When I asked the teacher what the plan was for his secondary education, she confirmed that Glenburn in Greenock would be recommended for him. She already knew my feelings on this and nothing had changed. Glenburn was a good special-education school, catering for children from five to sixteen years of age with a diverse range of physical and learning disabilities, but I passionately did not want my son educated in this environment, possibly never mixing with mainstream kids, who I knew could teach him so much. I remember telling the teacher that I didn’t understand how Dale could integrate fully in his local area with all the mainstream activities he was involved in, yet wasn’t able to do so at St. Anthony’s.
Dale only had two years of primary education remaining. I left the meeting knowing that unless we took strong action to get him into an appropriate educational setting, then “special” secondary education was going to be inevitable. I went home in a panic and related all to Jamie.
We discussed many options, but the one thing that was clear to us both was that if Dale stayed at St. Anthony’s, he was never going to integrate to an acceptable level. We concluded that the success he was having with his out-of-school activities was due to the fact that these took place in his local area and he knew the children involved. Another factor was that the class size at St. Anthony’s was very large in comparison with our local school. It also concerned us that by remaining in the unit Dale was still picking up various autistic mannerisms and having to take part in social activities below his level. This in itself was counterproductive, and we felt that if he transferred to Glenburn, little would change. It was time for him to move on.
Feeling more determined than ever, we started to look into other options. We were also aware that Dale had started to show an insight into the fact that he was different from other local kids. One time as we walked Henry up the hill past Overton Primary, about five minutes from our house, Dale asked, “Mum, what’s that place there?”
“It’s the school where all the kids in the houses near us go,” I explained.
“Why can’t I go there?” came Dale’s reply.
At this time, a really nice young boy named Fraser lived across the road from us and would sometimes visit to play with Dale. Thinking of his friend, Dale then asked, “Is this Fraser’s school?”
As I explained more about it, I could see Dale had a real desire to be like Fraser. “Would you like to go to school with Fraser?” I asked him.
“Yes, that would be good. I like Fraser.”
I couldn’t ignore the fact that I had uncovered this motivation in Dale and set about trying to fulfill his wishes. Jamie and I rapidly concluded there was no harm in trying Dale at Overton if the alternative was to leave things as they were. We prompted a meeting via the educational psychologist at St. Anthony’s. We put our argument to them, but everyone else present had serious reservations about our plans. With summer break approaching, however, it was decided to leave the final decision until the next term.
In late May 1999, shortly before Dale’s eleventh birthday and knowing we had done all we could for now about the school situation, we embarked on another cycle of ICSI treatment. After more grueling injections and general anesthetic number four, this time only eight eggs were sufficiently good to be injected. Twenty-four long hours later, the phone rang ominously, and we were informed that there were just two viable embryos. Jamie and I felt this news was very much a wake-up call and had a frank discussion.
While we were both delighted that we at least had the two embryos, we obviously knew from our previous experiences that the odds were not good. To compound this, the fact that I had only produced eight eggs was a strong indication of the pounding my body had taken over the two years of almost constant injections and operations. Although it was an incredibly tough decision, we both agreed that if this attempt resulted in failure, enough was enough. Quite apart from the mental and physical punishment, we had to be realistic as we had spent over £12,000 on fertility treatment. The whole experience was unforgettably draining, but we tried to tell ourselves that at least we had Dale and in comparison with some couples, our troubles were insignificant.
On a wing and a prayer, we decided to try to repeat the previous winning formula, in terms of becoming pregnant at least. So Jamie went off to work as usual and Brian drove me up to Glasgow Royal for the implantation process. Two weeks later, I supplied the sample, knowing we were at the last-chance saloon. I couldn’t bear to go with Jamie to the hospital for the pregnancy test, so I watched him drive off that morning, convinced the result would be negative and preparing myself for the worst.
Jamie told me it was the longest twenty-mile journey he had ever taken. He had said he would only call me if there was good news. He arrived at the unit and a nurse took away my sample to do the test while he waited in a side room.
A few minutes later, the sister came in and simply gave him a big hug. “You’d better give Nuala the news,” she said, and handed him a phone.
As the phone rang, with shaking hands I lifted the receiver. “Hello?” I said, almost sick with nerves.
There was a deep breath at the other end, and then came Jamie’s voice. “We’ve done it! We’ve actually cracked it.”
I could barely speak. I just couldn’t take in that I was pregnant again.
The next day, both of us went up to the unit to see the consultant. Aware of my previous miscarriage, he advised me to take hormonal suppositories to thicken the wall of the womb and hopefully allow better implantation and embedding of the pregnancy. He had also uncovered some research that suggested that patients like me, with a history of bleeding in pregnancy, would benefit from taking 75 milligrams of enteric-coated aspirin daily, and so he advised me to do this right up until a month before the birth was due. I would have to stop then because of the need to be able to clot well after giving birth.
At around eight weeks, we returned for my first scan. To our absolute euphoria, two normal pregnancy sacs were clearly visible on the monitor—I was again expecting twins. We felt we were the luckiest people in the world, although given what had happened before, our joy was naturally tinged with apprehension.
