AGXStarseed
Well-Known Member
(Not written by me)
Catherine Simpson describes the mixed emotions that come with watching her daughter move away from home
Catherine Simpson with her daughter Nina
Earlier this month, I waved my eldest daughter off to live in Berlin for the third year of her German degree. While other mothers are tearful that their children are growing up and their nests are emptying, I’m over the moon that my lovely girl was not just willing, but able to fly away – heading off through Edinburgh airport, with barely a backward glance.
It was a day I’d never dared dream of, when Nina was finally diagnosed with Asperger syndrome, a high-functioning form of autism, aged ten. I had been struggling for just as long, both with her behavioural difficulties, and the worry that they were, somehow, my fault.
These (unfounded) fears echoed a discovery I made during my first introduction to autism in 1992, a few years before Nina was born. Newly married to my husband Marcello, now 49, an investigative journalist, I had applied for an administrative job with a Scottish autism charity.
While preparing for the interview, in Edinburgh Central Library, I came across the theory of the ‘refrigerator mother’ – a term coined in the 1940s to account for cases of childhood autism, which had only been recognised a few decades prior.
According to certain mid-20th century psychiatrists, it was caused by “a genuine lack of maternal warmth”, which created a dysfunctional parent/child relationship – manifesting in developmental difficulties. One so-called child development specialist, Bruno Bettelheim, even compared the mothers of autistic children to Nazi concentration camp guards.
I was appalled; it had to be hard enough to raise a child with such a complex condition, without being apportioned the blame for it. I never imagined it could happen to me.
Nina arrived in 1995, a beautiful child with big brown eyes and a mop of ringlets – but she was also often agitated, anxious and impossible to soothe.
Everyone reassured me it was simply a phase, but the symptoms persisted. She became increasingly reluctant to be in the company of anyone else, even shunning other children.
“There’s something wrong,” I told the GP, when she was two and-a-half, “but I don’t know what.” I couldn't say the word autism: the idea was too frightening.
The GP didn’t say it out loud, either, but we found ourselves referred to a leading expert on the condition, who watched Nina potter about, asked me a few questions, then laughed: “That child’s not got autism.”
We struggled on. Nina was upset by loud noises, strong smells and unpredictable events. She developed phobias about plug holes and nettles and endless other things. She still found it hard to mix in groups and school was traumatic.
Another assessment via her school, at the age of seven – this time by speech and language therapists and child psychologists - resulted in treatment, of sorts: I was sent on two parenting courses.
“If you treat your child differently she will act differently,” said one young male psychologist. “You must set boundaries.”
“Have you got any children?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “but if I had, I would set boundaries.”
I was sent away with advice about naughty steps and star charts, about how to talk to my child and how to play with her. I’d been doing it all wrong, apparently, this parenting thing. Everything other mothers did naturally, I needed to be taught from scratch, and if I got it right, they said, my child would be transformed.
Catherine and Nina
The message was loud and clear; Nina’s difficulties were All My Fault. I felt like the refrigerator mother, made flesh.
Our younger daughter, Lara was born when Nina was almost three, and it was clear from the start that she was a different child: she welcomed the world, and everyone welcomed her, in return.
By contrast, by the time Nina was ten, she was having such trouble fitting in at school that we begged the GP for another referral.
This time, thankfully, we met Dr Nicky Cannon, Consultant Child and Adolescent Psychiatrist at Edinburgh's Royal Hospital for Sick Children. For the first time, our fears were heard.
“Nina has Asperger’s Syndrome,” she said, after a full assessment. I burst into tears. “You’re not surprised are you?” she asked. Surprised, no, but still shocked.
It is estimated that 1 in 100 of the population are on the autistic spectrum, but far fewer girls than boys are diagnosed. According to the National Autistic Society, male to female ratios may vary from 2:1 to 16:1, though there’s a theory girls may simply be better at ‘masking’ their behaviour in a bid to fit in.
I knew more than most about autism, in particular, that there was no cure. Though life was frightening - would she make finish her education? Get a job? Ever find love and settle down? - being armed with Nina’s diagnosis made me stronger. The refrigerator mother theory was widely discredited by autism experts in the Sixties; knowing for sure that I wasn’t to blame for our problems meant we could set about finding solutions.
We withdrew Nina from the local secondary school where she had been bullied and sent her to the Edinburgh Steiner School where she thrived. Able to play to her strengths, we discovered she was very good at languages, at acting, art and science. She made friends; she became a part of something for the first time, rather than being an outsider.
At 18, Nina left with a full set of A’s at Higher level and her hard-won place at Edinburgh University: she moved into her own flat 12 miles from home and flew through her first two years.
Though I miss her, now she is more than 1,000 miles away, I couldn’t be happier. Far from failing her, I must have done something right, after all. Nina still has challenges; she has Asperger’s Syndrome and always will, but we (and she) better understand her unique way of looking at the world and interacting with it.
In the same week my first child left the country, my first novel hit the shelves: a wry tale of a mother trapped with a child with Asperger’s, who refuses to leave their isolated farmhouse. No prizes for guessing that the inspiration came from those dark days before we knew how to help Nina.
She has read it herself, and approves. Her story as much as mine, our hope is it helps anyone struggling on the same path to realise that no matter how difficult life becomes, it’s still possible to find humour (however black) and a happy ending.
