A Friend Like Henry

by Nuala Gardner

  In the early summer of 1996, with life so settled, in spite of our fertility problems, we felt we should book a proper vacation, and this time, because of the success with Harold the Helicopter, we decided to venture to Paris by plane. We knew by now that one small setback could undo a great deal of progress, so we put in plenty of preparation before the trip. We visited the airport with Dale, had lunch at a table from which he could watch the planes, and then took him to the check-in area to get him familiar with the process. Coincidentally, he also had a visit from a pilot to St. Anthony’s and, as a result of all this groundwork, took the flight in his stride.

  To get from Glasgow to Paris, we had to change planes in Birmingham. On the first leg, Dale ate his breakfast and was enjoying the flight when the man sitting beside me, a young pilot traveling down to get a connection, asked, “Would your boy like to see the cockpit?”

  I asked Dale, and he replied that he would. I considered telling the pilot about Dale’s autism, but, as things were going so well, decided not to on this occasion.

  They disappeared off to the cockpit and returned about five minutes later, Dale with a big smile on his face. The pilot said it had been a while since he had shown anyone around like this and that Dale had made his day. “He was so interested—he really enjoyed it,” he said. “A lot of kids nowadays aren’t bothered.”

  On the second leg of the journey, when a stewardess offered us drinks from the cart, Dale turned to Jamie from his window seat, saying, “Tell the lady Dale will just have tea.” Even at 30,000 feet or so he was not going to pass up the chance of a cup of tea.

  We arrived in Disneyland on Dale’s eighth birthday and booked up the special Disneyland Hotel party tea, the highlight of which was Dale being served his chocolate birthday cake by none other than Mickey Mouse. Jamie quipped, “Minnie can’t make it, Dale. She’s still in the kitchen baking other cakes.” Then there was a poignant moment as Dale got up to give Mickey a big hug, as if he appreciated all that he had meant to him in the past.

  Needless to say, Dale had a wonderful time at Disneyland, and we were so glad we had chosen this as the place to spend our first proper, trouble-free family vacation.

  One summer’s day in 1996, shortly after our Paris trip, the three of us were down at Seamill with Henry, enjoying the fine weather. We were throwing Henry’s plastic bone into the water, trying to get him to swim, but he wouldn’t go any further than paddling depth. Most retrievers know perfectly well they are water dogs and will swim for hours if they get the chance, but not our Henry. He was a complete wimp: if the bone went too far, he would wait for the tide, or one of us, to bring it back. Jamie and I even tried supporting him in the water, just out of his depth, to teach him, but all he would do was swim straight back to the shallow water where he was comfortable.

  “Will you teach me to swim?” asked Dale, who had participated in all of this. “Then I might help Henry.”

  We made a brief start, which was consolidated in the next school year when Dale’s class began swimming lessons, and by the end of the first term he could swim. Unfortunately, Henry never mastered this skill. We had many more fun days at the beach, however, often precisely because of our dog’s unwillingness to get too wet, even though this invariably meant that we did.

  Over the following year, Dale continued to make steady progress at school and enjoy looking after his dog at home. Again, life seemed settled, although changes were on the way.

  Despite all the progress in his classes and at home, Dale still had no friends at school. During the summer of 1997, when Dale was nine, I was faced with the usual problem of keeping him occupied for the seven weeks that he was off school. He was still socially quite immature, and I felt that involving him in play groups might exacerbate the problem. Even so, I still wanted to find something that would occupy him and help him develop the social skills that he lacked because of his autism. It was crucial that he acquired some confidence, otherwise he would continue to have problems fitting in with other children. And without this ability, of course, his all-important chances of integrating into the mainstream classes at St. Anthony’s would be compromised.

  I saw an ad in the local paper for a two-week drama workshop run by the local council, where a show would be put on at the end of the fortnight for parents and friends. I had heard and read that many people thought drama was not a suitable activity for children with autism, so before I launched into the process of priming Dale, I called and spoke to Margaret Lambert-McNeil, who would be running the workshop. She sounded lovely, with a gentle and understanding nature, and her main profession was working with young adults with learning disabilities, including autism. I explained all about Dale and she fully supported the idea of trying to socially integrate him more. She was very happy for him to become involved in the group, and we discussed various ways in which we could help him take part.

  Before the workshop started, Jamie and I once again gradually worked with Dale to get him accustomed to the new experience. We also reinforced to him that because it was a summer fun-time class, everyone would have a treat break each day. I then took him to a nearby shop where he spent about half an hour choosing ten treats, ten drinks, and ten bags of chips in readiness.

  When we got home, I spent time with Dale—Henry at our feet and very much involved in the discussion—preparing ten little treat break bags, each with the appropriate day written on them. This meant Dale would understand that his fun-time class would have to end, and I also thought the treats would give him extra motivation to attend and cope.

  On the first day of the workshop, Henry went along in the car with Dale to put him at ease. I offered to stay with him during the class, but Margaret rightly felt it would be better to leave him be, although she suggested I stay in the building for that first day. I spent the two hours reading in the foyer and Margaret knew where to find me if I was needed. When I picked Dale up, Margaret gave me the great news that the experience had been a success. Although Dale had hovered silently around the edge of the group throughout, he was not unhappy and really did enjoy the break time. Margaret had occasionally seen him showing a fleeting interest in what was going on, and she felt, as I did, that Dale would slowly become part of the group, in his own unique way.

