Tag Archives: disability

Erase the Word!

I remember sitting on a hard chair, going through the motions, listening to the analysis of my son – the reports and information which had been collated on him.

We spoke about his delayed speech, his lack of interaction and his low levels of engagement. It was hard dissecting every level of my child. Documenting where he was behind. Discussing where he was not meeting the grade defined by the milestones of the standard parenting guidance.

Then the diagnosis came.

Autism Spectrum Disorder!

“So is he high or low functioning?” I asked. Wanting to know where he fell on this so called “spectrum” I had heard so often mentioned.

I wanted the paediatrician to stand up and draw a line on the whiteboard behind her and show me where my son fitted on this high-low continuum that everyone talked about. I then wanted her to point me to the books and guidance of how to approach it. I wanted the toolkit.

The toolkit however never came, and over months and years I had to gather it together myself. This was psychology, it was not math. It was not black and white. It was not a clear definition, just a recognition that my son had social and communication challenges. I had to work it out myself and through trial and error, find what worked in our situation.

I had to work it out because people are unique!

Every one of us is different. There is not one solution or magic handout that meets every set of circumstances.

To every person I met after that, I found myself saying “Rhys has been diagnosed with autism” but then I would promptly add “but he is high functioning!”

It was a statement (although not realising it at the time ) I was saying to make myself feel better. But it was also a sense of denial, where I was trying to ignore my son’s unique characteristics and didn’t want to accept the full membership into “Club Autism”

But in that one statement, I was separating autism from society and confirming that it was something that we had just scratched the surface of and didn’t want the membership into!

But even worse, it was a slap in the face for those who had greater challenges than us – or did they? I hadn’t paused to consider others and the extreme variances across the spectrum, or that some of my own son’s characteristics would be far more challenging than others.

So I stopped.

I started to learn more about autism, and that it was OK. It was new and I had a lot to understand, a lot to digest. But more importantly, I removed the words ‘High Functioning’ from my vocabulary.

My son is autistic. He has challenges in areas of speech, communication and perceptive language, but he has strengths in maths, a photographic memory, cuteness and laughter.

So from that point forward whenever someone asked me where my son was on the scale of autism, my response was that he was autistic. Nothing else. No high. No low.

It sounded strange, I was suddenly not justifying where he sat amongst the other autistics. But when I paused to think about it, I asked myself, “When was the last time I was asked where I fitted on the Neurotypical scale?” When in general conversation had I been asked how good or challenged I was against my peers?

If I had to answer and say “I struggle with faces and names” people don’t nod and tilt their head to the side, and give me a sad caring face with a reply of “Oh I am so sorry!”

Of course they don’t! So why should we treat our children that way?

We are all unique with our own strengths and challenges. So let’s remove “High Functioning” from our vocabulary and just see each other for who we are.

My son is autistic, and we are learning what works as we get through each day. Just like every other parent. Just like every other child.

Let’s stop pigeon holing each other.

Let’s remove High Functioning from our vocabulary and just be unique.

Let’s just be ourselves.

#erasetheword

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Bail Me Out!

I was put in jail today.

Let me start at the beginning…

It didn’t go well from the very beginning, as I helped Rhys into the car for our weekly shopping trip. “Here’s the shopping list” I said, handing him his list of pictures in the same way I do every week. But he had other ideas and with a returned response of “No!” he threw the list on the car floor, followed by, “It fall down, it fall down!”

I had already started to accelerate the car forward, so I pulled to the side of the road, stretched over and picked up the list, handing it to him once again. He took it from my hold, but immediately discarded it back to the floor. It was a game I wasn’t going to play, so I continued forward along the road, coming to the supermarket with a child slightly less happy than when we left.

“Rhys shopping” I said opening the door and taking his hand. He walked, although reluctantly, towards the trolleys, and climbed up onto the heavy goods shelf which we use as a trolley buggy-board.