SOURCE: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/educatio...daughter-off-to-university.html#disqus_thread
Catherine Simpson describes the mixed emotions that come with watching her daughter move away from home
Catherine Simpson with her daughter Nina
Earlier this month, I waved my eldest daughter off to live in Berlin for the third year of her German degree. While other mothers are tearful that their children are growing up and their nests are emptying, I’m over the moon that my lovely girl was not just willing, but able to fly away – heading off through Edinburgh airport, with barely a backward glance.
It was a day I’d never dared dream of, when Nina was finally diagnosed with Asperger syndrome, a high-functioning form of autism, aged ten. I had been struggling for just as long, both with her behavioural difficulties, and the worry that they were, somehow, my fault.
These (unfounded) fears echoed a discovery I made during my first introduction to autism in 1992, a few years before Nina was born. Newly married to my husband Marcello, now 49, an investigative journalist, I had applied for an administrative job with a Scottish autism charity.
While preparing for the interview, in Edinburgh Central Library, I came across the theory of the ‘refrigerator mother’ – a term coined in the 1940s to account for cases of childhood autism, which had only been recognised a few decades prior.
According to certain mid-20th century psychiatrists, it was caused by “a genuine lack of maternal warmth”, which created a dysfunctional parent/child relationship – manifesting in developmental difficulties. One so-called child development specialist, Bruno Bettelheim, even compared the mothers of autistic children to Nazi concentration camp guards.
I was appalled; it had to be hard enough to raise a child with such a complex condition, without being apportioned the blame for it. I never imagined it could happen to me.
Nina arrived in 1995, a beautiful child with big brown eyes and a mop of ringlets – but she was also often agitated, anxious and impossible to soothe.
Everyone reassured me it was simply a phase, but the symptoms persisted. She became increasingly reluctant to be in the company of anyone else, even shunning other children.
“There’s something wrong,” I told the GP, when she was two and-a-half, “but I don’t know what.” I couldn't say the word autism: the idea was too frightening.
The GP didn’t say it out loud, either, but we found ourselves referred to a leading expert on the condition, who watched Nina potter about, asked me a few questions, then laughed: “That child’s not got autism.”
We struggled on. Nina was upset by loud noises, strong smells and unpredictable events. She developed phobias about plug holes and nettles and endless other things. She still found it hard to mix in groups and school was traumatic.
Another assessment via her school, at the age of seven – this time by speech and language therapists and child psychologists - resulted in treatment, of sorts: I was sent on two parenting courses.
“If you treat your child differently she will act differently,” said one young male psychologist. “You must set boundaries.”
“Have you got any children?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “but if I had, I would set boundaries.”
I was sent away with advice about naughty steps and star charts, about how to talk to my child and how to play with her. I’d been doing it all wrong, apparently, this parenting thing. Everything other mothers did naturally, I needed to be taught from scratch, and if I got it right, they said, my child would be transformed.
Catherine and Nina
The message was loud and clear; Nina’s difficulties were All My Fault. I felt like the refrigerator mother, made flesh.
Our younger daughter, Lara was born when Nina was almost three, and it was clear from the start that she was a different child: she welcomed the world, and everyone welcomed her, in return.
By contrast, by the time Nina was ten, she was having such trouble fitting in at school that we begged the GP for another referral.
This time, thankfully, we met Dr Nicky Cannon, Consultant Child and Adolescent Psychiatrist at Edinburgh's Royal Hospital for Sick Children. For the first time, our fears were heard.
“Nina has Asperger’s Syndrome,” she said, after a full assessment. I burst into tears. “You’re not surprised are you?” she asked. Surprised, no, but still shocked.
It is estimated that 1 in 100 of the population are on the autistic spectrum, but far fewer girls than boys are diagnosed. According to the National Autistic Society, male to female ratios may vary from 2:1 to 16:1, though there’s a theory girls may simply be better at ‘masking’ their behaviour in a bid to fit in.
I knew more than most about autism, in particular, that there was no cure. Though life was frightening - would she make finish her education? Get a job? Ever find love and settle down? - being armed with Nina’s diagnosis made me stronger. The refrigerator mother theory was widely discredited by autism experts in the Sixties; knowing for sure that I wasn’t to blame for our problems meant we could set about finding solutions.
We withdrew Nina from the local secondary school where she had been bullied and sent her to the Edinburgh Steiner School where she thrived. Able to play to her strengths, we discovered she was very good at languages, at acting, art and science. She made friends; she became a part of something for the first time, rather than being an outsider.
At 18, Nina left with a full set of A’s at Higher level and her hard-won place at Edinburgh University: she moved into her own flat 12 miles from home and flew through her first two years.
Though I miss her, now she is more than 1,000 miles away, I couldn’t be happier. Far from failing her, I must have done something right, after all. Nina still has challenges; she has Asperger’s Syndrome and always will, but we (and she) better understand her unique way of looking at the world and interacting with it.
In the same week my first child left the country, my first novel hit the shelves: a wry tale of a mother trapped with a child with Asperger’s, who refuses to leave their isolated farmhouse. No prizes for guessing that the inspiration came from those dark days before we knew how to help Nina.
She has read it herself, and approves. Her story as much as mine, our hope is it helps anyone struggling on the same path to realise that no matter how difficult life becomes, it’s still possible to find humour (however black) and a happy ending.
SOURCE: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/educatio...daughter-off-to-university.html#disqus_thread
