The most moving, magical and beautifully honest films and books I've seen and read have all been ostensibly aimed at children. I am currently in pieces after re-watching Bridge To Terabithia
I recently watched another of my favourite films, A Matter Of Life And Death and have always felt that there was one major flaw to the story. I have never been able to understand why a willingness to die for someone proves your love for them.
Jess in "Bridge To Terabithia" truly knows what love is: He grieves, but he doesn't put his life on hold because of the dark, gaping hole that threatens to fill it. Instead he takes all the joy and beauty that Leslie brought into his life and passes it on to his little sister. There can be no better tribute.
A book that addresses grief, and that you might pass by because it's "a kid's book" is The Heart and the Bottle by Oliver Jeffers. This has the dubious honour of being the first book to ever make me cry on public transport. It covers the themes of love, joy, wonder and the loss of these with a subtlety and simplicity that is often missing in books aimed at adults. It will break your heart and mend it again in the space of 32 beautifully illustrated pages.
Thursday, 30 December 2010
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Assessments
This morning we went to our younger son's school to talk to the professionals who have been involved in assessing him over the past year when it became apparent that, although obviously bright, he was struggling at school.
They were lovely. For every difficulty they discussed, they gave an example of something he had done that was positive. I couldn't help feeling that they were avoiding saying what their conclusions were until they had observed our response to their account of his assessment, so decided to help them out by being the first one to raise the idea that he might have asperger syndrome. I also said that I was unsure, as there was a distinct possibility in my mind that he was showing "learned behaviours" from his older brother, who was diagnosed with autistic spectrum disorder at an early age.
Their relief was palpable. They said that their assessments were pointing towards a diagnosis of aspergers and that, with our permission, they would put his name forward for a more definitive assessment which could lead to an official diagnosis, but that the waiting list for this is currently three to six months. We gave them that permission. To be honest, I can't understand why anyone wouldn't in our position, knowing what we already know.
It was different first time around. That time I felt that it was my fault. MY failure as a mother. MY choice to give him the MMR. MY job to "fix" him without his needing to be "labelled." I now know that MMR had nothing to do with his autism, but I wasted precious time worrying that I was responsible, because I was the one who took him for his vaccinations.
I never thought I was wrong to vaccinate; I would do it again, even if a link was found, because autism is not a death sentence. Autism is not, of itself, a bad thing.
So, although I don't feel as heartbroken, bewildered and wretched as I did first time around, because I now know so much more about autistic spectrum disorders, I am sure that over the next few days, the tears will come. Not tears of despair, or anger, or self-pity but tears of grief for the "normal" child I've lost, despite the fact I never really had him. And I hate that I feel that way, but at least this time around I know the feeling will pass, because in reality nothing has changed. My bright, funny, enthusiastic, sensitive child is still the same as he ever was and no diagnosis will ever change that.
They were lovely. For every difficulty they discussed, they gave an example of something he had done that was positive. I couldn't help feeling that they were avoiding saying what their conclusions were until they had observed our response to their account of his assessment, so decided to help them out by being the first one to raise the idea that he might have asperger syndrome. I also said that I was unsure, as there was a distinct possibility in my mind that he was showing "learned behaviours" from his older brother, who was diagnosed with autistic spectrum disorder at an early age.
Their relief was palpable. They said that their assessments were pointing towards a diagnosis of aspergers and that, with our permission, they would put his name forward for a more definitive assessment which could lead to an official diagnosis, but that the waiting list for this is currently three to six months. We gave them that permission. To be honest, I can't understand why anyone wouldn't in our position, knowing what we already know.
It was different first time around. That time I felt that it was my fault. MY failure as a mother. MY choice to give him the MMR. MY job to "fix" him without his needing to be "labelled." I now know that MMR had nothing to do with his autism, but I wasted precious time worrying that I was responsible, because I was the one who took him for his vaccinations.
I never thought I was wrong to vaccinate; I would do it again, even if a link was found, because autism is not a death sentence. Autism is not, of itself, a bad thing.
So, although I don't feel as heartbroken, bewildered and wretched as I did first time around, because I now know so much more about autistic spectrum disorders, I am sure that over the next few days, the tears will come. Not tears of despair, or anger, or self-pity but tears of grief for the "normal" child I've lost, despite the fact I never really had him. And I hate that I feel that way, but at least this time around I know the feeling will pass, because in reality nothing has changed. My bright, funny, enthusiastic, sensitive child is still the same as he ever was and no diagnosis will ever change that.