All seemed to be going to the standard plan, as I pushed the trolley and my son forwards into the shop. It was semi-busy (medium if you want a good gauge of crowd limits) as I pushed up the first isle of fruit and vegetables.

“Rhys, apples?” I said, holding out the apples and then pointing to the little apple picture on his list.

I gestured him to move it across to the red ‘done’ section in the way he does every week, but Rhys turned his back on me, and collapsed to the shop floor, a full on protest against the shopping trip.

Even ignoring social distancing, the space for my fellow shoppers to meander around him was non-existent, so I bent down and lifted him up, but only after he let his tongue make contact with the floor for a good corona tasting session!

As we moved down each isle, I turned the trip into an episode of Supermarket Sweep. The bread got a battering at the bottom of the trolley, with the eggs somehow staying intact throughout the experience. The new game show experience was made more complex with constant lifting of Rhys from the floor, or immediate trolley abandonment, as he ran down isles and through gaps in the supermarket shelving.

I soon agreed with myself that I had enough items to consolidate into some sort of eating experience, and headed to the tills, with Rhys in a fireman lift over my right shoulder, and my left arm manoeuvring a semi-full trolley down the final isle.

People stared, but I was beyond caring. This was an experience I was about to just write off, and all I had to do was get past those tills in front of me and into my car towards home.

The end of the experience was so close, but Mrs Old Lady in front of me, was taking her time trying to work out the complexity of contactless payments, only adding to Rhys’ urgency to get out-of-the-shop!

Rhys ran through the tills and lay horizontal across the floor, blocking the exit to anyone keen to leave. He kicked off his shoes, each one flinging across the space, leaving a middle aged man, unsure how to proceed past the situation.

“Just go round him!” I shouted, having totally given up on any shred of dignity I had left. The man pushed his trolley, making sure not to roll over a foot or stray leg, and I just continued to place my groceries on the belt, knowing the quicker I did it, the quicker this nightmare would be over.

“One, two, three” suddenly came through the tannoy system. A voice I vaguely recognised, but out of context I just couldn’t place. Then I turned my head and saw the origin of the sound. Rhys stood on a chair at the end of the tills, the announcement phone in his hand, and his mouth moving in speech.

I let my shopping and ran towards him, hoisting him into my arms, returning the handset and taking one big breath. All this had to be over soon!

I started to place the last few items into the trolley, with Rhys secured safely on my hip.

“One hundred and sixteen pounds, please?” asked the kind cashier, “would that be cash or card?”
I pulled out my card, and putting it into the slot, entered the code. The screen immediately beeped and a message appeared saying “Card declined”.

I stared at the screen. There was money in my account, what was happening. I tried a few more times, and each time I was rejected.

“Do you have another card Ms?”
“Yes, but I don’t know the pin” I replied, starting to panic not knowing the options to get out of the situation!

I was ushered to the side, Rhys still on my hipΒ  and my trolley of unpaid shopping beside me. “I’ll contact the bank” I said, and through the banking app got hold of a lovely lady called Lidy via the chat.

‘To ensure this is not a fraudulent claim, please send us a selfie of you holding a form of ID’Β  she said via the letters entered across my screen.

Then my phone screen dimmed, and a low battery message flashed before me.

“Crap!”

I cut-off Lidy (she probably wasn’t human anyway) and punched the only number I knew into my phone, hoping I had enough juice to allow me my one phone call.

“I need your card” I blurted out. Then the screenΒ  went blank.

I could feel the sweat accumulating on my skin as my nerves took hold. I thought about removing my coat to cool down, but then remembered that I was braless, and it was not a sight I could present to the world, even though I had taken them through enough already.

As I suddenly looked to where Rhys was, I was once again taken aback to see him seated at an empty till pushing on some buttons which must have done something, but I had no clue what! So I once again hoisted him onto my hip, and stood waiting in hope that my saviour would arrive.

