Benign Tumours Are Not Harmless, Innocent Or Fine

Back in May my non verbal ten year old son went for a routine MRI scan because he has a genetic condition called Neurofibromatosis Type 1 (NF1). What happened next changed my entire family. A few weeks later I had a phone call from my son’s neurologist to say they had found a brain tumour and after discussions with a neurosurgeon and oncologist he had major brain surgery a few weeks later. My son was admitted to hospital and underwent a six hour craniotomy operation for a brain tumour biopsy. He had a long recovery.

Results came back that his tumour was ‘benign’ so I looked up the word and breathed a huge sigh of relief. According to the dictionary that meant his tumour was ‘harmless, innocent, superficial and innocuous’. Fantastic!

Except it wasn’t.

As his surgeon later explained it actually doesn’t matter wether a tumour is benign or cancerous as, especially in the brain, they are just as dangerous and cause major effects.

My son may need chemotherapy at some point. He may need further surgery. His tumour caused him to be epileptic, vomit, have visual difficulties, lose balance, be very lethargic, and be very unwell.

Benign isn’t fine and never will be.

We need to rethink urgently what benign means.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Joe who has had two years of chemotherapy and is now almost blind.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Tayen who is now on her fourth round of chemotherapy, epileptic, and is completely blind just to name a few of her very complex needs.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Evia who is also blind and has had two years of chemotherapy.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Logan whose tumours in his neck, throat, heat and arms are so aggressive surgery is no longer an option leaving him with lung disease, epilepsy, learning difficulties, scoliosis and hypotonia.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Ella who has endured major surgery on her spine.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Ronnie who has had chemotherapy and now has vision loss.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Isobel who has a tumour in her head mouth and cheek and is blind in one eye and facially disfigured.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Harley who has had two operations, 7 general anaesthetics, 5 MRI’s and chemotherapy.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Jon-Paul who is in chronic pain daily with a tumour on his ankle.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Heather who has had her leg amputated below the knee die to a tumour.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Ruby who has endured surgery and 18 months of chemotherapy for a brain tumour.

Having a benign. Tumour isn’t fine for Dan who has had chemotherapy, sepsis and has vision and hearing loss.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Harvey who needed brain surgery.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Kiki who has had chemotherapy for a brain tumour.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Kearyn who has vision loss.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Teagan who also has had chemotherapy as vision loss.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Elayna who is having brain surgery next month.

Having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Shay who has had two brain tumour surgeries so far.

And finally having a benign tumour isn’t fine for Evie who has operations to remove her tumours resulting in a facial nerve being severed and loss of hearing.

Are any of these cases ‘harmless, innocent, superficial and innocuous’? Is that how you would describe what my families and all these other families have been through and continue to go through?

Tumours related to NF1 May be benign but that doesn’t mean we can ignore them. Benign tumours cause pain, damage, deformities, disabilities and can kill.

For the sake of my son and all the thousands of other families living with benign tumours, wether NF1 related or not please can we redefine what benign means and stops giving the impression that benign tumours are ‘fine’.

They are absolutely NOT fine.

Please support the Childhood Tumour Trust campaign using the hastag #BenignIsNotFine

For more information please see http://www.childhoodtumourtrust.org.uk

Thank you.

To Everyone Who Helped My Son Through Brain Surgery

Rarely in life is the picture small. One simple stone thrown into a still pond creates a ripple that lasts long after the impact. So it has been with my ten years old’s recent brain surgery. This is a thank you to everyone who has been part of that ripple with one little amazing boy at the centre.

To the neurologist who saw my son for the first time after his previous neurologist retired and who immediately referred him for a routine MRI when he noticed it was later than originally planned: thank you for your diligence and quick referral. Without that my son would be suffering right now and no-one would know why. You were the person who threw that pebble and you did it with such attention to detail and care.

To the MRI clinic receptionist who called me with the date for that MRI: You had no idea you would be calling me several times again a few months later and we would recognise each other’s voices. Thank you for your professionalism and your cheery demeanour. I know we will be talking again soon, sooner in fact than anyone thought.

