Yesterday, I took the kids out to the park to play. As my son was running across the pavement to one of the play structures, he tripped and fell, banging his knee hard on the cement. He got up limping, his face scrunched, as it always is when he is really hurt, into a silent tearful grimace.
"Are you ok, buddy?" I asked.
He frowned at me, eyebrows lowered, held his hand out as if he were pushing me away and grunted, "MMmmhh!" and tried to limp away. Drat, that's right. He doesn't like acknowledging pain or negative emotions.
"Do you want to go home, buddy?" No answer, just a little boy half hopping, half limping away, crying.
I stood there in the cold park, wondering how badly his knee was hurt. It looked like a painful fall; he was crying; he wasn't putting much, if any, weight on it. I wanted to ask him a million more questions. I wanted him to tell me if he could bend the knee, and I wanted him to rate the pain on a scale of 1 to 10, and I wanted him to confirm that it was the knee and not the ankle, which looked like it might have been twisted too. And I wanted to ask him if I could get a look at it.
Then I thought of some of the autistic adults whose blogs I read: folks like Bev and Joel. I thought about how often they have written about how there are times when they can't speak, and I thought about how this was one of those times for my son. His knee still hurts, he can't talk yet, and talking to him will only overwhelm him. It's not an emergency. I can wait.
I stopped walking and stopped talking. I waited. Then I walked slowly up to him and pressed his left ear firmly to my body, covering his right ear with my hand. When he's upset, he likes pressure on his head. I stood there, silently holding his head, wondering if his knee was ok, waiting.
I stood there pressing his head to my body. I waited. His sister flitted past. She removed her jacket even though an icy wind was blowing, took off her gloves and put them in my purse, handed me her hat and ran off. She flitted back, teeth chattering. I helped her back into her winter wear with my spare hand. She flitted off again. I waited. I stood in the near empty park, watching my daughter run around, holding my son's head.
I released a little of the pressure on his head and moved my body away slightly. He clutched my skirt. I renewed the pressure. I waited. My daughter flitted back. "Are you ready to go home?" I asked. "No," they answered together. Ah, the power of speech had returned, at least for that one word. My son tried walking, but he was leaning on me with his feet at odd angles, so I called an end to time at the park, much to my son's clear, if non-verbal, displeasure. Speech finally returned at home, sitting down, after a comforting cup of milk.
I'm happy to report that the knee, while it looks bruised, seems otherwise ok, and he's definitely able to run on it again now. And to all the autistic adults out there who help me see things differently, a big thanks for getting all of us as smoothly as possible through our minor crisis at the park.
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