It took ten minutes. A long ten minutes, but my husband walked in with a card in his hand. He looked at me and smiled.
“You ok?”
“Yes, I’m fine” I blurted.
He then looked at Rhys, and then back at me. “Well done. I dont think I would have had the strength to hold it all together as well as you do. Let’s go home”

Handing over his card to the shop manager, he paid my bail, and we left with just a smidgeon of my dignity still in tact.

I might try a different supermarket next week!

πŸ›’πŸ›’πŸ›’πŸ›’πŸ›’πŸ›’πŸ›’πŸ›’πŸ›’πŸ›’πŸ›’

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A Tribe Worth Belonging

Lonely

That’s I how I felt!

It was the feeling of being left behind. The feeling of everyone else being part of a crowd that I did not belong to and could not belong to. We didn’t have the criteria to go along with the crowd. The crowd whose children were running around together, being surprised by new adventures, making their first friendships, talking and conversing with each other in a natural untaught way.

There are so many feelings that overwhelm you when you realise your child is not “the same” as everyone else’s. There are feelings of fear, the unknown, anxiety, hope, upset, stress, and sadness. But the feeling that trumped it all for me, in the beginning, was loneliness.

My group of friends who continue to be everything to me, handed me words of reassurance, “Everything is going to be ok” and “I am here for you” and “He will catch up”. These were the phrases they recited, in the way that every friend would do. My friends have continued to be there for me. They have celebrated our achievements, and they have been a shoulder to cry on when I have had no where to go. But they were also as knowledgeable in autism as I was at the time, when I was beyond clueless.

My friends went on outings together and sat on the side catching up with a cuppa and cheeky piece of cake. Their children ran around within their line of sight. They were probably having the normal parental stresses you would expect, like checking where their child was at all times, and concerns if they fell or lost their friends. But they looked relaxed and enjoying the world they lived in and the progression their child made, in how it was expected to be made.

I often sent excuses to these catch-ups. It was easier than trying to explain that Rhys wouldn’t enter the location they had planned. Or try and describe the meltdown he had experienced the week before, at the entrance, not even managing to get into the foyer. The failure I felt inside not knowing why or how to solve an issue I did not know existed. The embarrassment from people staring at me and me not knowing what to do to rectify the situation, with my main focus being on getting the hell out of there.

In the occasions that I could get Rhys into different establishments, I was not the parent sitting on the side sipping a cup of tea and talking about the latest gossip. I was in constant sight of Rhys. I would panic about him physically pushing a younger child, not because he was violent, but because that was how he communicated – physically. I would be trying to apologise to a parent who was appalled about how Rhys had approached their child, explaining something I actually had know knowledge or experience about. I was too vulnerable to stand up and explain, finding myself apologising and edging away, because I was broken and unsupported in the mist that surrounded me.

At this time Rhys did not have a diagnosis. Autism was a word I had heard but knew just that, the word. I knew none of its context.

I was alone in a world of confusion, and could not even start to imagine how it felt for Rhys.

My friend’s children continued on the recognised path of development, and we moved in parallel, at snails pace. We were extremely behind and didn’t have the stepping stones they had to progress. We just drowned in a world we did not understand or know how to navigate through. I didn’t know where to look for help or information and support.

I stayed behind closed doors for a long time. Battling through the process with paediatricians, speech therapists, psychologists, occupational therapists and ENT surgeons. Just to name a few.

I was alone. This was a norm I had never heard about, with everyone else leading ‘normal’ lives, with the remaining being part of a secret autism society I could not get the membership card to.

It was when I went on the early bird course lead by the National Autistic Society that I started to connect with other parents, just like me. They were just normal families with the same struggles as us and roamed the same places we did (there was no secret group who were hidden away – they were among us). I had found people who I could talk to. People who understood the complexities of autism – from a parent’s perspective. We laughed about things that I would never share with my ‘non-autism’ friends, because they just wouldn’t get it.