To the nurses who looked after my son on the day ward and have done five times now as he has become a regular in that day surgery. Thank you for always booking him a single room 3 because experience has taught us he won’t go anywhere else and doing all his checks as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. You take the time to understand him and allow me freedom to support him the way that works best without interfering. You make what is a long and difficult day more manageable for both him and me.

To the anaesthetist who I know like a friend: thank you for always putting my heart at rest and listening to my concerns. I alway know I am putting my baby in safe hands. Thank you for your reassurance time and time again. I was hoping we wouldn’t see each other for a while but when we meet again soon I will once again leave you with my sleeping child and trust you to keep him safe. You have proved your worth and continue to do so.

To the radiographers who have looked at my sons scans so many times and who have spotted first a tumour on his optic nerve, then other signs of concern and who quickly alerted medical staff to the mass on his right frontal lobe. Thank you for your attention to detail. Your diligence and thoroughness are what have made the difference between surgeons removing active brain cells and dead ones in my sons complex brain. You are partly responsible for his great recovery and quality of life.

To the oncologist, neurosurgeon, neurologist and radiologists who have met and discussed my son’s case numerous times: I know he has caused division and discussion but thank you to every single one of you for caring enough to want to help and investing your time and energy in seeking answers.

Thank you again to the neurologist left to make that call to me to say what had been found on my sons scan. I can only imagine the turmoil that call caused to have to phone an anxious mum at tea time and tell her surgeons she had never met wanted to do brain surgery on her non verbal autistic son because they had found ‘something” in his brain they didn’t like. You made that call with such compassion, such concern, yet such clarity that you left me feeling my son would be looked after and all would be well even though I was in shock. Thank you for going above and beyond and calling back the next night just to check on me. I will never forget your kindness.

Thank you to the neurosurgeon and oncologist for finding time in your busy schedule to meet with me and answer every question I had and letting me see scans for myself . Your care and straightforward talking made me feel secure and at peace knowing you had a plan and experience on your side.

To the staff in the day ward who coped with my distressed child when for the first time his anaesthetic failed and he woke in the MRI machine, thank you for your quick thinking and for making sure my son recovered from the trauma.

To the staff in the neurological ward who found themselves admitting a child with complex needs who spent the entire day pacing the ward while his mum read out the numbers in every door: thank you for your endless patience, adapting to my son’s ways and coming in to work the TV endless times a day to keep him settled. You made his stay bearable and tolerable against all odds and I know you will do it all over again in a few months when we are back to repeat it.

To the surgeon who worked on my son’s brain for six hours tirelessly unsure what you were going to see yet determined to find enough of that ‘something’ to biopsy and get answers. The scar you left has astounded many with how incredibly clean, well sutured and neat it is. You took great lengths to make sure you got everything you needed whilst carefully replacing the layers of my baby’s brain and skull. You then took more time to talk to me and show me what you had done and then met again with me weeks later to discuss the results. I could see your frustration when the results came back different to expected but your tangible relief in sharing it wasn’t cancerous made me realise how much you care about what you do. When you broke the news of the likely need for more surgery you did so with tenderness and care knowing this wasn’t something I wanted to hear.

To everyone who has messaged, prayed, supported me and my family, send cards, bought gifts for my children and hugged me as I cried: thank you. I could never have gone through this alone.

My son has been incredible. His resilience and determination has astounded me and I have faith he will get through this again when it all needs repeated to remove the tumour/lesion as best as they can in a few months time.

When you are part of the ripple in someone’s life it can be hard to see that your role, your part, is of any significance at all but everyone makes a difference. From the person making the phone call to the hand holder, to the person pushing the bed to theatre to the most qualified professional of all, we should never underestimate the role we have in helping someone else be the best person they can be.

Thank you to everyone who helped my son through his brain surgery and who will do it all again this summer. Without you all my son would not be loving life and loving me the way he does.

You had a role in saving a life. Be proud of yourself and know you are appreciated greatly.

Thank you,

From an emotional mum.

Autism: should it affect medical treatment or not?

Everyone deserves the best medical treatment possible at all times. No life is worth less than another. What happens though when someone can not understand treatment, or convey pain, or communicate…should they be treated differently?

