August
2007
The
week ends with a bang on Friday as we enter the
Among
the 65 days students, who are predominantly boys between the ages of 5 and 18,
most (85%) come from disadvantaged homes.
What all have in common is autism.
The spectrum is pretty wide. Some
can language, read, and count; others do not speak. Some have a ‘high functioning’ label, while
others need help with basics, even the toilet.
Our
CST outreach program focuses on children under 12. Teachers and their aides are a tremendous
resource, generously sharing information about what happens in the classroom
and on the playground when we are not there.
This
is R’s story, ‘a lethargic boy with a dislike of gross motor activity,’ as
described in a 2005 psych report. Back
then he was often anxious and tearful on the school bus, becoming sullen upon arriving at
school. He might scream for up to 20
minutes at a stretch twice a day. He
would hit himself during tantrums on the floor.
At home, bedtime was problematic. R would often lay awake for three
hours before falling asleep at 11pm. He
could dress and undress and use the toilet.
He was not fond of sharing. He
was able to use scissors and a pencil.
He would examine objects obsessively.
I
met R in November 2005, when he was 9 years old, and began working with him in
the classroom. While his teacher read a
story, I supported R’s right kidney. He
would not allow contact with two hands.
After the story R wanted to go home, though when I asked permission he
said I could come back to see him.
Soon
after the 2006 school year began, R’s teacher said that his tantrums had
stopped and he was showing a marked improvement. I met with his parents in February and
explained CST to them. They were keen
for R to continue in the program. By
this time, R was allowing more contact for longer periods during CST sessions. I could hold his liver and kidney areas with
no fuss, though he continued to be less enthusiastic about cranial contact when
I tried to hold his frontal bone, sphenoid and parietals.
Early
in March 2006, R came to school very charged.
That day he refused treatment, saying ‘GO AWAY! Not today!’ Not to be deterred, I sat beside him briefly,
offering verbal support without physical contact. I promised to return in a week’s time.
The
next few days would bring a devastating loss to R and his family. On the evening of R’s 10th
birthday his dad was struck by a taxi and killed instantly while riding his bike
home from work.
The
following Friday, R did not want me or CST, but his teacher insisted. A classmate supportively held R’s hand and
accompanied us to the OT room. There R
leaned against me and stared blankly at the colourful posters hanging on the wall.
Moving onto a big red physio ball, I gathered him into my lap, rocking
gently. My hands made a sandwich of his
mid-thoracic spine and his heart/solar plexus.
After 20 minutes, we joined his classmates on the playground. He sank onto the picnic bench, leaned against
me and cried. Another 20 minutes passed
and R gazed skyward, lifted his arms and became very agitated. We walked back to the classroom, where he
began to settle.
We
enjoyed a couple of good sessions before the winter holidays, but by the time
Term 3 began, R’s tantrums had begun again.
Concerned, his classroom teacher, the school psychologist and I paid a
home visit to the humble cinderblock cottage bordering the airport, where we
listened for two hours to his mom’s non-stop story. It was clear that the
entire family was in crisis.
I
was just a volunteer practitioner working with one family member. That would have to be enough.
Since
that home visit, I created a routine when working with R. I announce my arrival at school to R and ask
his permission to return in a while. For
the next year and a half, on good days I would sit beside R and watch him draw
(he’s becoming quite the artist!). If
I’m lucky he allows contact somewhere on his back for a brief period, and in
rare circumstances on the cranial vault.
I ask about his family. On a
not-so-good day, R tells me to go away! On those days I sit beside him without
touching... but I DO NOT GO AWAY!!!
When
R’s class was invited to join in an art program at a nearby school, R refused
to participate, even though he loves to draw.
In his collapsed world, venturing into unknown waters is too
threatening.
On
a rainy Friday in August 2007, I arrived on time to see R’s classmates filing
into the media room to watch a video. R
had stayed behind in the classroom to draw on his own. His teacher said R did not sleep the night
before. I pulled up a chair and remarked
that he must be exhausted. It was just
the two of us, the room was quiet. R
wore a track suit made with slippery fabric, and I decided to try massaging his
back, neck, shoulders and arms. No
protest. For the next 35 minutes, bent
over his desk, R surrendered to cranio sacral therapy... cranium, spine, sacrum. At one point
he relaxed the grip on his best friend, the pencil, melting into the
moment. The silence was exquisite. When I left I whispered a promise to return
next week. I’ll be there!
Mary
Hegarty is a cranio sacral practitioner in
The following is a poem I wrote this
year inspired by R...
*Kwansaba: Curious Boy with the Pencil
Curious
Boy grips the pencil too tight
his silent friend
during dark feral nights
these days nights last all day long
taxi smashed bicycle... dada’s dead and gone
guns shoot outside, mummy’s on her knees
pencil draws blue sky, happy birds &bees
bad lines rubbed out before anybody sees
Mary
Hegarty
24
January 2009
*KwanSaba is a cross-cultural poetic form dedicated to Kwanzaa. Each poem
addresses one of the seven principles of Kwanzaa: Umoja (unity); Kujichagulia
(self-determination); Ujima (collective responsibility); Ujamaa (cooperative
economics); Nia (purpose); Kuumba (creativity); and Imani (faith), and consists
of seven lines of seven words each.
Every word used contains no more than seven letters.