  The other children in the group were not fazed by Dale’s presence and at times, especially during the breaks, tried to include him. They all simply accepted him for who he was. The bags of treats diminished until, at the end of the two weeks, Dale stood on stage with the other kids for their public performance in Gourock’s Gamble Halls, in front of an audience of over a hundred people. To get Dale to do this, we had promised him a prize if he did well, in the form of a new train from the Thomas range, which we wrapped up for Margaret to give him at the end of the show. It did wonders for his confidence and self-esteem to be “chosen” by Margaret, as he thought, out of all the group. We would often tell Dale little white lies like this to motivate him in new situations, and it always worked. Overall, Dale’s involvement was so successful that for the next three years he would attend not only the summer drama workshop, but also one at Easter and a weekly evening class, all run by Margaret.

  Thanks to Margaret, he gained enormously in terms of self-esteem, confidence, imagination, and socialization with his peers. Even more memorable was the fact that these workshops also led to a huge breakthrough—they gave Dale his sense of humor. Before attending, he did not understand the concept of telling a joke, but he learned his first one in Margaret’s class. He would tell his joke to everyone he encountered and loved the laughter it produced. “Why did the orange stop running?” he’d ask. When he got the response, “I don’t know,” he’d start laughing himself as he delivered the punchline: “Because it ran out of juice.”

  In the weeks that followed, Dale would attempt to make up his own jokes—some funny, most not, because he still tended to miss the point due to the abstract nature of a joke. Over time, this process helped him to develop the good sense of humor h
e now possesses. It also did wonders for his self-confidence because when people responded to his jokes in a positive manner, he realized they were interested in him. It was also invaluable in developing his learning because he was much keener to embrace a topic if we could make it funny. If he was behaving inappropriately, for example, we would copy the behavior in an exaggerated and animated way so he could see how funny it looked and understand how others saw him.

  Many friends commented on how great it was to see Dale telling his jokes, all the more so after I taught him a lengthy and really funny story concerning a millipede, with the punchline “I’m still putting on my boots.” Dale would tell this at any opportunity, clearly understanding why it was funny, and it was a joy to watch his sense of humor evolve.

  Jamie always took his annual fortnight’s vacation during the last two weeks of Dale’s summer break. We wanted to find somewhere that Dale would enjoy as much as Disneyland, and London sprang to mind—there was lots to see and we could also work in a trip to Legoland while we were there. This had the added bonus of a steam train to entice him.

  Because of Dale’s involvement in drama classes, I thought he would like to see some West End shows. Once again we used his obsession with trains, deciding that his introduction to London theater should be Starlight Express because the excitement of seeing a show about trains should overcome any worries on Dale’s part about the crowds and noise. We ensured we were at the very front of the theater so Dale could see the show but not how many people were in the audience, and we booked the aisle seats in case we needed to make a quick exit. Happily, this wasn’t necessary, and Dale loved the show, leaving the theater proudly clutching his program. He seemed to understand the concept of people being trains, and I think it gave him an insight into how he could play at being a train himself. We noticed on our return that when doing his Chariots of Fire run, he would incorporate the circling piston action of a train with his arms, as well as make the sound of its whistle.

  On the next two nights of our London trip, we successfully took Dale to Beauty and the Beast and Cats. He especially liked Cats as we had been playing the tape of the show in the car to let him get to know the music. He’d been looking forward to seeing a railway cat named Skimbleshanks and was delighted at the spectacle of this feline and his friends forming a train on the stage out of mock rubbish and various props. He was intrigued by the use of rubbish in this way and loved the surprise of it. When the cat characters went through the audience demanding to be stroked, Dale was overjoyed, howling with laughter as he stroked the “cat” beside him. At first, he was frightened because it sneaked up on him in his aisle seat, but once he composed himself, the female cat character intrigued him so much he responded to it as if it were real.

  Not surprisingly, another aspect of London that Dale loved was traveling around on the subway. The lure of the trains meant that he took the crowds in his stride, and he really seemed to like the hustle and bustle of London life.

  Needless to say, Legoland was also a great highlight that reminded us of Dale’s first building blocks and of how far he’d come in the interim.

  When the vacation came to an end, Dale insisted on giving Henry a call from the airport to let him know we’d be home soon. He seemed to have learned a lot about imagination thanks to this weekend as he had this conversation with Henry using his own hand as an imaginary phone.

  On returning home, I discovered a really good nursing position was available. Dale was progressing so well, so I felt I could not miss the opportunity. The local health center was looking for a community senior staff nurse to work with an assistant on night shifts for fifteen hours a week. It was rare for such a professionally challenging and rewarding position to come up, and the hours would fit in ideally with Dale. Also, if I was ever to succeed in having another child, the job would accommodate my needs nicely. I was therefore delighted to be offered the position, and for the first time since Dale was born felt I could function as the professional I had been all those years ago as a midwife at St. Luke’s.

