Showing posts with label Parenting Autistic children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenting Autistic children. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 29, 2020

AutisticWhileBlack: Lift Your Family Out Of Autism Mourning Culture

Image of Mu in a red and black t-shirt and black shorts
under a canopy that protects him from
insects without the use of bug repellent, posted with
the permission of the subject. © Kerima Cevik
Mourning is a word that parents, including me, have misused. Being told by a medical doctor that our son would never improve and would eventually be institutionalized caused my entire family to break down in tears of shock. When we got home after an entire day of grueling tests and traumatic news, my husband, daughter, and I hugged Mu and one another and I vowed he wouldn't see the inside of any institution. Then we helped one another buck up and find ways to teach him and enrich his life.

We need to be clear about the language we use to describe milestones like diagnosis day in our children's lives.
I said this elsewhere I am going to repeat it here. I can't tell people how to govern their emotions. My activism is among other things, against parents and carers who abuse and eventually murder their autistic children. The pattern of abuse in every case, and I mean every case, begins with the appropriation and perversion of the process and meaning of mourning.

The Kübler-Ross model of five stages of grief is itself problematic. Yet parent-led autism organizations continue to espouse the appropriation of this model and apply it to parents mourning their children's diagnosis of autism.

Quoting the article "It's Time To Let The Five Stages of Grief Die" on the topic of applying a hypothesis based on anecdotal interviews on how patients handle a terminal illness diagnosis to any or all manner of grief/mourning:
"Despite the lack of evidence to back up the Kübler-Ross stage theory of grief, its original birthplace, On Death and Dying, has been cited 15 509 times on Google Scholar at the time of writing. It has been applied to everything from the grief processes of those diagnosed with diseases like COPD or HIV, to the grief experienced by caregivers of those with dementia; patients who have amputations due to diabetes; doctors who receive low patient satisfaction scores or go through reduced resident work hours; even (and I am not making this up) the grief experienced by consumers after the iPhone 5 was a disappointment."
 And we can add to this the constant presentation of the same expectation of mourning to autism parents. Parents get caught up in a culture of prolonged mourning. They wallow in it. They escalate their own emotional upheaval by seeking out online groups and followers who perpetuate the cycle of this appropriated mourning culture such that said mourning breeds resentment that combined with chronic insomnia end in harm to autistic youth. 

So while I began with being sad at the initial news on a diagnosis day, this perpetual mourning was not a thing I did. My family was given our son's diagnosis in the most brutal and clinical way possible. But our son was right there. He deserved better and we understood that. As Mu got older we realized that the temporary reactive sadness we experienced and overcame wasn't the culture of mourning that some other groups of parents were steeping themselves in. We began efforts to seek out parents who saw their children as they were and accepted them without this constant cycle of mourning based upon inaccurate stages of grief not meant for disability diagnosis at all. Eventually, I came across Jim Sinclair's Don't Mourn For Us. After reading it, I felt that our family was on the right path, and we began to actively stay away from groups of parents who pushed this mourning culture rather than discussing what could be done to support and facilitate better lives for our son and his peers.

Mourning has a meaning that implies catastrophic loss and that, when your child is right in front of you and needs you to be present and supportive rather than grieving and disconnected, is, in my opinion, a reason for a parent to reach out for mental health counseling until they are in a better place and can see their children as they are without mourning the idealization of a child that never existed. Stepping away from this culture of mourning autistic children opens the door to self-healing and true acceptance of disability. We parents should be given a mental health roadmap from diagnosis day onward. Parents need to be certain they have themselves together when this journey begins. Whatever issues we have, individually and, if applicable, as a couple, need sorting before we can help our autistic children. That begins with the culture presented on diagnosis day. There is no room for medical professionals abandoning hope when the potential of an autistic nonspeaking child is not yet measured. Dumping pamphlets on parents and sending them on their way is not the answer either. We are doing diagnosis day the wrong way. We are creating the beginning of this culture of perpetual mourning that fossilizes into resentment and may potentially escalate to violence against autistic children and youth. 

