourselves playing catch with them in the yard. We watched them chase with the other kids in the neighborhood. We saw them going to their first day at school. We heard our cheers mixing with the other parents’ as our children ran down the sports fields after school.

They went to middle school; they started having crushes and eventually - God forbid - their first girlfriends or boyfriends. They kept growing into tweens and teens. They learned to drive and went to prom and graduated, in our dreams always with honors as the valedictorian.

They’d leave home, and already we felt sad even with that still two decades away. They went to a top college and earned their degree with distinction, of course. They went on for more school or got an important job and made a lot of money, striking out on their own in this great big world.

We hoped they would find someone perfect for them who loved them and whom they loved equally in return. If they so chose, we hoped they’d bring children - our grandchildren - into the world. And we watched the dreams and the stories continue with our next generation, as they have for millennia before us and as they will for all our days on this world.

Almost fundamental to being a parent is our desire for our children to be free of all barriers to their potential so that even the sky itself isn’t a limit. We want the fairy tale for them. When we heard the word ‘autism’, that sky, and the story, fell in a blinding flash of fire, leaving only a blank page set against an empty horizon.

But this isn’t how the story really ends; it’s how a new one begins. The blank page waits for us to choose how to write our true story. But those of us who got the diagnosis know that at the beginning you cannot conceive of a single word to write because you just watched the whole thing burn up in front of you. You’re still holding the ashes of everything you thought was going to happen.

This is grief, pure and simple. You will have to sit with these fistfuls of ashes and this book full of blank pages for as long as it takes to grieve. You will let everything fall to the ground and sit in these ashes and feel like the world may end. You will be angry at everything and nothing. You will look for people to blame; you will look for anything at all to blame; you will blame yourself. You will promise anything, do anything, bargain with anyone to find a way to get your child - and yourself - out of this. You will just sit motionless on the floor and cry yourself down into a bottomless lake.

And at some point, you will come to a place where you have to decide what you’re going to do. You will stare down endless, featureless paths and have to decide which to take without having any idea what’s down them. You can keep bargaining and railing against the world and giving yourself and your child completely over to the next person who says they can help without caring how crazy they might be. You can drive yourself mad with guilt.

Or you can willingly choose to turn yourself directly into the fury of the storm, grit your teeth, and take one, single, determined step forward. You can sweep your arm behind you, cradle your child behind your leg, and block the wind for this perfect little child you love more than anything in this world.

And this is the way it begins for all of us, with one, single, determined step.

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Many Ways to Say ‘I Love You’

by Tim on January 3, 2009

As I described yesterday in the “One Syllable At a Time” post, we’re getting some great mileage out of breaking everything down into these syllable-by-syllable exchanges, going as far as dividing one syllable sounds into even smaller parts as needed.

So, much to our eternal and unending delight, the J-Man has two wonderful sentences he likes to say, provided you do the syllable exchange with him.

We have an “I Want” picture board where he can grab a food picture and stick it at the end of the “I Want ____” part (thanks to the velcro). Then we do:

J: “I”
Us: “I….”
J: “wuhhh-uh”
Us: “want….”

And then he tries to say whatever food it is he picked. It’s getting more common for him to put it together without us and say “I wuhhh-uh” before we have to chime in. Yay! When you think about it, you’ll realize what a fundamental part of our development it is to be able to ask for what we want.

But, of course, our favorite is this (said in a rather dramatic volume):

J: “I”
Me: “I”
J: “luhhhh”
Me: “luhhhh…”
J: “vvvvuuuuuhhhhh”
Me: “love….”
J: “yeeeehhh”
Me: “yeee….”
J: “eeee-oooo”
Me: “you!”
J: “Dah-deh”
Me: “Daddy!”
J: “ah”
Me: “and…”
J: “Ma-ma!”
Me: “Mama!”

Believe me, I’m choking back tears just writing this.

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One Syllable At a Time

by Tim on January 2, 2009

Since we’re still in a post-holiday funk around here and about as lively as the furniture, I’m doing a little content recycling today from a recent comment I made to at least get back to posting. I think all the endless eating and football-watching has killed off a bunch of my brain cells!

Over the last few days, we’ve learned some interesting insights into how to get the J-Man to use some more speech. He is more and more able to give us some idea of how much he understands us and is trying to communicate back to us using a combination of word and syllable approximations as part of what I’m calling ’syllable-by-syllable communication’.