Here is my story.

My son is seven years old with a diagnosis of non verbal severe autism, learning difficulties and Neurofibromatosis type 1.
Let’s stop there and make this much more personal. Here is Isaac, a cheeky, lift loving, teddy chewing, energetic, loving seven year old.

Isaac has had some major medical tests recently to help find out more about what is going on in his body and mind given his medical condition and difficulties communicating.

He had an EEG. This came back abnormal.

He had an MRI under general anaesthetic. Yesterday we had the results. He has microphthalmia is his right eye which means he has no vision at all in that eye. His left eye has an optic glioma, a type of brain tumour.

As I said Isaac has severe autism. Should this affect how he is treated for his optic glioma?

We have two options at present.

The first is watch and wait. The tumour may never grow and his vision may remain stable. No-one really knows.

This option relies on regular eye tests, regular MRi’s and the patient communicating any changes to his vision or health.

This is where autism poses a problem. Isaac has yet to be able to carry out a conventional eye test. He shows no interest in picture cards, can not identify numbers or letter consistently and has no means of communication or even understanding any changes to his vision. MRI scans involve general anaesthetic and therefore come with risks. The MRI can identify any tumour growth but has no way of knowing any symptoms the patient may be having.

Should my sons autism affect wether we take the risk of watch and wait?

The second option is chemotherapy. That comes with huge risks and is highly invasive. Isaac would have no understanding of the medical treatment and struggle with any changes. We would once again have no knowledge of how it would be affecting him as he has no language. This could make managing the treatment very problematic and challenging.

Do we risk chemotherapy on a child with such limitted understanding and awareness?

Before any of this happened to me I would have argued that no child should be treated any differently medically just because they have autism. The fact is you HAVE to treat them differently.

Whatever decision is made by my sons medical team in the next days and months will all come down to his autism as much as his medical challenges.

I trust my sons team. He has some very skilled medics on board but there will also be communication specialists too. Why? Because his autism DOES affect his medical treatment in a very big way.

I stand by what I said at the start. EVERYONE deserves the best medical treatment available at all times. It is just, in my sons case, autism has a major part to play in what the best medical treatment is. That is a fact we can not ignore.

The decision is somewhat out is my hands. Isaac has no say in it either.

Autism affects so much about my child and in his case it affects his medical treatment too.

I am so grateful for doctors who understanding this.

The day I first heard the word Neurofibromatosis

 

Diary entry December 2012:
I have just moved house with my newly turned 4 year old twins this week. We are living out of boxes and working our way through a garage full of our belongings and now we need to take time out today for yet another hospital appointment.

I am tired, stressed and hoping to simply receive the results of my son’s most recent 24 hour EEG. I already know he has classic autism and delayed development and last month marked a year since he took his first steps. He has yet to speak. He has yet to be potty trained. I have been reading. I know autism and epilepsy can be linked and I am praying if this is the cause of my baby’s seizures we can get this sorted today.

We arrive at the hospital. We wait.

Then they call his name.

I carry my baby boy into that doctor’s room kicking and screaming. There are two doctors in the room and I feel uneasy that something seems’off’ just looking at the thick notes the specialist has in front of her about my son. This is my baby; my longed for child. I ought to see a pile that thick of photos of him eating and playing and having fun, not a pile of medical reports about him. My son won’t stop screaming.

So we wait.

The doctor starts with asking about any updates. Have we noticed any further seizures? How is his general health? She then gently and carefully explains how my son’s EEG has come back ‘abnormal’ and that there was a lot of seizure activity noted. I don’t understand the technical reasons behind it but I do hear her saying ‘not epilepsy’. I start getting the children prepared to go home.

But she just sat there.

Somwe wait.

‘Are you aware your son has an abnormally large head?’

Well, yes I was very aware of this, especially compared to his twin sister.
‘Have you noticed any birth marks on him at all?

Well, yes doctor, but I would not worry about them as his dad has them too.
‘Would it be ok to have a look at them?’

I look at my son happily sitting on the bed pulling at the blue roll covering it for hygiene reasons and playing with it between his fingers. He would happily strip naked so he is never going to object to having his clothes taken off.

