That evening, we took Dale out to an excellent Thai restaurant in Glasgow, leaving Amy at home with our Barnardos’ sitter, Suzanne, whom she loved and would have a great time with. As a special token of how pleased we were for Dale, we gave him a surprise gift. Over the years, he had built up an impressive standard-gauge Hornby train collection, and I had encouraged him to enjoy this with other enthusiasts by joining the local railway club in Greenock. Most of the members were older men, a couple of whom had young kids, and Dale took responsibility for them when he was at the club. So this made for a very healthy and constructive use of his enduring interest in trains, yet again with all the social benefits that came with it.
The gift we presented to Dale in the restaurant, therefore, was a Henry train by Hornby, which he had been saving up for for some time. The following week, Dale gave the kids and adults at the club a great thrill by running not only his Thomas and James trains, but the new Henry model as well. He still goes to the railway club every Tuesday evening and helps set up and demonstrate the trains at big shows. He recently told me that when he goes to these shows, he can easily spot kids and adults with autism as they walk around the halls looking at the train displays.
With such great exam results, the teachers and school were delighted for Dale and he decided to carry on and do a fifth year. He had also started to give some thought to what he would like to do for a future career. He had recently done some work experience with his friend Scott at a local children’s nursery and had received a very positive report from the staff there, who had been unaware of his autism. Also, he had started working toward a Duke of Edinburgh Award and, as part of this scheme, had become a volunteer at the local Beavers, or junior Scouts group. He had discovered here, too, that he had a good understanding of children and, after much deliberation, concluded that this was an area where he could use his drawing and guitar skills. He wanted to use the insight he’d gained from his own condition to help other children. More importantly, children were fond of him, warming to his patient, gentle, and caring personality.
Amy also had a successful summer, attending mainstream art and drama workshops, as well as a large play group at the local sports center. Because of our experience with Dale, the educational psychologist implemented a transition plan to assist with Amy’s big move, straight into mainstream at Moorfoot Primary. This included a book of pictures being put together to familiarize her with the school, classrooms, PE hall, teachers, and even the cafeteria food. Quite simply, it was the same as Paula’s book for Dale, but without dear old Henry.
For the first time in our lives, Jamie and I learned what all the hype was about regarding a child’s first day at school—and we loved every minute of it. Amy did too, as she was so well prepared. There were no tears from her or us, and after taking a photograph of her in her class, we left her to enjoy the rest of this momentous day. The joy and sense of achievement we felt was on a par with the day that she was born.
With the excellent support of Moorfoot itself, together with the outreach service from the local school language base, speech therapy staff, and a teacher specializing in special educational needs in Amy’s class, she settled well into her peer group and thrived.
About six weeks later, in mid-September, while driving past Val’s house with Amy in the car, I spotted her working in her front garden with her mum and stopped for a chat. Amy interrupted and began interrogating them about horses, so as a distraction Val turned to me with the bright idea: “Why don’t you let her see our new puppies?” One of the goldies had recently had eight pups, all of which already had homes to go to. I suggested we leave it for now so that we could all come back with Dale.
So, with Jamie confident that all the pups had been sold, we went back that weekend, taking Henry with us. We went out to the big shed in the back garden that housed the pups and had a dog run for the older dogs. While we all fussed over the pups, Jamie walked Henry around in the garden. On seeing this, Val and Sheena had a gentle word with Dale about Henry, explaining that his arthritis was very advanced and that at twelve years of age he was now quite an old dog. Then, while Amy continued to play with the pups, Val mentioned that one of the males was now available because the people who had said they would take him had changed their minds about getting a dog.
After a pleasant visit, we headed into town to get a DVD and pizza, which we often did on a Saturday evening. Staying with Dale in the car, I sent Jamie and Amy off with instructions as to what to get in both shops, and then turned to Dale. I had noticed something was upsetting him and wanted the chance to speak to him on his own. When I pressed him about what was wrong, he began to cry.
“I feel awful,” he told me. “I can’t bear the thought of not having Henry in my life.”
No matter how many times we had tried to explain to Dale that Henry might not have that much longer to live, it had taken his chat with Sheena and Val to make him fully understand that there was only so much the vet could do.
We talked a little further, and I very quickly reached a decision. “Do you think you should take the little pup that Val has left?” I asked Dale.
We’d already agreed on how no other dog could ever replace Henry, but Dale reflected a moment and said, “I think it would help. I couldn’t go from having Henry to nothing.”
With some relief and Dale’s permission, I called Val from my cell phone. “Hold that pup,” I told her, “we’d like to take him.” I then called Jamie, who was by now in the pizza shop, and gave him the news.
There was a long pause, followed by a typical Jamie observation: “This has been the most expensive pizza I’ve ever bought.”
The only remaining decision was what to call the new arrival, and we naturally felt this should be Dale’s choice. Things never being straightforward in our household, Dale informed us, “I know it’s strange, but I always want to have a Henry in my life, so I’d like to call the pup Little Henry.”
