A Friend Like Henry

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A Friend Like Henry Page 21

by Nuala Gardner


  Later that evening, the vet called to tell me that the X-ray had revealed that Henry had pneumonia. He was receiving all the appropriate antibiotics and treatment, and I was pleased to hear he had managed earlier in the afternoon to walk outside and eat two spoonfuls of food—a sign of great hope for our Henry. We felt a little more settled as we got ready for bed, allowing ourselves to believe that he might turn the corner.

  Then, at 11 p.m., the phone rang again. My heart plummeted, just as it had with my dad. The vet who had been on duty the previous night told me that Henry’s breathing had deteriorated and she was very concerned for him. Trying to absorb this news, I said I would call her back.

  In great distress, I called Val. Normally, I would be the medical advisor to friends and family, but I was completely out of my depth emotionally now and needed someone to help me rationalize. Val was immensely supportive and gradually brought me to recognize what I was feeling deep inside, and mention the unmentionable. I went through to see Jamie and Dale, sobbing my heart out, despairing of how my parents had both died alone and how I couldn’t bear the same thing happening to Henry. After all he had done for our family, he had been abandoned in a terrifyingly strange place and that thought alone consumed me with grief—more than the idea of actually losing him.

  Jamie’s good sense was the antidote to my distress. He told me that unlike the situation with my parents, Dale and I could make a call with Henry. We could go right away to see him and discuss with the vet whether it was time to let him go. Taking his advice, Dale and I set off around midnight for Glasgow, Little Henry again joining us for the ride.

  With all the same fears of the previous night’s journey, we traveled as fast as we could, discussing the situation as calmly and rationally as any two people could in the circumstances. When we arrived, the hospital was very busy, so we walked Little Henry around the block while we tried to clear our heads. We stopped outside the window where we knew Sir Henry was—I know it seems strange, but we just wanted Little to get a sense that Sir was in there, before we put him back in the car.

  We went in and the same staff from the previous night took us straight to Henry. My heart broke on seeing him. Unlike the last time he saw us, he was unable even to attempt to stand. We could at least tell by his face that he recognized us, and his beautiful sad eyes almost seemed tinged with relief that we were there for him. Although continuously panting heavily, a drip in situ on his front paw, he was still fully alert. The poor soul then needed attending to again as he had soiled himself and I knew that this was because he was no longer absorbing the medications. He was losing precious fluid and the entire treatment was becoming futile, with his discomfort only increasing.

  Dale, I think, was just happy at that point that Henry was alert; but I could see that, clinically, Henry was losing his battle and without some form of pain relief or sedation would have a slow, labored, alert death, feeling every agony of his rapidly failing body. Because of his pneumonia, sedation wasn’t an option, as it would compromise his breathing further.

  The vet and nurse stood by our sides as we tried to comfort our dog. Then I left Dale kneeling alone beside him and raised my fears with the vet. While I desperately didn’t want to lose Henry, I felt positive in my heart that it was time to say good-bye. I discussed this with Dale and then asked him to talk to the vet. As he did, he strongly reinforced that under no circumstances was Henry to suffer.

  On hearing the vet’s opinion, Dale turned to me with tears in his eyes and said with a determined but trembling voice, “Mum, it’s the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make in my whole life, but I know it’s time to let my dog go.”

  Like the dignified, mature adult he is, Dale calmly signed the consent form to enable the vet to prepare the injection. Having been involved many times in my job in helping caretakers maximize that final bond and farewell to their loved ones, with the vet’s help I was now able to do this for Dale. We asked him to sit on the floor and then positioned Henry’s upper body and two big front paws right across Dale’s lap, ensuring that Dale could see Henry’s face. A nurse took a particularly yappy little dog outside, to allow us a sense of peace and quiet as I knelt down beside Dale. I held Henry’s front paw, stroking and massaging it in the way he was used to. Although inside I wanted to howl with distress, I was determined to ensure that Dale was given quality time with his dog in those last few moments. I told him to make sure he kept a good hold of Henry’s head and neck and talked to him in any way it felt natural.

  “You’re going to be all right now, Henry,” Dale told him. “This jab will make you better.” Although struggling, he kept repeating these words over and over, kissing Henry on the head and occasionally adding that he loved him.

  As soon as the vet had completed the injection, she left the room to give us some privacy.

  “Dale, make sure he sees your eyes,” I reminded my son. Of the fifteen seconds it took for Henry’s eyes to close and head gently flop, I stole a few moments, whispering in his ear, “Thank you, Henry, thank you for everything. I love you.” As I choked on these last three words, I turned to Dale and told him that his dog was gone.

  He hadn’t realized this, and was still talking to Henry. I could only look on in desolate wonder as my once-tortured little boy, who had become such a fine young man, bade farewell to the dog who was in no small part responsible for his transformation.

  We laid Henry gently down on his side, covering him with a blanket from his kennel. His battered old body was at last relaxed and he looked totally at peace—even now a beautiful dog. I asked Dale if he wanted some time alone with his dog and he said, “Yes, I would like that, Mum.”