I can't speak for everyone. But when my family made a group decision to step away from the parent mourning culture, we began to see progress with our son that professionals were not getting from him. The most important gift any parent can give to their disabled offspring is the understanding that they are loved, they are capable, they are competent. That can't happen if we insist on mourning what we imagine they might have been if disability were not part of their lives.

Monday, February 22, 2016

Afterlife

The apocalypse came early. Our son was only 5 when the first bomb exploded in his life. It wasn’t his diagnosis day when we stood in shock while he played with toys in a pediatric neurologist’s office at one of the best medical centers in the world.  It wasn’t the labels they nailed to his person in an attempt to crucify him with the neurodivergence that made him forever distinguishable from his peers. The first day of the end of the world as he and all of us who love him knew it was when he came home from his early learning placement with a wound on his face and no note of explanation as to how it got there. That was the day we began the war of attrition for his safety and right to an education. But in the background, with a sound so soft that we could not quite hear it, a clock ticked away the minutes until what we called our life exploded, and life after the apocalypse began.

 Tic…Tic…Tic

Incident after incident, the unexplained injuries, the insults, the racial slurs, the unwillingness to try to educate him because by their own account he was too disabled for it to matter.
All my worst fears welled up and spilled into my sleep, flooding it with the nightmares of threats and gunfire, and a cross burning on my uncle’s lawn. The legacy of the one drop rule reared its hateful head, and structural racism came to claim my poor son, attacking him in his place of learning where he should have been safe because the ghost of his Black ancestors lived in his mother’s skin and in his face and eyes. Harm came like the four horsemen and I fought back as only a mother who knows the sound of the whip, the pounding hooves of disaster and stench of hate against her child can…

 Tic…Tic…Tic

We pulled him out of school. We consulted lawyers and learned they were more concerned with profiting off our son’s misfortunes than helping make things right. We hired educational consultants and learned they were more interested in good relations with the school district than fighting for the services and accommodations they admitted they knew our nonspeaking Autistic/Black/Indigenous/ American/Turkish/Italian/Hispanic son needed to achieve the dream of a “free and appropriate” education.  Our frustration when he came home starving each day and we couldn’t prove why built on itself until May 19th, the horrific day at an IEP meeting when they brought my lovely 5-year-old to the room and he hugged me and kept signing “food” and his cruel, disgusting teacher blithely said “um, we didn’t feed him lunch. He’s probably hungry. I’ll get some food for him.” It was 3 pm and I wanted to lunge across the meeting table and break my ages old vow of nonviolence and slap that monster WHY DID YOU NOT FEED MY SON WHEN WE PAY FOR LUNCHES IN ADVANCE AND BROUGHT EXTRA FOOD?!?  The shock of the matter of fact public revelation in the middle of a recorded IEP meeting robbed me of speech.

Tic…Tic…Tic…

New school, more harm, more lies, classrooms segregated by race, seclusion, more veiled threats, and one day, that awful phone call from another principal her voice breaking “we’ve lost your son. We don’t know when he went missing. We don’t know how long he’s been missing. We don't know how he could have exited the building.”

Tic…Tic…Tic… 

Disinterested local police, district school administrators more interested in managing the risk of a potential lawsuit and we are the only ones shouting OH MY GOD WHERE IS OUR SON? His father begins running from his office, running from the other side of Maryland towards the place where they lost our son while I scream silently over and over because he loves cars and buses and the ebb and flow of traffic and it is a cold February day and one of them says he has no shoes and no coat and I collapse in a chair but I can't hear myself because my daughter is shaking me and screaming "what's wrong what's wrong!?!" Calling the whole world because NO ONE IS HELPING and there is a pond behind the school and he can’t swim