I sit there watching on as two medical professionals look in detail at my son’s body.

There is a way medical people look at each other when something isn’t right: a knowing look, a silent ‘are you thinking what I am thinking’ look, a look that says ‘will you tell them or me?’ We had seen that look just six months prior at the autism diagnosis. I never want to see ‘that’ look again. I am scared. I am curious. I am confused.

We wait.

And I am even more confused now the doctor isnasking if she can see my husbands birth marks too. He is 55. He can drive, live independently, has a job and no medical issues. It was just some marks and spots on his skin. What is the deal here? She asks my husband a few questions and then sits back down at her seat. My son returns to tearing up the blue roll and his sister sits on my knee quietly.

And then she says it:

‘Your son is presenting with autism, learning difficulties, seizures, a large head and, most importantly for us, over 8 prominent cafe au lait marks on his skin. Given the family history (what family history I wonder?), we both strongly suspect your son has a condition called Neurofibromatosis type 1. You will be referred to genetics and I will arrange for a nurse to come and do a home visit as soon as possible. Like your sons’s autism this is lifelong and there is no cure. Your son has simply inherited this from his father. I will see you again in six months time. Thank you for coming.’

At that we leave.

So that is it. At least she wrote it down for me.

From that day on we have waited. We wait to see if his health remains stable. We wait to see if any more tumours grow. We wait to see if his sight is affected.

On 3rd December 2012 I found out my child had neurofibromatosis type 1. All I can do now is wait. It is unpredictable and no-one can say how my son might be affected. All we can do is wait.

 

My Christmas miracles

I believe in miracles.

But the reality and daily grind of life can shatter that belief until it feels like miracles only happen to others. Then I witness a moment; a tiny fraction of time, and that belief is restored once again. Those moments often happen when we least expect it and in the normal everyday occurrences, so we need to be watching and waiting and believing. Sadly too often I am overwhelmed, exhausted and so busy I almost miss those moments of beauty right in front of my eyes.

This last week though I have noticed two miracles with my son. Nothing huge like starting to speak, or new physical skills like kicking a ball or jumping (stuff other seven year olds do without even thinking!) or even independence skills like showering himself.

No to most parents of seven year olds my miracles would seem trivial indeed; unmentionable, so run of the mill they would be taken for granted.

But one thing that happens when you parent a child with additional needs is that you learn NEVER to take anything for granted!

I had taken the children to a Christmas party. The fact we even got inside the door could be classed by some as a miracle. The fact my son was no longer wearing his red school jumper this year (he wore nothing but his school jumper for two years everyday) could easily be noted as a miracle. In many ways that was something I never thought I would ever see. The fact he climbed onto the bouncy castle and enjoyed the vibrations while everyone else jumped was amazing. These are all massive achievements for my son. He never joined in dancing or games and wandered around very much still in his own little world. But that was ok.

He ate when the food was offered and he never had a meltdown or attacked anyone and he was smiling and happy. I could end here as these are all massive achievements for us.

The Santa came.

He has no idea who Santa is. He has no concept of Christmas. So I just held him on my knee while the other children got excited and waited eagerly for Santa to give them a gift. He moaned and squirmed a little with being held but seemed to watch in his own little way. As an adult I knew at some point his name would be called. But how would he know that?

“Isaac” said Father Christmas with his usual smile and excitement.

I was just about to take my sons hand and drag him up. But before I could move he stood, he looked right at that man in red and he walked right up to him, took his gift and brought it right back for me to open!

He responded to his name! He took a present from Santa! He watched others and figured out what was expected!! I am so overcome with pride about those things.

Not that long ago he had no idea what his name was. He would not go anywhere he had not already been to before. He never watched other children. He would not have had any idea what a present was, especially if it was wrapped.

But this weekend I had my Christmas miracle.

And later this week I have another one too. He is only going to be Joseph in his school nativity play! He is part of it! He has a role! And to whatever degree he understands he will be acting out that role. It is what seven year olds do. But something I never dreamed I would see.