Hard though it was to stay quiet, we told no one our news except Lorraine and Brian, who were obviously already in the know and, true friends that they were, ready to support us throughout.
A happy by-product of Jamie’s business travels was the amount of Air Miles he had clocked up, so we decided Dale should have a special trip away with his dad while I took things easy. Jamie had spotted a Thomas the Tank Engine weekend at the Bluebell Railway in Sussex and so booked up flights to London for the two of them, leaving me with Henry. My dad, George, came by, as he often did, to walk Henry around the neighborhood. We had taken Dad very much under our wing since my mum’s death, and I took over the role of my mum in doing his washing, helping him shop, and so on. As Dad loved soccer, Jamie would take him out to his local pub to see the games on the big screen. For Dad’s self-esteem, Jamie would also go down to Dad’s with a couple of beers to watch some games in his house, as Dad liked being the host.
After they had gone, I was happy and content to be on my own and couldn’t help thinking ahead to the future, daydreaming about my babies. We had always wanted to call our children Dale and Amy, but now another name would be needed. As I relaxed in a warm bath that night, my mind was buzzing with possibilities.
And then I started to bleed.
I screamed in a voice I did not recognize as my own and fumbled for the phone.
“It’s happening again,” I cried to Lorraine, distraught, “just like last time.”
She said she’d be right there, and then I called the hospital, who advised me to take no risks such as lifting anything heavy and to take time off work and go on bed rest.
I saw no point in calling Jamie and ruining his trip with Dale, so Lorraine stayed with me until it was time to pick them up. The first Jamie knew of anything wrong was when he was greeted at the airport by Lorraine instead o
f me and Henry. Out of Dale’s earshot, he was appalled to hear her quiet explanation.
After a few days of total bed rest, with confidence low and anxiety levels high, the threat did not recede, and Jamie took me to the hospital for a scan. My feelings of doom were overwhelming as the procedure began, but after a few moments of searching with the probe, the consultant found a glimmer of hope: one clear heartbeat. While this meant that one of my twins had tragically perished, I was literally clinging on to the other for all it was worth. I returned home to the confines of my bed and lay there for three long, anxious weeks, continuing with the aspirin and suppositories. Terrifyingly, the bleeding persisted, but not as heavily. Desperately hoping that the pregnancy still had a chance, I did all I could to nurture it. Throughout my period of bed rest, Henry was my constant companion, lying beside me for cuddles, which relaxed us both.
During this period, Dale took part in a show through his drama group. I obviously couldn’t go, but Jamie told me that for the first time Dale was right in the middle of the other kids, singing and dancing. It was a 1960s-themed show where Dale played a car salesman and delivered such lines as “What car would you like?” with considerable aplomb.
That summer, another opportunity to help Dale arose in the form of a project known as Artism 2000. The eminent artist Peter Howson, together with the Scottish Society for Autism, had secured funding to allow children with autism to attend Saturday art workshops in a real artist’s studio. What made the project unique was that the Scottish Society had given a number of artists training in working with kids of all ages and levels of autism. Dale was fortunate to be included in the project, the culmination of which after five months would be an exhibition of the children’s work at the Glasgow Museum of Modern Art. Our weekends were now full, with Saturdays involving trips to Glasgow for Dale’s class and Sundays still being reserved for Robert. By this time, my bleeding was scanty and so, while I was still doing very little at home, I occasionally left Henry at home with Jimmy and Dorothy or my dad, and accompanied Jamie to Artism 2000, or Projectability, as it had now become known, where we sat in the waiting room chatting with other parents during the two hours that Dale was occupied there. Little outings like this kept me sane, and at least I was in Glasgow and therefore closer to the hospital in the event of an emergency.
Dale thrived in Projectability, and we were given a further break in that Jamie managed to get a job closer to home when Intel opened a new design center in Glasgow. At last things appeared to be going our way.
I was delighted to receive my clinic card from the Southern General Hospital, where I had trained as a midwife and hoped to have my baby. As the bleeding remained minuscule, I had really started to believe that fate was on our side and we were at last to be blessed with our second child.
One morning in August, over three months pregnant, I awoke in a pool of blood. My cry of horror woke up Jamie, who immediately called the doctor, while blood continued to pour from me like water from a tap.
Not surprisingly, the doctor wanted me admitted to hospital and advised us to call for an ambulance, but rather than wait for it, I lay in the back of the car as Jamie raced me to the Southern General. The bleeding had by this time all but stopped, although the consultant and I both felt that the profuse hemorrhage meant the chances of my baby surviving were virtually nil. Jamie and I prepared each other for the worst as we awaited the inevitable scan.
The radiographer was very supportive and sympathetic. Resigned to the fact that it was all over, we couldn’t bring ourselves to look at what we knew would be a black mass of clotted blood within my womb. Still unable to look, I grasped Jamie’s hand tightly as the radiographer moved the probe around, searching, and finally stopped as she found something. Her next words rocked us to the core: “Look at this amazing little creature that’s causing all the trouble.”