We had our reservations about this, but had to acknowledge Dale’s needs and concluded that we could emphasize the word Little with the pup and shout “Sir Henry” for the older dog. I came up with this as Mum had always been used to having mongrel dogs and because of our retriever’s pedigree would often refer to him as “Sir.” Henry was in any event already used to various other names, such as Harry, courtesy of Amy, and also Tigger when we visited Dad, who thought he was his old pet. We knew it wasn’t the most sensible choice, but we’d given up doing things the normal way years ago. And of course we understood that when the horrendous but inevitable day came, Little Henry would simply become Henry.
Unlike the day when we had collected Sir Henry all those years ago, this time Dale was very much picking up his own pup—not a replacement, but a second dog to love.
When we arrived back outside our house, the new bundle snuggled into Dale, we could see Henry through the window, lying on his bed in front of the fire. We let the pup in, to see how they got on. Sir Henry looked up in shock as Little Henry trotted over to his bed and peed on it. After the pup realized that Henry was not up for playing just now, he cuddled up to him and went to sleep, as though Henry was his mum. Sometimes he would go a step too far and try to suckle Henry, who, although tolerant, would show his displeasure by barking loudly at the young upstart.
Very quickly the two bonded well and would often play together like pups, with Little giving Sir a new lease on life. Occasionally they needed to be separated like a couple of misbehaving children.
As both dogs were Dale’s and registered and insured in his name, he took full responsibility for them. Once Little Henry was old enough, Dale started taking him to dog-training classes, run by Val and a friend every Wednesday night. He still attends now, in an attempt, as Dale puts it, to “find Little Henry’s brain.”
14
Granda George
As we’d learned throughout Dale’s life, it was always prudent to plan well ahead. Once Dale had received his exam results, he decided that after completing his fifth year
at school, he wanted to go on to a third-level college, and so I started to investigate what type of help and provision he would be entitled to once he got there. The other item on my agenda was to find the college and course that would be most suitable for him. While we knew that officially there should not be any disability discrimination, we were also aware that given Dale’s chosen career path of working with children, his autism could be a potential problem.
When I called around various colleges and explained Dale’s situation, many were supportive, but some were shocked that someone with autism was even considering this kind of course. Thankfully, Dale understood that regardless of his personal and academic achievements, he would have to work harder to prove himself than someone without autism. This shouldn’t have been the case, but it was a sad fact of life that we couldn’t ignore.
What we wanted to avoid more than anything was Dale being in a “revolving-door situation” at college, finding that there was no suitable employment available at the end of a course and having no choice but to go back into college to start another one. I spent an intensive day on the phone and then ironically made the call I perhaps should have started with. The helpline people for the National Autistic Society (NAS) in London told me about their employment service, Prospects, that among other aims provided support for students at college and university. More importantly, once in the chosen workplace, support would be offered not only to the new employee, but also the employer. They had branches in London, Manchester, Leeds, and Glasgow, so I contacted their Glasgow office and spoke to them about Dale.
Dale embraced all that Prospects had to offer and, with the dedicated help of the staff and Anna Williamson in particular, gained a place on a national certificate course in childcare that was due to start at the James Watt College in August 2006. The learning support staff at the college worked well with Prospects to ensure that Dale’s transition to college would go smoothly.
Meanwhile, though, Dale was working so hard to succeed at his schoolwork that there was no denying he was placing undue pressure on himself and suffering as a consequence. Following a meeting with the immensely caring and supportive Margie Carracher, Dale and I concluded that the best option for him now would be to leave school. He would be sorely missed by his teachers and would himself be upset to leave them and his school friends, but Margie’s delicate handling of the situation helped Dale to cope with this momentous decision.
There were four weeks to go before Dale’s leaving date and he wanted to fill them productively. By the end of his fourth year, his art portfolio had comprised several good pieces, one of which, a drawing of a sultan, had been pointed out to us by Dale’s art teacher at a parents’ evening as an exceptional portrait. We had been very pleasantly surprised by the standard of this drawing, as we’d never seen Dale’s talent at this level before. When we thought back to our five-year-old boy who could barely hold a pencil, instead using a toddler’s palmer grip to create meaningless scribbles, the quality of this piece really touched us. We told Dale we’d like a copy of the sultan to hang up with pride in the house, but he had his own ideas, suggesting, “If you like that one so much, why don’t I do something even better to hang in the house?” When we asked him what he had in mind, he replied, “I’d like to do a portrait of Henry.”
Margie approached the art teacher, who agreed to allow Dale to work on this drawing rather than coursework during his remaining art classes at the school. This would help him to relax as he prepared for the reality of leaving a school and teachers who meant so much to him.
Dale set to work on what was to become a very special and significant drawing. He took his favorite photograph of Henry into school to use as a reference for the portrait and, although he hadn’t drawn his dog in years, soon got into the swing of things. After many hours of painstaking effort, the final result was superb and was a much more powerful and meaningful piece for us to hang than the sultan. Henry’s wise and noble character and beauty were plain to see, but there was something more—Dale had captured the essence of his dog through the eyes. The love he had for Henry was somehow transferred on to the paper, and Henry’s very soul shone through.
