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| Image credit: Photo by Bekah Stargazing on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons |
My son Austen, like many other autistic individuals, does not like (or understand the purpose of) many of society's little pleasantries. He balks at words like hello, goodbye, please, sorry and thank you; anything that can appear in a conversation as part of a rote pattern rather than a unique communication. This can seem rude, especially when it comes to words like "sorry" and "thank you," which are supposed to convey emotions of regret or gratitude. It seems (at least to the neurotypical world) that if someone doesn't say "thank you," they don't feel thanks. That certainly may be the case at times, but Austen's difficulty in grasping the meaning of these stock phrases has made me realize how often I toss them out because it's what is expected, rather than because my own emotions are in line with the words.
A few days ago, Austen was picking up a bit of ribbon next to where our cat was sitting. The cat took this as an invitation to play, batted at the ribbon and scratched Austen's hand. It was a tiny scratch but Austen cried bitterly for fifteen minutes, stopping occasionally to inspect his finger and breaking into fresh tears each time he saw the thin red line on his finger. I sat next to him stroking his back and waited until he was composed enough to accept a bandaid. As soon as I had him settled, Janie and her friend Valerie came running into the room. Janie had fallen down and scraped the palms of her hands as she tried to catch herself. This was the time for saying neurotypical things like "oh, I'm sorry you hurt yourself" or "can I see your hand, please?" Austen's conversation didn't go that way, of course, but it was just as sincere.
"Let me see!" he said. Janie held out her palms. "Oh, you need two bandaids! It's bad that you need two. See, I have a bandaid too. Kitty scratched me and I cried and cried. But good that you're not crying so much like I did. And you know what else is good? Valerie doesn't have any bandaids! Good that she didn't get hurt." I realized that all the things society wants to hear were there: "How are you? I'm sorry you got hurt. I empathize. I'm glad to see you're going to be ok." But there was something else there that we don't usually celebrate: "You and I may be hurt, but let's be grateful that someone else we love is safe and well." In seeing the specific situation rather than tossing out the generic words I might have, Austen saw something that I would have missed: an opportunity for gratitude.
Of course, there are situations in which he does use the expected words (if in unexpected ways), and they're all the more meaningful for their rarity. A few months ago, I caught a stomach virus from Janie. I started to feel ill at the end of the day; Mark was on his way home and both kids were with me. On my way to the bathroom as the first wave of cramps and nausea hit me, I let the kids know that I was feeling sick like Janie had been, but that I was going to be ok and that Daddy would be home soon to help me take care of them. When Austen heard me vomiting, he asked from outside the bathroom door, "Do you have the throw ups, Mama?"
"Yep. I sure do, sweetie," I said.
"Oh, bad that you do," he said, and I heard him walk off. A few moments later, he wedged something into the door frame. It was a card from the board game Sorry!
.He said, "I put a Sorry card there for you, because I'm sorry you have the throw ups."
"Oh, I love that! Thank you so much, Austen." And that thank you, as I think Austen knows, didn't really feel sufficient to express my gratitude.
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