Jamie and I gazed at each other in disbelief and then at the screen. There it was as clear as day, a cheeky little fetus waving its arms and dancing away happily in its own little world.
“Someone’s having a great time,” said the radiographer.
Jamie and I were both in tears. Not only was this a perfectly active fetus with a strong heartbeat, but there was no evidence of clots within its sac and placenta, nothing to put the pregnancy at further risk. It seemed that the astuteness of the infertility consultant in putting me on aspirin and hormonal suppositories had saved our precious baby. No one could be certain what had caused such a dramatic bleed, but it could have been due to the remnants of the other pregnancy sac.
The consultant, Dr. Naismith, had some junior doctors with him and informed them of my history. It transpired that the hemorrhage had been so severe that I had lost half my blood volume, and Dr. Naismith advised that delivery should ultimately be by Caesarean section to minimize any further risks. That the baby had held on, he said, was nothing short of a miracle.
I was discharged with the advice to soldier on with the aspirin and hormonal treatment, as well as a supply of iron tablets. Inevitably, I had to remain on bed rest and take no risks. While remaining indoors for almost five months would be a tall order, I was prepared to do absolutely anything to keep my baby. We told Dale that I was simply having a little trouble with my stomach, which was something he could relate to as he had a scar on his abdomen due to a problem with his tummy when he was small.
Everyone pitched in and Jamie’s mother, Dorothy, helped considerably with shopping and cooking for us all, as did Lorraine and Brian. The family also helped us to make sure Henry was looked after, taking him out for strolls around the neighborhood. Jimmy kept Dale amused as usual, and we felt blessed to have such supportive family and friends.
To get out of the house, Jamie and Dale would sometimes take Henry down to the beach at Lunderston Bay for a paddle. Henry never did come to grips with swimming, but they had fun watching him retreat from the waves and run back to the safety of dry land. That’s not to say that they had to take Henry out for my sake—he seemed to understand that I was not myself, and whenever he did stay at home, he would lie on the couch beside me, providing me with lovely, peaceful companionship. He was, as ever, a gorgeous member of our family, faithfully giving us a lift during these times just by being himself.
During those summer months, we began to prepare Dale for changes in his schooling. Even though official decisions had not yet been finalized, it was perfectly clear to Jamie and me that we couldn’t leave our son at St. Anthony’s purely as a gateway to Glenburn. That’s not to say we didn’t respect Glenburn as a school; we just felt it was the wrong environment for Dale.
For his part, all Dale wanted was to be like the other children he saw having fun in the neighborhood. He still played with Fraser, and it was especially heartening that other boys would now also call at the door to ask if Dale was coming out to play. Jamie and I will always remember one night in particular when this started to reap benefits.
For years we had what we thought was an obsolete bike lying in our garage. Dale had shown no interest in it at all, and so we’d never taught him how to ride it. On this night, however, he came and asked for it as Fraser and all the other kids were playing on their own bikes. Jamie duly fetched the bike and pumped up the tires, reminding Dale of the small matter that he’d need to be shown how to ride it. To our eternal surprise, he calmly announced, “It’s OK, Dad, I know what to do.” And off he rode to meet the others.
He later told us that seeing Fraser and the rest on their bikes had made him simply want to be the same, so he got the hang of it to be with them. Ours was not to reason why—autistic children have a gift for just suddenly doing things, and Dale had, after all, gone from a crawl to a steady walk in only two days.
Dale had a really full and successful summer simply being just one of the kids on the block. While the boisterous games outside were not always suitable for Henry, when Dale and his friends played together in the house, the dog made sure he was with them and became a popular member of the gang.
Dad would come and take him for short walks, then sometimes tether him on a long lead outside the front of our house so that he could see Dale and vice versa—we did need to tether him up so he couldn’t wander off or butt into the kids’ soccer games. If any children came over, he was always delighted to roll over and let them pat him, seeming to understand their tender age. One little girl was frightened of dogs, but because of Henry’s amazing nature, she soon bonded with him, although she remained scared of other dogs. This was probably because Henry seemed to understand that small children didn’t like dogs jumping at them, so he would always lie down as they approached, to let the children stroke him. In Dresling Road, Henry was a bit of a star.
Dale’s art was progressing really well. As luck would have it, I discovered that the Glasgow School of Art ran week-long workshops for all children. So, after a discussion with the principal and meeting with the teacher, Dale was enrolled and successfully completed a week of painting and sculpting. The teacher was much taken by his natural ability and how well he fit in and worked with the other children in the class.
This only strengthened our resolve to give Dale the opportunity to go to school with the children he’d been playing with all summer. Jamie and I wrote to Dale’s educational psychologist setting out our case for him to attend Overton, which prompted a meeting at Overton itself. After much discussion and argument on our part, Jamie and I were delighted when it was agreed that Dale would have a trial period of one day a week at Overton, starting after the October break, with a review to follow in the New Year.
We had over the years become adept at writing strong letters to fight for Dale, as we’d discovered that to get anywhere you needed to state a good case in black and white. We would spend hours doing this when we could have been doing things with Dale; it was immensely frustrating, but it went with the territory.
A Friend Like Henry Page 12