Friday, 12 March 2010

• Being the Guide Dog

  
  "Resting in the fields, far from the turbulent space,
  Half asleep near the stars with a small dog licking your face."
                            -- Bob Dylan, Jokerman
  

  
  It wasn't our usual supermarket.  No racecar shopping cart for Jack to ride in.  Until this year, when he is 5 1/2, I could still put him in a regular shopping cart, long after his chronological age required, but well under the weight limit.  One benefit to being off the low end of the weight charts.  Shopping carts contain him.  I know where he is and carts give him something to do.  He can make car starting sounds to his heart's delight and shoppers just smile at the curly-haired boy who loves cars.  "So typical," they think.  Right.  
  
  With no racecar here, Jack pushes the cart really fast.  I pull on it hard to prevent him from crashing into shelves and unsuspecting shoppers.  When I stop to grab a can, he kneels in the middle of the aisle to inspect the wheels.  When I pause to scoop up some yogurt, he does his unpredictable run-bend-dance-hop around the aisle.  When I get to the end of an aisle and search for spices, he stands in the middle of the intersection, unaware that he is now blocking shoppers in two aisles.
  
  We double back for bouillon.
  
  Jack: I want to go home.  I'm ready to go home.
  Me: Just two more things, sweetie.
  
  In the soup aisle, I stop the cart on the right side and Jack dances on the left side of the aisle.  A woman in a hurry comes up behind us.  Too fast for me to warn Jack.  She pauses her cart behind him.  He is facing the other way.
  
  Woman, singing out: Excuse me.
  Me: Jack.
  
  He hears me call and turns around.  He sees the woman and the shopping cart and freezes.  The cart blocks his way.  He is a deer in headlights.  Can't move forward and can't go back.  Gesturing to him to move aside won't help.  He doesn't get gestures.  If I point, he has trouble figuring out where I'm pointing.  And even if he can see that I'm pointing to the side, he doesn't understand what I want him to do.  And I can't get past the woman to physically usher him out of the way. 
  
  In that minute, my heart aches.  He's stuck there.  He could go anywhere.  But visually and spatially, he's locked down.  And that's a metaphor I just don't want to consider right now.
  
  Finally, I push our cart forward and lead him to the side.
  
  Woman, whispering to me: He's so CUTE!
  Me: Thank you.
  
  And thinking: thank you for being patient.
  
  It seems like a small thing.  To be frozen for a few minutes in a supermarket, unable to move out of the way.  I can imagine reading this on your side and thinking, yes, so, he didn't move.  No big deal.
  
  But autism for us means ...
  He sees shapes, but can't process more than two at a time because he's visually overwhelmed.
  He can't recognize people from their faces.
  He can't stack blocks because he can't match up the edges.
  He can't tell cartoon cows from dogs.
  He can't tell how far he is from a wall.
  He can't find me if I'm still and quiet in a room.
  He falls and can't tell which end is up, heads or tails.
  
  His world is one big bounce house of instability.
  
  I hug Jack.
  
  I do not like being stuck on the other side of an immovable shopper, helplessly watching him.  I need to be his visual-spatial guide dog.
  
  Until his internal guide dog kicks in.
  
  And until then, I will herd him in the right direction.  I will bark at strangers.  And I will stare at his food, longingly.
  
  Photo credit: http://www.shirleys-wellness-cafe.com/sampleraw.htm

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