‘Syllable-by-syllable communication’ (my made-up term) has turned into a real winner around here once we pushed him toward it. With this, he communicates one syllable of a word using his best approximation, then we repeat it back to him indicating that we heard and understood him, then he continues with his best approximation of the next syllable, and so on. Following this approach, we’ve gotten through entire sentences, stories, etc. But most of all, we’ve been able to differentiate many words for the first time.

For example, any word that started with ‘m’ used to be ‘muh-muh’ or ‘mo-mo’ or something like that, and he wouldn’t go any further, or we didn’t push him enough to fill in more of the syllables. Now, for example, ‘monkey’ goes like this:

[Note - he tends to get a smidge echolalic with syllables.]

J - “Muh-muh”
Me - “Mon”
J - “kee-kuh”
Me - “key!”

And ‘many’ might go like (with J-Man and I alternating): “Meh-muh”; “Meh”; “Nee-nee”; “Nee!”

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We had our end-of-quarter Parent/Teacher Conference yesterday, and we all celebrated how great the J-Man is doing in school.

Since IEPs are all about annual, specific, measurable goals, these four-times-yearly conferences with the teacher are about seeing how he’s meeting the measurements established by those goals. This allows you to make mid-course corrections as needed, argue for more services if your child is way behind on meeting their goals, etc.

It also allows you dedicated time with the teacher to learn all the ways you can supplement your kid’s learning at home. Of course, we’re always working on that with the teacher, but since these meetings occur at the end of the quarter and in year-round school the end of the quarter means three weeks out of school, this is about coming up with strategies to keep the learning going during the break. Combined with the holiday, we actually have 5 1/2 weeks off starting Monday. Yikes!

The classroom he’s in is about way, way more than just the goals on the page, of course, but the IEP is both a good instrument for measuring progress and one of the most important ways of showing what sorts of services and classroom your child needs from year-to-year.

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To preview what Goosie Cards are, visit their web site at GoosieCards.com.

As we’ve chronicled in recent posts (see “My God, He IS Reading!”, “Roy G. Biv”), our son is all about his flash cards lately. They’re not going to displace the Sacred Wooden Letter Blocks of Steadfast Security and Comfort anytime soon, but flash cards are a cornerstone of many of his most important learning activities.

We recently discovered that – at age 3! – he can read many sight word cards (see above posts and “The $64,000 Question…” - and note that he’s trying to read people’s t-shirts now), so Mary and I are all about finding as many different kinds of cards as we can to build on these wonderful skills he’s suddenly developed.

So, in what proved to be a timely e-mail, I was contacted by Tom Stein, COO of Goosie Cards, who asked if I would be interested in trying out some of their cards and reviewing them. This was right up our alley and a great opportunity to try something new with the J-Man, so of course I agreed.

I looked at their web site before the cards arrived and was immediately intrigued (go look now if you haven’t already) but you can’t really appreciate what you’re getting until you hold a Goosie Card in your hand. Once you do, you know immediately that these are light-years beyond the flash cards you get at the store.

goosie-cards-1.jpg

Goosie Card (left) next to other flash cards of two other brands.

The cards are practically bomb-proof. The card stock and lamination are of a quality, thickness, and durability unparalleled by anything I’ve ever seen. I think the only way to make them more durable would be to manufacture them out of slate or paving stone. While nothing is technically indestructible in the hands of a toddler, I don’t know whether anyone - child or adult - could put even a nick on them without using scissors or a hacksaw.

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“What if he never talks?”

by Tim on December 5, 2008

[Note from me: I'm slowly writing a collection of essays and reflections that I hope to someday compile into a book. Over the last however long it's been, I've posted on this blog a few drafts of pieces I'm considering including in the book without actually calling any attention to them, but this time I will. This is a first, rough draft of one I wrote a few weeks ago. Feel free to comment, praise, pan, etc. My plan is at some point - hopefully early next year - to spin these off into a new web site, which will focus on the 'collection-in-progress' (still feels weird thinking of it as a 'book'). Anyway, more on that later. On with the show.]

“What if he never talks?”

This is a question that for a long time we could not bring ourselves to ponder, but it is one that used to follow us everywhere we went. J-Man could do a syllable here and a syllable there, at least enough for us to think he would really talk someday. But as he got older and his peers’ vocabulary exploded, we became disheartened. Then when children many months younger than him started really talking, we became depressed and often despaired.

The worst was seeing toddlers saying “I love you” to their mommies and daddies. We’ve never doubted that J-Man has always loved us without condition. But just as parents need to say it to each other every day, we’d love to hear our kid say it to us too. We became jealous of the other parents. We’d close our eyes and imagine what his sweet little voice would sound like if he could say it to us. And all of our imaginings left us in tears.

