relationships

The Brave Speak for Those Who Can’t

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

A friend recently asked me for advice. She has a family member whose toddler shows signs of autism. Knowing the importance and impact of early intervention, she  wants desperately to say something to the parents and suggest their child be assessed. She also has experience as an educator and parent that helps inform her suspicions. So, let’s say she brings up this tough issue and the parents take offense.  Based on what she told me, that’s not an unlikely response.

Does she risk upsetting her relationship with the parents to advocate for the child? That’s a tough choice to make, but I think that answer is yes.

Here was my reassurance to her, which I hope she can pass on to her relative:

  1. Getting a diagnosis doesn’t make autism (or whatever it may be) any truer than it is without the diagnosis.  In that moment that word is uttered in reference to a child (or adult), the person hasn’t changed. She is exactly who she was the moment before.
  2. One gift of the diagnosis is a life-changing light suddenly shone on your child. Many of the questions you may have had are quite suddenly answered. Not all of the questions, of course, because each child (on the spectrum or not) is a unique individual. But you can begin the process of understanding your child in a new way, enabling you to parent them with newfound empathy and patience.
  3. Another gift – and I cannot stress this enough – is that services become more readily available to you. Since Maddie was not diagnosed until around age 10, she struggled through elementary school as the teachers and staff struggled to understand her. And then, magically, we had the word “Asperger’s” to throw around and suddenly Maddie was less of an enigma despite having not changed a bit. Was everything magically solved at that point? Certainly not, but instead of just being the smart, stubborn kid who refused to perform, or the weird kid who repeated the word “paperclip” over and over until she was eventually sent outside the classroom, or the kid who would hide during school hours, throwing the staff into a frenzy, she became a more sympathetic person who deserved compassion and help. It makes me so sad to think about the years she was misunderstood and therefore mistreated.

I was recently talking with a friend in her 40s who has chosen not to have children. If she ever changed her mind, she said, she would want to go right into the teenage years, skipping right past all the noise and messiness that comes with babies and young children. We agreed adopting an older child is fraught with uncertainty, but then I pointed out that even when you have a baby, it’s still a roll of the dice. Your child might become an Oscar-winning actress, or a homeless addict, or a high school valedictorian who goes on to solve world poverty or goes to jail for insider training. Or she might have autism. Or some combination of those things.

Certainly the dreams of an expectant couple do not include addiction or a prison sentence. Or autism (to be clear, I’m not equating autism to either of those things). And yet a diagnosis of autism is an increasingly likely outcome of an assessment. Awareness and the ability to diagnose autism have improved dramatically over the last decade or two, but depending upon the trajectory of a child’s development, and depending upon their gender (boys are more likely than girls to get an early diagnosis), a chid may still go for years without getting a diagnosis and therefore the appropriate help. I know because that’s what happened to us. So many years of pain and frustration and confusion could have been avoided. There are so many things I would have approached differently if only I had better understood the daughter I so desperately wanted to know.

For my entire life deep in my soul I have believed in speaking up for those who cannot speak for themselves. If anybody qualifies for that, it’s a young child with autism. It might take some real courage to speak the words, “Have you thought about having Reilly assessed?” Or “I’ve heard of some services that might benefit Sophia.” But remember, you might be the only person to utter the magic words that eventually open the door to early intervention, a deeper understanding of that child, and continued services throughout that child’s educational experience and beyond.

If you know a family who needs help navigating this special realm of parenting, or who hasn’t dared consider autism or a learning difference a possibility, look into yourself and see if you can find the courage to speak up as an advocate for that child. A gentle observation or suggestion, or a connection to a free assessment, could change the lives of the whole family forever.

Be brave. Speak up with love and compassion. And know in your heart you’re doing the right thing.

And even if you can’t, I still love you.

My Tiny Place in the Universe

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Tonight my husband and I have the good fortune to be in Big Sur, California, for a weekend getaway. We don’t do this very often, so just getting away is wonderful enough on its own, but spending our days and nights on the beautiful and rugged California coast is a gift. We settled into our room and then, after the sun set, strolled up the path way to a soaking infinity tub that overlooks the ocean. We couldn’t see the ocean, of course. Not only is it night time, but the moon was new tonight, just barely an orange sliver that eventually slipped over the horizon. We were left gazing only at the stars (it is REALLY dark here), and there are so many of them visible here. We could even see the milky way. Coming from a small town that lay amid the vast metropolis that is the San Francisco Bay Area, we don’t usually see that many stars. Too many lights below showing people where to go on the ground to see the magnificence above.

Today is the day of the massive terror attacks in Paris. We were blissfully unaware of the events of the day as we spent the afternoon in Carmel near the end of an easy, leisurely drive down the coast.

My husband’s reaction to the news was sadness. Mine was surely sadness, but it manifested itself more as a kick in the stomach. I don’t want anybody suffer the pain and horror and fear and heartbreak that befell this country fourteen years ago, and that on a smaller scale continue to plague us. We read the news shortly after we checked in to our room. My husband was unprepared for bad news. He doesn’t always know how to process it. Who does, really? But I tend to do a little more diving in. I need to gather information and go headfirst into the sadness. I will feel it fully and that’s okay with me.

Out in the pool, sitting in the dark, breathing in the air and the stars and the darkness and the solitude, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude. Here we are, thousands of miles away from such a harrowing tragedy, living our little lives and having our little thoughts. There are billions of stars in the sky. And here we are, two people doing nothing of particular importance in the world, which itself has little particular importance in the scheme of things.

We’re so far removed in every way from real life. Even our own real lives.

I think of Maddie. I think of all the anxiety and stress I feel over parenting her. I think of the weekly chats I have with my therapist, who helps me figure out how to process what I’m facing, how to be good to myself, and how to, in both emotional and practical terms, parent both Maddie and my son. You would think my life, my mom-hood, is momentous based on the mental energy that goes into it.

But in moments like these, I wonder. I am one of those in-the-moment, here-and-now, do-what-needs-to-be-done kind of people. I really don’t spend much time pondering the meaning of life, or what is my path to happiness, or much beyond just living my life. I don’t know if it’s my nature or a product of having a special needs kid, which certainly encourages, if not requires, that kind of outlook.

And today, whatever energy I do put into all that, might seem pointless in the grand view of space and time, particularly when the people in Paris, in Syria, and so many other parts of the world are suffering.

I will go home the day after tomorrow. I will struggle with Maddie to get her to do her homework. I suspect I will have to ask her 20 times to take a shower. I’ll cook dinner (maybe) and clean up the kitchen and throw on a load of laundry. The usual stuff. That’s not going away. And I’m not going to give up trying because of my tiny place in the universe.

I will keep trying because my tiny place is mine, and it’s the only one I’ve got. I’ll keep trying because Maddie deserves it. She deserves to use her tiny place to its maximum potential. She deserves a mom who will see it to the end, who will not let tragedy in the world color her view, who will continue to be optimistic and hopeful about the world. A mom who, despite a constant cycle of bad news, doesn’t have a cynical bone in her body. A mom who believes in Maddie, who believes Maddie’s life is destined for greatness, and by greatness I mean love and compassion.

That’s where it’s at. Love and compassion. I will teach her about the world, its beauty and its sadness, and encourage her to retain the immense gifts of love and compassion with which she was born. That tiny spot in the universe makes a ripple, after all. And even if the ripple is tiny, too, a good ripple is worth making.

To everyone affected by the terrorist attacks in France, my heart goes out to you. May you heal fully and find more love and compassion than ever before. We’re sending it to you from my corner of the world.