I call them my Tribe. A group who are there to support, fight and laugh together over things that other ‘normal’ families do, but also the other things that only we understand and get.

In the UK, 1 in 100 people are on the autism spectrum, and there are many more that are undiagnosed. If you include families in these figures, you are looking at 2,8 million people in the UK with a first hand experience.

You are not alone if you or your child is autistic. Walk down the street and you are guaranteed to pass at least one autistic person. Search famous people and there are amazing individuals who are have changed or who are changing this world in way a no Neurotypical person can.

You will already know someone with a link to autism. I know this because every person I have spoken to about my son has either confirmed that one of their family members are autistic or a close friend or colleague.

Autism is everywhere, and the feeling of loneliness I felt, was short lived. As soon as I lifted my head up and spoke about it, a whole new world opened up for me, and in turn allowed me to enter into Rhys’ world and help him and broaden it into mine.

We need to raise the awareness of Autism. We are not alone in this. We are part of this and part of a world that needs a range of different minds to move forward. Different doesn’t mean unable, different means flexibility, perspective and progression in different ways. Ways that can achieve amazing things.

πŸ‘¨β€πŸ¦±πŸ‘¨πŸ‘³β€β™‚β€πŸ‘©πŸ§•πŸ‘§πŸ§’πŸ‘Ά

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Spinning to Success!

At Rhys’ three year developmental check, the health visitor sat with an assortment of toys and papers in front of her.
“Rhys, can you stack the blocks?” she asked, placing three inch square blocks in front of him.

Rhys paid no attention to the lady and casually placed one block on top of the next with no effort. He managed eight blocks all sporadically aligned but perfectly balanced.

I didn’t gasp in amazement or shine with pride at his efforts. Rhys built block towers all day long. He hadn’t followed an instruction, he had just seen blocks in front of him, and done instinctively what he knew and loved.

He failed every other test that day. He failed because every test required Rhys to follow an instruction. A bundle of words that were just noise to Rhys from a strange object that sat in our living room.

From that day on, he failed every “test” because of the communication and engagement element that is vital to prove Rhys could do something. It was the foundation to everything in order to move forward.

I had a little boy who could not talk, but even more relevant was that he couldn’t understand or process language. A simple request to a three or even four year old of “pass me that toy” while gesturing to it with pointing, made no sense to Rhys. The physical action of identifying an object coupled with words, was foreign to him and just a jumble up of sounds and hand movements.

My strategy was to get him to understand a handful of words and associated actions. Things we could build on, and add to engagement opportunities.

I would place an object in his hand and say “Take to Daddy”, initially taking him by the hand and getting him to deliver the object. Through repetition, these physical prompts associated with words, started to form connections in his mind that made sense. He began to follow the commands without fail.

Things were slow, but we kept on powering through.

As I sat on the floor this evening reading to Rhys’ older brother, Rhys sat playing with a Lego helicopter. He spun the propellers around, enjoying the motion. However Lego is only a pile of blocks at the end of the day, and a vigorous spin will always end in a disastrous way.

“Mummy, help Rhys” he asked, holding the propeller out to me. The decapitated helicopter lay on its side about a meter away from me on the carpet.

“Rhys, get helicopter” I said, pointing to the red lego toy.
“Mummy help” responded Rhys, touching the propeller in my hand, reconfirming his request.
I tried again but with a different word. “Rhys, helicopter here” once again pointing to it.
“Mummy help, broken” Rhys replied, getting slightly frustrated.
I gave it one last try, ” Rhys, pass helicopter”

Something triggered in his mind and in the split second that he looked at me, I knew something was about to happen. To my amazement, he followed my finger and reached for the helicopter, bringing it to my open hand.

Something turned in my tummy in excitement. I placed the propeller on top of the red roof, gave it a test spin and held it out for Rhys. Of all the action words I used, none were part of Rhys’ mental dictionary, until I used the word “pass”. The word “pass” was what made a difference today. The word “pass” is going to open up so many more opportunities going forward.