Dale was naturally upset the day he left school, especially at the thought of never working again with his wonderful teachers, who had contributed so much to his academic success, maturity, and self-esteem. I suspect they gained as much satisfaction from seeing Dale prosper as watching another child get straight A’s. They were never arrogant, always listened to our views, and we will be for ever grateful for all they achieved
In December, on one of my regular visits to my dad at Merino Court, I asked Jamie to come along with Amy. Jamie hadn’t seen my dad for a couple of weeks, and I wanted his opinion on my suspicions that my father’s health was now a serious cause for concern. Jamie was shocked to see how much Dad had deteriorated. Amy also seemed to have picked up that her granda might soon be going to join some of her other favorite residents and Granny Madge in heaven. She went to her “dream room,” a special room for the home’s residents, with subdued lighting and soothing music to create a relaxed and tranquil atmosphere. Amy had previously drawn a horse for Granda George to see when he was in the room, but now she took it down from the wall—it was as if she realized that very soon he would not be there to see it. When we left, I asked the nurses to call me at any time if Dad’s condition deteriorated; I hadn’t been with my mum when she passed away and did not want my dad to have to die alone also. I would go up there first thing next morning and spend all the time that was necessary to be with him.
With this in mind, and concerned that Dale might not see his grandfather again, I took him back that evening to visit. Although Dad did not wake up, Dale sat on his bed and held his hand, speaking some kind words to him in the hope that he could hear—I had told him to talk to his granda normally and let him know that he was with him. As we were about to leave, Dale bent over the bed and kissed my dad gently on the forehead, saying with a mature and composed voice, “Goodnight, Granda. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good rest.” It was a gesture of love and compassion, telling and showing his grandfather everything that needed to be said and done. Such was the dignity and respect Dale showed his dying grandfather, it all but broke my heart, and I needed every ounce of my emotional strength to stay composed.
I went home to get things organized so that I could be with Dad for the time he had left, with my sister Linda by my side. I put on washing and brought the usual chores up to date, then left things ready for Jamie and the kids for when the inevitable happened. Content that all was in order and with my dad very much on my mind, I eventually fell asleep, setting the alarm for an early rise so I could get to his bedside as soon as possible.
At five o’clock, however, the phone jolted me awake and my heart sank. It was the nurse from Merino Court informing me that my dad had died a few minutes earlier. I was distraught, not least because I hadn’t been there at the end for either of my parents. Dale overheard my distress and understood what had happened, staying home to comfort me that day. As it was already December 21, it would be difficult to hold Dad’s funeral before Christmas, and because we also wanted to give family from Ireland the chance to attend, the date was set for the following Wednesday, December 28.
We broke the news to Amy that Granda George had gone to heaven to join Granny Madge and the others who had passed on from Merino Court. She took it well, although she said she felt sad that she would not see him again when she went back to visit her friends at Merino Court.
Just as we had in the past, we forced ourselves to go through the motions of Christmas, this time for a very sad and different reason.
Dale was very pleased with the set of Doctor Who DVDs we gave him, in a package resembling the famous Tardis. Jamie and I had bought Dale a gift on behalf of his grandfather, together with an appropriately worded card. This was a themed alarm clock with a moving 3-D steam train and accompanying noises, which Dale was touched to receive. Amy had a card fro
m Granda George, too, together with a Barbie Pegasus horse.
Amy’s special present from Santa, however, had been in development for several months. On her many visits to her friend Nina’s house, she had been very taken with Nina’s enormous doll’s house—or rather, the tiny replica rocking horse that resided in the child’s bedroom in the house. Because of her autism, she would show no symbolic or imaginative play with the doll’s house, as other girls would, but was nonetheless determined that this was what she wanted for Christmas.
In an attempt to kick-start Amy’s imagination, we decided to involve her in the process of choosing and designing the house. We opened up an Internet website showing various styles of house and let Amy surf a little, ultimately guiding her toward a particular style and size of house. Basically, she “chose” the one we thought most suitable! It had fewer, better-sized rooms than we’d seen in other houses and was in kit form, needing to be painted, built and furnished from scratch. By involving Amy fully in the process, it became obvious to us that she was recreating a replica of our own house, choosing the same colors for the rooms as we had. We seized on this and decided to run with it.
As we knew Amy’s imagination would be limited in terms of how she would play with the house and dolls, we set out to replicate our own as best we could. For weeks on end, Jimmy was busy building and painting the house up in his attic, while we gathered together fittings and furniture that as closely as possible resembled our own, even down to the floor coverings. We also found look-alike dolls to match our family and Amy’s friends, putting the name of each character on the sole of the doll’s foot. Jimmy wired up the house with low-voltage lighting, which made it look different and more enticing to play with and had the added advantage that Amy could use it at night-time if she wanted. Amy took great delight in choosing the tiny rocking horse for her pink room, to replicate one she’d got from Santa two years previously, which she had proudly named Hero. No detail was spared: the house was given a number—number 9—there was a kennel outside inscribed with the name Henry, as well as a wooden garden shed where characters who didn’t live at number 9, like the Nina doll, would remain “hidden” until they came to visit Amy.
A Friend Like Henry Page 19