In case you did not know, my son has classic autism. He is still wearing nappies and unable to speak. He has Neurofibromatosis, a genetic condition that can cause learning difficulties and delay. He can not read or write or count. He can not dress himself. He is very much in his own world. I worry what the future holds for him, and the many hundreds of others like him in this world.

But miracles happen all the time. And this Christmas they have happened to me.

Keep looking and one may just happen to you too.

Sometimes a simple yes or no is enough

My son doesn’t speak. But ever single day I speak to him. And I hope.
I tell him what we are doing, where we are going and who we will meet. He may have difficulties communicating but his understanding is improving all the time.
He is 7 and about 7 months ago he developed a very precious skill of being able to shake his head to communicate ‘no’. It was a moment of breakthrough. Prior to this we had screaming which could mean anything from yes, no or leave me alone. You could take you pick but if you were wrong the screaming just intensified.

He was so frustrated. And so was I.

Sometimes we just need a simple yes or no answer. That is often just enough.

I have mastered the art of understanding my precious son. I have had the privilege of seven years of learning his ways, his body language and his expressions. I can see his tears before the first drop falls from his eyes and I know what will make him laugh before any sound emits from his mouth. With patience we taught him to tap our hands to make a choice but we still could not get a consistent yes or no for simple questions. He could choose between two things. Would you like mashed potato or chips? Would you like to go to the park or swimming? But when faced with him fussing we could never get a clear answer to something as simple as would you like something to eat? Are you in pain?

Those were the times when just a simple yes or no would help us all so much.

This weekend as we went about our business I looked back at my children in the car and reminded them both we were on our way to the hairdressers to get their hair cuts. As I turned again to face the front I heard something that made me jump. I had just heard a voice I never ever dreamed I would ever hear! It was loud, unexpected and forceful. It was beautiful, perfect and simple. My son shouted at us! He shouted ‘no’! Thank God I wasn’t driving or we may have crashed. As I turned to look at my wonderful boy my heart missed a beat. I was smiling, yet crying. Rejoicing, yet weeping.

He just said NO! It was enough!

No doubt I should have not put him through the stress of that hair cut having clearly heard him voice his objection. But believe me when I say it badly needed done. I needed to see his stunning big brown eyes and he needed to have better vision without seeing nothing but his long brown locks. He hated it. But he survived.

Back home I longed to be able to share that moment with so many of you who follow his journey. So I tried to get him to say it again. I asked that poor boy so many questions willing him to prove he could do it again. He didn’t.

He actually went one better!

Dressed in only his pyjamas I asked him if he liked the rain. (He hates it!) and he made a sound. It was indistinguishable. I asked if he wanted his coat on (he hates his coat!) and again he made a noise but it was more of a grunt. I was determined! I asked him one final question: would you like to go out? And clear as anything he stood up, headed to the door and said ‘yeah’.

He said ‘yeah’!!!

Sometimes a simple yes or no is enough.

Do you know how long I have wanted to hear just yes or no? With Isaac that has been seven years. But with so many other things in life it has taken even longer. When I struggled with infertility for 9 years all I wanted was a yes or no answer to the question, would I have children? When I was told my children had autism I wanted a yes or no answer to questions like will they ever get a job?, will they live independently? When my boy was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis I needed a yes or no answer to will be need medical treatment and be ok? Now I want to ask professionals things like will my son ever be toilet trained? Will he ever be able to have a conversation with me? Will he ever have friends? Some days I want to ask God, are you listening?

I want to know so much. I long for so much. I am believing for so much.

But sometimes just a simple yes or no is enough to keep me going for a very long time.

The effect on me…

Having children affects everyone. You become less focussed on yourself and more focussed on another. You sleep less, go out a lot less and consider it a great achievement to get a shower without interruption. But as time passes the children slowly become more independent and confident and you little by little gain more of yourself back again.

Well that is how it works when you have typical developing children anyway. But what if that very needy, all-consuming, up through the night, needing a huge amount of time stage never ends?

It is well documented that parents of very young children are vulnerable and prone to depression, mental illness, and can easily become socially isolated. Health professionals are trained to look out for this and regularly check for signs that all is not well as research has shown that sleep deprivation and coping with the high demands of a baby or young child take a huge toll on parents.