I held out the helicopter to Rhys, but before I removed my grasp I asked, “What do you say?”
“Thank you” he replied.

I smiled and eased my hand from the toy.

Things will happen when you least expect them, and often it is just slight changes like a different word or action, that result in amazing things.

I was so proud of Rhys tonight, as I watched him return to spinning the toy. I was proud at how far he has come and the development barriers we both break down together.

🚁🚁🚁🚁🚁🚁🚁🚁🚁

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Can We Let It Go?

In 2013, the epic film telling us all to just ‘Let It Go’ hit our screens, with crazy round bellied snow men and reindeer with strange impressions crunching carrots. Little girls ran down hallways in snowflake encrusted gowns, trains of material temping the naughty foot to entice an unfortunate trip up.

For those without kids, you may think the magic of Elsa faded as those young children grew up. But I can reassure you that the magic still goes on and she has still not let it go!

My youngest (now three) is the next generation of frozen enthusiasts, even getting hooked on the sequel (dvd release), and my eldest from the first generation of frozen excitement, still has the magic in his bones.

Santa was thoughtful this year and sent an amazing Easy Keyboard Tunes book of Disney songs, including all the classics, from bouncing Tiggers to the tune of the monkey wanting the secret of man’s red flower. But it would not have been five star Amazon rated without the Frozen classic, and thankfully it did not disappoint.

The book’s crisp pages were turned with each song receiving a gasp of excitement, by my eldest, as he marvelled at the selection of choice.

“This one he shouted” and placing the book on its holder, he lined up his fingers on the keys.

Now my middle son, Rhys, loves music, but has become quite particular about the songs which can be sung and anyone in the house striking up a tune. Many reasons spin through my mind, from the lack of perfect pitch his audience emanates, to the song versions not correlating to what he has playing in his head. His autism means he likes things in a certain way, and lack of tune does not rank highly in his book.

Music has always been part of his life.

But we carry on, and find new songs which he doesn’t know, therefore ensuring the tune can form a new connection and experience for him. We have got very creative over the years.

So when my eldest decided to strike a note it was going to be interesting to see Rhys’ reaction.

The first few notes started to be played representing the first words of the classic tune we had all grown to love (or is it hate?) As the notes moved through the song, in a clunky, unusual flow, I could hear the familiarity in it.

My eldest didn’t sing the words, the concentration of the first run through of the notes was enough at this moment. But as we listened, a tiny voice who had never sung the song in his life suddenly came to life in the next room.

🎡 Let it go, let it go … 🎡

“Did you hear that?” I shouted to my eldest.
“Rhys is singing the song” he responded.

We both beamed with pride at what we had heard, these moments are magical in our house, the sudden demonstration of development or proof that we are moving forward with engagement, speech and interaction. The sign that we are doing things right!

We immediately both broke into tune, ecstatic that Rhys had picked up on all the years of frozen excitement and was ready to experience in a joint love.

🎡Can’t hold it back anymore
Let it go, let it go
Turn away and slam the door
I don’t care what they’re going to say β€¦πŸŽ΅

We were both belting it out, the keyboard notes all over the place, our inability to multi task so early on in our musical immaturity. We were bopping around thinking we were West end stars, both understanding the leap forward Rhys had made in recognising a piece of music and then assigning the words.

But our impromptu party was abruptly halted, as Rhys entered the room and screamed full pelt at us. We felt like misbehaved school kids who had taken a bit of classroom jubilee a step too far, the noise trailing down the corridors to the heads office.

The singing stopped, the dancing halted, and my eldest clawed back the excitement placing his fingers calmly back on the black and ivory to play the notes properly.

But the words didn’t stop,

🎡 Let it go, let it go 🎡

Sang Rhys, all on his own without the fuss of us crazy nut cases!

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