  I went outside the room, where the vet and nurse were waiting. I looked at them and the only words I could think of to express how I was feeling were, “How do you let go and say good-bye to someone who has helped give you back your children?”

  About ten minutes later, Dale emerged, holding Henry’s blue collar with its green chip tag attached. We thanked the staff for their care and understanding, and gave instructions about receiving Henry’s ashes back in a casket. Only as we left the hospital arm in arm did Dale’s emotions finally break through. As he let go and cried, he looked so much younger than his seventeen years, seeming once again like my little boy lost, which in a sense he was.

  When we opened the car to greet Little Henry, we both wept copiously as we tried to hug him. He did not understand what had happened, but I think he sensed our pain. We drove back home reminiscing and openly acknowledging our disbelief that we would never see our wonderful Henry again. How on earth would we adapt to life without him?

  At home, by now numb from all that had happened, I shared our experience with Jamie and couldn’t help reflecting inwardly on the irony that the man who had never wanted a dog in the first place was now as devastated as Dale and me. We resolved that in the morning we would break the news together to Amy that Sir Henry had gone to join Granny Madge, Granda George, and friends from Merino Court up in heaven. We knew she would be sad, but were equally sure she would bounce back in her irrepressible way.

  I made some tea and took a cup up to Dale. I wanted to be sure he was all right and found him in bed stroking a sleepy Little Henry on the blanket beside him.

  We sat quietly for a few moments and then Dale asked tentatively, unsure of the maturity of the gesture, “Mum, would it be silly if I tried to sleep with Henry’s collar under my pillow?”

  “Of course not,” I told him. “Whatever you feel will help you, tonight or any night.”

  And I know that last night, as every night, Dale slept with Henry’s collar under his pillow.

  In His Own Words

  By looking back at various incidents in the past and discussing them with Dale today, I have concluded that the extent of a child’s understanding should never be underestimated. When they aren’t communicating, it is very easy to assume they are taking nothing in, but when Dale was ten, for example, he told me, “If we hadn
’t talked through Henry, I would have chosen not to talk to you at all.” Dale’s recent recollections below of events described in various chapters of this book show he understood a great deal more than we perhaps gave him credit for at the time.

  Tiptoe walking (see page 17)

  I put a lot of effort into walking properly until I got the hang of it, mostly because I was fed up with my parents going on at me about it. After we moved to Gourock, I was sixteen and a friend of Dad’s, Sammy, had noticed me tiptoe walking as I made my way home. He mentioned it to Dad, who suggested to him, “Have a word with Dale about it—it’s very obvious and could blow his cover.” Sammy’s comments made me realize others noticed my strange walk, and although I’d been moaned at for years by Mum and Dad, it was Sammy’s words that gave me the determination to stop.

  Chariots of Fire (see pages 4, 18, 103)

  That was the house I ruined the walls in. I ran because I liked to pretend I was a train—I could see trains in the distance from the Wellpark and at Granny Dorothy’s from the back garden. The running made me feel happy and calm, and I did it until I was about twelve, but my parents finally convinced me it was bizarre and made me look very autistic.

  Circus spinning trick (see page 18)

  I remember doing this. The eye thing was me looking at an object in the room. I liked it while I spun and loved the dizzy feeling at the end and the fact that I was in control of what was happening. It just made me feel happy.

  Climbing (see page 18)

  I remember doing this a lot. It was to see things from a different angle, like the stove. I liked to see what the kitchen looked like from this different place and had no understanding at all of the danger I was putting myself in. I was just fascinated to see things from a different viewpoint.

  The tree (see pages 23–25)

  I remember my tree. It was big and had branches that reached almost to the ground. Granny Madge would shake them and it made me happy. She did that for me for years. My tree is still there in the Wellpark. Not long ago, while in the Wellpark with Amy and my mum, we were talking about it and Mum pointed to a tree that was similar, but it was not my tree. I will always know it from any other.

  Stripping off clothes (see page 27)

  I was happy to wear clothes so long as I liked the look of them or they were comfortable fabrics. However, if I didn’t like the look of them or they irritated my skin, I would strip them off. Sometimes just simply wearing clothes annoyed me and when this happened I would also take them all off. The Mickey logos, Mum giving me the choice of what to wear, involving me, and letting me feel and touch the clothes at home helped a lot.

  The vacuum (see page 40)

  It wasn’t the noise of the vacuum I minded—I was terrified it was going to suck me up like a monster.

  The Lonely Battle (see page 26)

  I think it is horrific the way my parents were treated and it really upsets me to talk about this time in my life. I can now see what they did for me, and it frightens me to think where I would be if they had not fought so hard for me. I feel so bad for any children that this might have happened to also, who maybe have not been so lucky.

  Nonverbal communication

  I hated trying to work out what someone’s face was telling me, especially if it was a new one or someone I didn’t know very well. I found it scary as I couldn’t work out if they were angry or feeling all right, and I found the whole eye-contact thing very confusing and frightening.