But it is expected that season will pass as the child grows.

But for some, like myself, that season just keeps going on. And not because I went on to have another child either. It is because almost seven years after having my babies I still face the high demands, the daily intimate care needs, the lack of sleep and the stress of milestones not being met. My children have disabilities and the pressure parents of very young babies face is still very much the same as what I face daily. I still change nappies, I wash my children and dress them, I am still singing nursery rhymes and trying to teach one to say ‘mama’ or ‘dada’, I am still cutting food up and putting socks on that have been pulled off.

And that long-term intensity has to have an effect on me.

It takes it’s toll mentally in that some days I could just sit and cry. The doctor could give me tablets but the pain and stress would still be there. Some days the effort to get dressed and get out the house just seems too much. Except unlike parents of babies who don’t have to leave the house and can go back to bed, my children have school to get to even if one of them still only functions at the level of a 1-year-old.

It takes it’s toll socially in that going out at night is impossible. Besides the fact I have huge caring responsibilities and am permanently exhausted, baby sitters are a rarity for families like mine. Who has the physical ability to carry a large six-year-old out of a bath and dry him and dress him? Who has the emotional strength to deal with a little one having a panic attack because her mum has left the house? Even if I did find that special someone I have no motivation to get dressed up and make myself presentable when my body just craves sleep.

It takes it’s toll physically. The lifting and carrying of a baby can make a mum’s arms ache but when the ‘baby’ is two thirds of your height and a quarter of your weight how do you manage? Seeing to personal needs of a toddler who decides to crawl away is a challenge. Seeing to the personal needs of a child who can bite, punch, kick and climb is an altogether harder challenge. When they are long past the age of using a baby change in public and you have to find a way to meet those needs in public toilets not build for that purpose your body aches and bends in ways you never thought possible.

It takes it’s toll financially. Babies cost. I often hear parents complaining at the cost of essential items like prams, car seats, cots and nappies. Second hand is sometimes an option though. But not when you enter the ‘special needs’ market and you have to look for elastic waisted soft trousers for a child who can not dress himself yet aged 6. Or you have to think about paying for private therapies not available on the NHS. Then there is the cost of hospital trips, the fact the schools are miles away from home and special needs sensory toys come at a huge cost. And I still have to buy wipes, and bedding and nappies and other ‘baby’ items six years on.

It just all takes it’s toll on me.

The days of people ‘popping by’ to see if I am ok has long passed. The excitement of coming to see those new babies has long gone. The phone calls from friends to hear how the babies are stopped many years ago. Yet the reality of my life never changed much.

Yes, my children have changed me for the better, but full-time caring for a disabled child takes it’s toll.

Please, if you know someone who has a child with any sort of disability, think about and do what you can to help the child. But have a think what you could do to help mum or dad too. Believe me they need support more than you may ever realise.

Walking on bubble wrap or walking on egg shells?

Have you ever worked or lived somewhere were the mood of just one person affects everyone else? The boss is having a bad day so the atmosphere in the office is awful? The baby won’t stop crying and so everyone in the family is stressed?

I am a full-time parent carer and more and more I am realising the effect that one of my children can have on my entire family.

My beautiful son has classic autism and neurofibromatosis type 1. He is on the verge of turning seven-year-old and as yet is not speaking, or toilet trained, is dependent on me for all his care and very much lives in his own world.

Some days looking after him is like walking on bubble wrap. We are all cushioned by the fact he lives very much in his own world. People can call him anything but he doesn’t care. We can spend hours watching lifts or listening to the noise of hand dryers in bathrooms oblivious to the fact the world is passing us by. People neither hear us nor see us as we walk on our bubble wrap and only the tiniest of ‘pops’ make us heard in our community. We are isolated, invisible almost at times, but very secure in our own protected world of routine. Provided all is going according to the world of ”Isaac’ the world can be a happy, settled and loving place. He can be the happiest, flappiest, most content child in the world. There is no ‘mummy can I have’ or peer pressure for the latest trends. There is no social pressure to join in the best football team, or streams of birthday parties to go to. I have no costs for computer games as he can’t play them and he is as happy as a pig in mud surrounded simply by plastic food or a few baby books. Some days walking on bubble wrap is the most beautiful, most peaceful and wonderful place to be.

