Whitterer on Autism

The term ‘non-verbal’ often accompanies a diagnoses of autism. Just as autism is a spectrum disorder, the term ‘non-verbal’ covers a vast range of impairment. Some children do not speak at all, others are suspected of being an ‘elective mute.’ It is not a simple question of counting the number of single words a child ‘can’ speak. It is not particularly helpful to note that on ‘average’ a child may speak 6 words per day, especially if all those words arrive on the same day, to leave the rest of the week [or month] in silence.

It is difficult to tie cognitive abilities or measure an IQ by the complexity or simplicity of their vocabulary. For example if a child cannot say the word ‘green’ but can perfectly pronounce ‘Corythosaurus,’ what does that tell you? What if someone can verbally describe every train engine invented, differentiating each with precision, but is unable to name any foodstuff? These questions, and many like them, can torture a parent. Whilst a little knowledge may be a dangerous thing, greater knowledge often makes the questions you want to ask more confusing still.

As my boys become less non-verbal, I fixate on what they do say and what they leave out or avoid. My youngest is 18 months ‘behind.’ His older brother is two and a half years ‘behind.’ Their frustrations lessen as more words become available to them.

Maybe we’re better off listening instead?

She displays her new 'pet' lizard with pride. The boys are initially dubious, but it's difficult, if not impossible, to ignore her enthusiasm. She transfers the lizard from the watering can to a box. A great deal of discussion about reptiles ensues. Each child has a monologue on the subject. No-one listens to anyone else's input. It's like three visiting professors, each in their own soundproof box, pontificating.

“What dey are eat?” pipes up junior. I resist correcting his grammar as he has voluntarily asked an indirection question about food, a coup for the “neophobic.” I want to say 'flies and worms,' but choose the safer vegetarian option of leaves, seeds and grains, because lizards know their food pyramid.

One person is motivated to name the pet. The boys see this as a pointless exercise and refuse any suggestion she makes. She lectures them about all the world's little creatures which they eventually warm to. Her choices are ridiculed. The boys select names that either rhyme with lizard or start with the letter 'l.'

The subject of 'escape' of the new pet, becomes the new topic, if not concern. Solutions abound. The necessity for 'oxygen,' is interjected by a fourth independent adult party. The information is received with shock. Yes, lizards breathe too. It is hard to reach a consensus of opinion. The options are, in no particular order of priority; a ring of mouse traps, a lid that is soft to prevent injury with holes to assist life duration, a cat to guard and keep it safe.

The fifth party adult, points out that cats are more than a bit partial to lizards. All are delighted to learn of the friendship between the cold blooded and the warm blooded. In the interests of clarity, a translator explained that by 'partial' their father means 'eat.' More shock and consternation rustles through the small audience, once the true nature of this pertinent but unwelcome fact, has been processed. The concept of “death” is always guaranteed to evoke a meltdown of catastrophic proportions in junior. I nibble my bottom lip and wait. Will he connect 'lunch menu' with “death of lizard?” That is certainly one particular fixation that I am careful to avoid reference to.

In this instance, a general denial filters through them. Clearly the information is false. Surely no right thinking cat would eat a lizard? Their father points out that cats, all cats in fact, are carnivores. Silence. Several people cogitate and process. The pampered pussy cats in our household eat dried food only, as recommended by their very expensive veterinarian. The poor deprived creatures have yet to even get a sniff of the tinned stuff.

The convention of youth continues in silent internal debate. Facts and evidence in support percolate. Junior voices an opinion on behalf of his siblings, “no, I sorry about it but you are being dah very stoopid person.” Both his parents delight at his polite but not deferential tone. “Our cats do not eat dah lizards, dey are being dah crunchivores.”

It is just as I hear the garage door close with spouse's departure that I realize that I am in a pickle. My son, even in the morning is technically non verbal. After jaw surgery, I am effectively non verbal also. The cleaners are coming. Senior son is home with me as his asthma is too severe to go to school. I debate how to explain this to the cleaners, that there will be two bodies skulling around the place getting in their way? I have no-one to interpret for me. I consider waving my wipe board at them, but my Spanish speaking is of 'Dora the Explorer' standard and I certainly couldn't write anything in Spanish. I mutter mentally, moaning and complaining, what am I going to do? I have 45 minutes to come up with a plan.

I don't know how much spouse explained about my condition to them during the previous fortnight? [translation = two weeks of recouperation] I run a finger tip check over my mouth and count the pins and needles per square centimeter; no chance. We snuggle on the sofa whilst my sluggish brain begins to plot. I start scheduling with my son. I write a list of our days 'events' to pre-empt repeated questions along the lines of 'what we do next?' at 35 second intervals throughout the day. I am lazy and befuddled. I write rather than be imaginative and use icons.

At three he could read. Somewhere between that time and now, when he is seven and a half, he has mislaid that skill. Therefore, this is not my hyperlexic one, this is my 'I never read anything under any circumstances unless you put hot coals to the soles of my feet' one. I tap the board to save speaking and catch his attention. He reads aloud. He reads aloud perfectly. His eyes flick between my eyes and the board. I write another sentence and we repeat the exercise inbetween his coughs and my dribbles. We appear to be in agreement. I know this, not because he verbally agrees, but because we both put our hands in a thumbs up gesture and make eye contact. He reads additional sentences and we make the same gestures; four points of acquiescence.

I cannot fathom if this really is a complex social situation or whether I am making mountains out of molehills?

When the door bell rings he scampers out to the hall where Maria and her team appear with copious cleaning equipment. I am a few steps behind. As I approach, I hear my son talk to her on his own volition: “I am ill, so I am home. Mum is ill. Er, mum is more iller dan me. We are bowf home together but we will be good.” Maria blinks. She has known my son since he was 18 months old. I doubt if she has ever been honoured with as many words in as many years. My puff ball face smiles at her. She shakes her head slowly and runs a hand over his silky hair.