For months, everything was “kuh-kuh”, but at least those things had a name. Eventually there came “muh” and “nuh” and a few more. He made up his own versions of one or two-syllable words and we came to understand the piecemeal language he had created for himself. Near age three, he tested almost two-thirds of his life behind ‘typically-developing’ children - barely at a 12-month level - but he was communicating, little by little.

A few days ago, I was talking to a mom whose son is nearing five. He’s completely non-verbal. He has never uttered a single sound that wasn’t a moan or a shriek or some other shapeless noise. She said the following words, and as I type them I can still feel freezing water creeping through my blood as painfully as when I heard her say them.

“What if he never talks?”

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He’s the One They Call Dr. Feelgood…

by Tim on December 3, 2008

One line summary - J-Man has a rip-roaring ear infection. Blech.

It’s always alarming when you see your kid’s teacher’s cell phone number pop up on the caller ID. They don’t send kids home from our Pre-K unless they’re practically near death. The teachers pride themselves on being able to handle anything, and largely they do.

As was noted in yesterday’s sleepless episode, J-Man had a bad night. But it apparently wasn’t due to travel like we thought, but to said ear infection. He woke up groggy but OK this morning, albeit a bit grumpy when he got to school. They said he did decently this morning and early afternoon, though not his usual self. About 2:00 he went downhill in a big hurry and was - get this - asleep in his teacher’s lap when we got there about 2:45. He NEVER sleeps during the day. We knew this was bad.

This is where a major difficulty in parenting a minimally or nonverbal child comes into play. There’s no good way to figure out what hurts. We all noticed him tugging at his ears and his cough sounded terrible, which was more than enough reason to call the doctor. Though beyond that, he could have had a hangnail or hemorrhoids for all we knew. If he could tell us, we might have caught the infection before it got bad and migrated into his chest. But watching and guessing and intuiting is the best we can do.

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I have one absolute law about Christmas - absolutely no Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving. I believe in doing one holiday at a time, doing that holiday well, and then moving on to the next one.

But once Thanksgiving is over, Christmas music plays several hours a day at our house. We’re totally into the holidays. If you celebrate other traditions this time of year, we’d be into yours too if we could learn the music.

We finally rolled out of the house today a little before noon to meet up for lunch with the family. On the way home, we were listening to Andy Williams and Bing Crosby, and J-Man seemed to be enjoying the Christmas carols from the back seat. Then he started sounding like he was trying to sing along a little. It was hysterical.

“I’m dreaming of a white…”

“Nee-nee!”

Yeah, we don’t know either, but he was serious about it and we busted out laughing.

“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…”

“Guh-ul-eh-ssssss!” (J-Man-ese for “Let it snow” we supposed.)

“I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams…”

(Pause, pause, pause, pause.) “Sssssss-kuh-ssssssss” which we are pretty sure is “Christmas” given he said this a few times.

[Speech tidbit - it's not unusual for him when attempting to say two syllables to switch them. It's quite possible he meant to say "kuh-sssss" for Christmas, but he may very well have switched the two and then corrected himself. ]

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There is that in me - I do not know what it is - but I know it is in me.

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

- Selections from “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman

Time and again, I’ve encouraged everyone whose child is significantly developmentally delayed to take all their “What Your Child Should be Doing at 142.234505 Weeks” books and chuck them out the window. Don’t even give them to other parents. If you feel guilty about this, recycle them and be good to the earth or something. Personally, I think it’s best to get an oil drum, throw all of them in along with pictures of Dr. Spock and Butthead Bettelheim, and set the whole damn thing on fire.

Still, with our revelation that J-Man is recognizing printed words (typing ‘reading’ is still hard to get used to!), it did get us wondering, Is it ‘normal’ for your average 3.3-year-old child to be doing this? His teacher gave a succinct reply, “Um, no.”

The thing is, I have absolutely no context for what ‘typically developing’ children do anymore.

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[Another event so good it requires two posts!]

We celebrate our 200th post with a monumental achievement by the J-Man. Even though we were quite skeptical before, he really IS reading words!!

We pulled out these ’sight words’ cards we have, which are basically just flash cards with one word per card and nothing else (no pictures, etc. that might give the kid hints). All we did was hold up the cards one at a time and say “What is this?” or “What word is this?” None of that “point to red” or similar kinds of exercises we’ve done before.

And by God, he read them - a lot of them.

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