  Thomas trains

  I really liked Henry because he was the very first engine I saw when Dad put on my first video. I enjoyed the story of Henry’s forest and how he was helpful and caring. The videos helped me play with my trains, and the way Mum and Dad taught me their names made it understandable. Helpful Henry was my favorite and I always made sure that he got to pull the big coaches. I gave Grand Gordon the Troublesome Trucks because he annoyed me, being so sure of himself all the time and boasting about how he was faster than Henry.

  Discarding Henry’s fleece (see page 45)

  I really liked the warm and secure feeling I got when I had my train blanket around me. Because the pup was so young and small, I wanted something of my own to give him to make him welcome—I wanted Henry to have the same feeling I got from my train blanket.

  Puppy Henry (see pages 45–50)

  I liked having the pup as company, especially the way he looked with his friendly face and the fact he was so cute and cuddly. Henry was like my living friend and always there for me.

  “OK” and “proud” (see pages 69–70)

  I hated it when my mum and dad said OK. Saying OK and other such words really irritated me so much; it gave me a weird feeling in my head. Words like proud—if I didn’t understand what they meant, it really frustrated me and gave me the same irritating feeling in my head. That’s why I would hit my head with my fists or bang it off the wall, to get rid of this weird irritation these words caused.

  Eye contact in drawings (see page 59)

  I really did understand the eye-contact thing, because my mum, dad, and everyone else had taught me that I should be making eye contact and looking at people’s faces. That’s why I did it with the train drawings. But even knowing this, I still found human faces intimidating.

  Why Henry was so special

  Henry was just really gentle, friendly, and sociable. I liked that he had a wise look on his face and I always trusted him, which made me feel very comfortable with him. You could see all this from his eyes, as they were lovely and I could understand his feelings from looking at his eyes and face. Henry’s face only had slight changes with his expressions so I understood them. It made me feel confident and secure with him. I really liked that Henry was always seeking attention, and it made me feel good when people admired him and would talk to me about him.

  The kick (see pages 72–89)

  I’ll never forget kicking my dog; it still upsets me even now, all these years later. I didn’t think I’d really hurt him—I was just so angry at hearing the words that upset me so much and hurt my head. What Mum and Dad did that night really got to me, as I understood when the band-aid was used how much I’d hurt my dog and my mum when I kicked them. I really believed Henry was going away forever.

  John Turner (see pages 112–113)

  John always made me laugh and helped me relax and gave me a good hyper feeling. So I liked to copy him and join in with him. It was like having a real-life Charlie Chaplin friend. He was always so funny when he was around me.

  The Thomas wreath (see pages 122–124)

  The Thomas wreath really helped me to understand what was going on. I wanted Thomas to do for Granny Madge what he did for me. I really liked Thomas and he made me feel secure. I genuinely believed that because he was a train he would be able to travel up to heaven with her. I also thought that if Gran had Thomas with her, she would always remember me.

  Instantly riding a bike (see page 142)

  Seeing Fraser and all the other kids in the neighborhood playing and being together on their bikes made me want to be the same. So I just got the hang of it that night, to be with them.

  Bullying and swearing (see pages 170–173)

  I wanted to say the swear words back in the playground, but I was scared as I had been taught not to use bad words like these. After Mum gave me the swearing lesson, I felt more comfortable because I understood the rules she taught me about how and when to use the words. The few times that I did have to swear the way I was taught actually helped me be the same as the other kids and fit in socially—especially at Gourock High, as it’s the way teenagers often talk.

  Mum and Dad tapping into friends’ skills

  I liked being with all the other people my parents arranged for me to see. It was fun and more interesting to learn from them as to me they were the experts. I didn’t realize I was also learning to interact with them. It made it more real because they all knew the chosen subject so well and had the same interest in it as me. It meant it wasn’t boring
like it would have been if my parents had tried to teach me about things like cell phones.

  The road back (see page 223)

  I found the help Prospects gave me vital and I couldn’t have managed everything ahead of me to do with college without it. The workshops and individual work that they did with me helped so much, making me much more relaxed and confident about my college work and especially regarding the interview for entry to the course—the thought of this alone was frightening to me.

  When I think of how much everyone in my past has done for me and the support from the Scottish Society of Autism and others, I realize how they have all given me the chance of a good quality of life. The support of Lead Scotland and the James Watt College staff with my studies have helped give me the opportunity of a successful future. To everyone who has been a part of this journey that I’ve had to take, I will be forever grateful.

  On Henry’s passing (see pages 237–246)

  Henry brought me through all of my childhood and because of that I was able to help him at the end, when he needed me. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do, but due to him, I am not scared any more of the thought and responsibility of being an adult. I have decided that for the rest of my life I am never going to let my amazing dog down, so that he will be proud of me, as I will always be of him.

  Dale J. Gardner

  2007

  Afterword

  If I had to say just one thing about autism as a disability, it is this: we must never underestimate how hard a person affected has to work every day, all day, to live by our society’s rules and to fit in. The anxiety and effort this takes is always immense, and, like their autism, it is for the rest of their life.

  We are very aware that other parents are still experiencing today what we went through fifteen years ago and what we nearly experienced with Amy. I am also aware and saddened that parents in similar situations to ours are still driven to the brink of suicide because of lack of support and understanding.

 

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