Tic…Tic…Tic… 
Found? Some stranger, a man, brings him, wet, scared, and asks “is this his school?” The principal stutters over the phone, “Someone found him. He’s okay; he’s with the school nurse.” I look at his big sister and say the words and we rush, running to get him. The principal stands as if waiting for a physical blow from me. I look down at her, not hearing or caring what she's saying and almost whisper, “give me my son.” My husband is howling at the superintendent of schools and howling at the train that seems to not be moving fast enough and howling with the fear that irreparable harm may have been done to his youngest child and only son. Meanwhile his sister and I grab our boy, my oldest child cradling her baby brother like porcelain, nearly carrying him out the school doors although he is over half her weight and so tall his head nearly reached her shoulders and we RUN out of that hell hole and now we sit at his doctor’s office, where all the staff heard and the doctor who should have closed shop an hour ago is waiting to do that awful exam for signs of rape and we wait, wait, wait while the doctor calms him and wait, not breathing and when he smiles at us with tears standing in his eyes and whispers “he’s okay, he’s okay” his sister and I hug one another and cry and cry until he becomes worried and begins to fuss. We hug him and dress him and place him in his special needs stroller and wheel him out and someone from the staff mumbles, “we have your insurance but today’s visit is free” and it is only then that we see that the staff is standing, tears falling silently from faces that once wore the indifferent and uncomfortable expressions of those who can’t tolerate disabled children but must serve them because they mean a paycheck.

Tic…Tic…Tic… Tic… …Boom went our lives.
 Because one thing some school districts know how to do is cover up and retaliate.  Public school is no longer safe; in fact, it never was. I look at the Montessori work we did on school breaks, do a consult with a Montessori teacher and then comes the gathering of equipment and the paperwork filing and the swearing under my breath that they would not put our son in danger again. How do I take this on? How do I educate him? I am overwhelmed. The room spins.
Boom!
Our daughter changes her college plans. She stays in Maryland. She changes her major. She helps me teach her brother, becoming his paraprofessional and his respite care provider when she learns of exhaustion in me so acute I collapse. My husband works for two for a very long time. He brings home his paycheck and moonlights to bring in mine. I meet my son, without barriers, without being told how to treat him, without anyone telling me I can’t handle him or he can’t learn or retain what is taught him for the first time since his diagnosis.

He is stubborn. So stubborn I laugh in frustration. So charming I am undone. So loud with the use of body language his presence fills a room, yet so quiet that I can hear our breaths in the silence of the day’s tasks.  He and I begin our quiet, bright dance of give-and-take. I was meant to teach him, but he patiently teaches me, to tolerate, to listen with my eyes as well as my ears, to see the places, things, textures that overwhelm him, to read and prep and comfort and let him go and grow.

Afterlife is silent. 
Beyond the blasted landscape of disappointment and destroyed trust, a green sprout of optimism fights its way out. Hope after harm. He slowly begins to smile again. Year one after the apocalypse and the screaming when anyone male enters a room stops. Year three is the beginning of food security. He begins to really believe he won’t go hungry even if he misbehaves. Year four and he’s laughing on FaceTime as his father uses his lunch break to see his son each day.
Father and son FaceTime while I act as IT support for our son. ©Kerima Cevik


Afterlife is safe. 
It is warmed with our happiness and peace of mind. It is filled with the few sounds our son makes. Laughter, sometimes nervous giggles, the sound of his running jumping and hooting, the silent gestures that comprise our arguments when he refuses to do his schoolwork. Year five sees a new growth. We spend the year teaching him to not be afraid of the dark. No matter what we sit together and hold fast to one another. Never secluded again. He learns to laugh at the night and look at the moon as his friend.

Afterlife cannot be forever.
He will have to return to the outside world and the cruel, racist, ableist, creatures that live in it. The greater world is his birthright and mine. He must survive the world beyond the sweetness of afterlife. Year five we try to ease him back but schools hold grudges and his is the first of a landslide of cases that nearly ruin a principal’s career. So off we go, to another county, to begin again.

Afterlife is greener now. 
Tiny verdant sprouts of hope for his future are growing into a lush green meadow of rye, ripening to gold, waiting for harvest. The understanding in this new location is as deep as the ignorance was in the other. Trust is building a path towards our son. Are the bricks leading back to inclusion? We just don’t know.
The apocalypse is not quite, but almost, forgotten.

Afterlife is beautiful. 
But beautiful Autistic boys grow up and need to become strong men. Time for mother and father to keep opening the path to the greater world.

Life is calling.


-----------------------------------
For my beloved husband and children in loving gratitude

With thanks to Selene DePackh, because who we are is not the pain we endure, but those  beautiful things we create in spite of it.