But other days he wakes up at hours only night shift workers ought to see; bedding, child and room covered in your worst nightmare that you smell before you see. Or you hear that high pitch scream for hours on end. The bubble wrap we once walked on once again replaced by a harder, more dangerous and very precarious road known to many as walking on egg shells.

This is the side of autism people don’t feel comfortable talking about. The days when nothing goes right and my child goes from one meltdown right into another. Like the morning this week he freaked out simply because our car was covered in condensation due to the colder weather. Or the fact his breakfast was not exactly what he wanted or expected. Or the taxi came too early, too late, or reversed into the driveway when he wasn’t watching! The days when everything we touch cracks those shells and impacts on everyone in the entire family. There are days, sometimes many on the trot, when we have to look out for the safety of his twin sister as he would bite, attack, throw things, pinch or push her without any prior warning. There are days when I wonder if my back, or hair, or glasses can cope with much more aggression and attacks from a child fast approaching my own height and weight.

It isn’t easy to say but some days we are afraid for our safety and that of our other child. The older he gets the more egg shell days we seem to have. Reversing the car, stopping at traffic lights, road diversions, coming in the house from a different door, not going to lifts or hand dryers, not having mash potato for every meal, you tube layout changing, Google street maps not looking like he expects it too, no internet, presenters coming on the television instead of the programme….and so on. Endless broken egg shells and meltdowns we can not control.

I have never really been a fan of eggs and I detest walking on egg shells. School see the bubble wrap boy mostly, which is good. And sometimes we get to see that boy too.

It is the start of half term here and tomorrow I have no idea if I will wake to walking on bubble wrap or walking on eggs shells and it won’t be me deciding how my own days goes.

Autism: it affects entire families and the way they walk so much.

This is my ‘normal’

This is my ‘normal’

The intense sadness is beginning to ease now. Waves of heaviness still creep up on me at times but I cry, wipes my tears away and face another day with a smile.
Maybe I am getting to that point of acceptance?
Maybe I am realising it isn’t the end of the world and I still have two beautiful, amazing children?
Or maybe it has all just become ‘normal’?

I looked back on some old videos and photos this week. There were happy moments of my children playing, flapping moments at lifts, lovely memories of my daughter singing, and too many photos of my children eating! Reminders of how things were and a stark reminder that in many ways things are just the same.

My son still has his chubby cheeks, big brown eyes and cheeky smile. My daughter has stunning golden hair, piercing blue eyes and beautiful petite features.
And my son is still not speaking…

This is my ‘normal’.

Since my children were months old I have been trailing them regularly to hospitals and clinics. We have so many professionals involved they have to add extra chairs at every meeting. If we decide to change something, if my children have medical issues arise or don’t eat their dinner for a couple of nights I feel I have to call everyone to keep them up-to-date. I have phone calls from schools, people dealing with our children, and others who have just received referrals about them on an everyday basis. We have to take our mobiles everywhere and be available to pick our children up at short notice at any time. Every week I have to discuss with transport about times my child will not be at school due to appointments.

This is my ‘normal’.

I have visuals in every room of my house, we have regimented routines, I read the same bedtime story every single night. I make the same dinners, in the same way, at the same time every week. I buy my children the exact same shoes in the next size hoping they won’t notice I have changed them as their feet grow. We visit the same places we have been to before. I use google street map to show places before we go there and I have become an expert at knowing where every single lift is in every shopping centre within travelling distance of my house. I spend hours watching hand dryers with my son because it keeps him happy.

This is my ‘normal’.

I can’t tell you if, or when, my son may speak. I can not tell you if, or when, my daughter may overcome her severe anxiety or be able to speak in school. I can not say if, or when, my son will ever stop wearing nappies. I do know my son is unlikely to ever attend mainstream school in any capacity. I have no idea if he will ever learn to read or write. I have no idea if his tumours will grow anywhere else in his body or if his seizures will remain stable.
I live with uncertainty. But I also live with intense gratitude.