  Another positive change was that Dale was due to move up from the Anchor Boys to the Boys’ Brigade Junior Section. The boys from both groups got together once a year for their end-of-term display night, so Dale was aware of the junior section and familiar with its leaders. The only stumbling block was that he wasn’t happy about changing from a red to a navy-blue jersey.

  As we weren’t aware of any train in this particular color, we thought perhaps someone else could help with the problem, so one day when Dale came home from school, a smartly dressed Henry greeted him with the words “I liked this navy jacket so much, Dale, I just had to try it on.” Dale laughed heartily as Henry continued, “Do I look like a grown-up dog now, Dale? Can I join the junior section?”

  Dale answered, giggling, “No, Henry, dogs are not allowed in the junior section. You’ll still have to wait at the door.”

  Dale thrived in the junior section. Whereas some boys might have found its more structured and disciplined approach difficult to adapt to, this suited Dale’s needs perfectly and he thoroughly enjoyed it.

  In October 1997, Jamie and I attended a review of Dale’s progress at St. Anthony’s. The staff graciously acknowledged how our efforts to help Dale were paying off handsomely, but we still had a major concern: Dale had no friends. To try to address this, we had actively manipulated him into a more socially acceptable obsession than Thomas, in the hope that he would then be able to mix with his peers. The craze of the day was the game Sonic the Hedgehog, and we had bought Dale a Sega Genesis and accompanying games for his ninth birthday in June. He learned the game quickly and it rapidly became a new obsession, but at least it was “in” and something he could talk about on the playground.

  Despite this and the fact that Dale was integrating well locally in his after-school activities, the worry remained that he had still failed to integrate into mainstream academic classes at St. Anthony’s. Of even greater concern at the review meeting was the doubt of the educational psychologist and staff that our son would ever integrate into his local school, which of course had been the goal all along. They said they were planning to keep Dale at St. Anthony’s for the whole of his primary education and then send him to Glenburn, a special-needs school in Greenock.

  We reiterated our hopes that Dale would ultimately have a good quality of life and decent level of independence, stressing the need for a mainstream secondary education and that his route into this should be a period attending his local primary school. Sadly, Jamie and I were the only people present who felt this was achievable; we were told that Dale had not integrated at St. Anthony’s to a level where he would be able to cope fully in a mainstream setting. I pointed out that a major concern while he remained in the unit was that he was regressing, in that he was picking up autistic mannerisms and copying inappropriate behavior from the other children.

  Thankfully, the educational psychologist did agree to leave the options open, but if Dale’s level of integration remained as it was, nothing we could say would alter the school’s view.

  I left this meeting in despair. It seemed that no matter what Dale had achieved, there was a major obstacle to a positive future for him. What was needed was something to help him with his academic work, to break down the barrier to integration. The biggest hurdle for Dale was definitely math, in that the language involved was preventing him from understanding the questions, making the whole environment of the subject frightening and alien.

  We were going to have to find a way to prove Dale could cope at his local primary school as soon as possible. Time was running out.

  8

  A Fitting Tribute

  In October 1997, during the fall break, Dale had a successful week at an art workshop for schoolchildren, which his drama teacher, Margaret, had told me about. He loved all the different activities, apparently fitting in well alongside the mainstream kids.

  While I was waiting for him to finish one day, I noticed a poster about the Kumon m
ath system and saw that the Guild was running classes after school on Mondays and Thursdays. The more I read about the program, the more I felt it was suitable for Dale. It was a “drop-in” system geared toward children of all ages and abilities, many of whom participated because they were finding schoolwork difficult and had lost confidence. The program tied in with the National Curriculum, but would be adjusted by the teachers to suit each individual pupil’s needs and abilities, letting them progress at their own pace—they would work on their own within the class, so there would be no pressure to keep up with the other kids.

  I was quite excited; this seemed tailor-made for Dale. I met with one of the teachers, Mr. Gordon, who carried out an assessment on Dale to determine his starting level, and it was agreed that he would join the program. Dale immediately adapted both to the teachers and the class—it was an ideal, nonthreatening environment, and he took the whole thing in his stride. He particularly liked the reward system and, thanks to the patience, support, and understanding of Mr. Gordon, was to attend these classes for the next three years.

  With this new class and all the other activities Dale was involved in, his self-esteem and confidence soared. I dearly hoped we now had the weapons we needed to win the coming fight to get him into full-time mainstream education.

  It had been three whole years since Henry had found his voice and we were at last slowly managing to wean Dale off it. He was getting more used to conversations, although these were still limited. We encouraged him to respond to Henry’s nonverbal signals and facial expressions, just as you would with any dog. “Dale, look at Henry’s tail,” we would say, “he’s so pleased to see you.” In this way, Henry also finally helped Dale to understand the concept of hide-and-seek. When Dale hid, we would tell him, “Stay quiet, and Henry will sniff you out with his big nose.” Somehow the knowledge that Henry could smell him taught Dale that he needed to try to trick his dog by hiding in different places—without his usual cry of “Here I am!” Such was Henry’s ability to find Dale that one day Dale turned to me and announced, “Mum, it’s not fair that dogs have good noses.”