This is my ‘normal’.

I am thankful for everything. I celebrate the mundane. I kiss and hug my children in private and in public without caring what anyone thinks. I smile because I have a thousand reasons and more to cause me to. I laugh with my children. I treasure life and find enjoyment in everyday moments. I take pictures of my children like tomorrow is not guaranteed. I love with all my heart because my children have taught me too.

This is my ‘normal’. And normal is good.

We came to an understanding…

I had plans for this summer. My son also had plans. The difficulty was our plans were very different.

Isaac is six. He has autism and global delay. He has neurofibromatosis. He also has huge sensory issues, rigid thinking and a massive love of lifts and hand dryers. He has no spoken language.

So when school finished for seven and a half weeks his plans involved food (mostly mashed potato and gravy), lifts, hand dryers, food, hand dryers and more lifts…and maybe the occasional ride on a train.

I, on the other hand, wanted day trips, parks, picnics, garden play, road trips, time seeing family and shared adventures with him and his twin sister.

Someone had to give….

We came to an understanding and it went a bit like this:

I took him to a park…and then we went to a local supermarket where he could see the hand dryers.

I got what I wanted. He got what he wanted.

We were both happy.

I took him to soft play. He climbed about and even came back for a huge tight cuddle…which was his way of really saying ‘let’s go to the toilets now and see the wonderful hand dryers mum!’

So that is what we did.

He would play for a bit and then watch those dryers a bit more.

I took him to pottery painting. He humoured me by putting on the apron (with support) and putting a tiny amount of paint on his model…and then he tore that apron right off and found the toilets to look for a hand dryer!

He has no problem communicating what he wants when it comes to his agenda…

I took him took him on a train ride to a big city. His favourite place there was the lift at the train station! Nothing else mattered.

We traveled for an hour by train just to see a lift! But you have never seen a happier boy than Isaac was at that lift!

By now we were coming to an understanding.

I decided to try to have a day without lifts or hand dryers…

I took him to the park again. This time all he wanted was the bushes at the side of the path! He felt them, watched them, heard them and even licked them. Well, what else did I think he would do at the play park?

This is life with Isaac. He had no idea others were staring at him.

We had an invite to a family event at a local restaurant. Isaac made me so proud sitting at a large table and eating his meal (mostly using cutlery) and even having some pudding. But that was followed by an full 20 minutes in the toilets at the…well I think you probably know by now where he wanted to go to.

It wasn’t like I was hoping to speak to those relatives anyway…

A charity invited us for a day trip to the safari park. Isaac showed not one second of interest in any animal. In fact he never even glanced at them.

But when he saw a sign for toilets he smiled, ran, and flapped with excitement.

I don’t expect he will go into veterinary care when he is older…

I took him and his sister on a steam train ride. He did enjoy looking out the window at the passing scenery and he did enjoy eating in the cafe. But if he could talk I am pretty sure his highlight would have been that the toilets had his favourite hand dryers in…the ones with buttons to press.

It is what it is. He sees the world in a very different way. And sometimes just having him with me is a bonus.

By the end I just decided to run with it. I only had to look at the excitement in his eyes and the happiness on his face to know that lifts and hand dryers are the most important things in his life. And if I want to get anything achieved these are the motivating factors to use.

I still would have preferred to have spent summer building sand castles, eating ice-cream, visiting castles and museums and time together as a family building memories. Hand dryers are loud, functional things that I would use only to…well dry my hands really! Lifts are convenient and quick ways to change levels…and that is when my interest ends.

But love takes you to places and has you do things in life you don’t expect.

And so I have spent an insubordinate amount of time this summer listening to hand dryers and watching lifts. And in his own way we have had fun. I had my day trips, parks, picnics and quality time with my son. And he had his fixations.

Life is about compromise. Love is amount accepting someone,however different to you they are, and not always wanting to change them. Making things work is about coming to an understanding.

I have had a lovely summer. Isaac has had a magical time. We just spent our quality time in places I never really imagined.

Even his twin sister seems to have come to an understanding…