When group therapy ended in the spring, Dr. Dingle announced he was
transferring to a hospital in another state and asked us each to his office for a
final consultation.
"Tony should continue therapy with Dr. Lavalle," he said, as I warily seated
myself across the desk from him, "but you certainly don't need any psychiatric
treatment."
What was he up to now?
He gave an unconvincing little laugh, blushed, and looked away from my
distrustful scrutiny. Then, fumbling with some papers on his desk, he
continued, "In the future, I suggest you come in occasionally with your
husband and report Tony's progress to Colonel Mann."
Colonel Mann seemed closer to my own age. I hadn't enjoyed a pink-
cheeked young man in his twenties trying to teach me about motherhood.
Maybe I'd get along better with the colonel.
Colonel Mann took a vacation. For a while that summer neither Ike nor I
talked to a psychologist, although we continued to take Tony for what they
called his play therapy. One day as I waited in the clinic for Tony, Colonel
Mann, back from his holiday, came out of his office and spoke to me.
"Tell your husband I'll see him next week at the usual time."
"Do you want me to come too?" The psychologist hesitated as if trying to
make up his mind ."Dr. Dingle said--" I began.
"Oh, I suppose you can come along if you want," he finally conceded with
exaggerated indifference. Thus, Ike and I began our second year of
psychotherapy.
"Tony's prospects are very bright if we all cooperate here," Colonel Mann
said at our first meeting. "His future looks bleak if we don't."
I was convinced Tony's future had nothing to do with our psychiatric
treatment. Nevertheless, I suppressed my annoyance at the psychologist's
authoritative statements. I didn't want him to get angry and say something he
couldn't retract, as I suspected Dr. Dingle had. I was still confident I could
convince any reasonable person I was a good mother. Perhaps when
Colonel Mann realized I was not the type of woman to make anyone
abnormal, and certainly not my children, he would then discuss this thing he
thought might be wrong with Tony.
"What's wrong with Tony?" I asked Colonel Mann..
"There is nothing physically wrong with him," he answered.
Tony hadn't been given a physical examination. Doctors, I had learned, give
many tests to children suspected of mental retardation. Some I'd read of were
electroencephalograms, skull X-rays, blood and urine tests and basal
metabolism tests. This clinic was part of Letterman Hospital, a large, well
equipped, highly respected facility. Since no one had suggested any such
tests, the psychologists must know Tony was not retarded. Doctors appeared
to recognize some specific diagnosis which ruled out retardation.
During the weeks that followed, thinking of something to talk about often
became burdensome. Ike and the psychologist sometimes discussed fishing.
As the hour drew to a close, we'd wait for the sound of Tony running down
the hall from the playroom. Then he'd burst eagerly into the psychologist's
office, bright-eyed and grinning with anticipation, looking for his candy.
"The idea is to frustrate Tony - and then reward him," Colonel Mann would
explain. The psychologist would put his foot up on the desk so Tony couldn't
reach the drawer where candy was kept. Tony did not question the strange
ways of psychologists and had single-minded determination about sweets.
He cheerfully pushed and pulled on the psychologist, trying to crawl over and
under him, until Colonel Mann finally allowed him to get to the candy.
"See, I'm making myself important to Tony by giving him candy. Now
Mommy must think of ways to make herself important," the psychologist
would say. "Then Tony will stop rejecting Mommy."
"Tony doesn't reject me."
"We're going to teach Mommy to understand Tony," he promised, ignoring my
protest..
"I understand Tony pretty well," I said.
"He wouldn't act as he does if you understood him! When Mommy learns to
understand Tony, he'll act like other children. Sometimes I wonder if
Mommy comprehends how different Tony is. Why, he doesn't even compare
favorably with most two year olds."
I was painfully aware. Tony was still in diapers. Shortly before his fifth
birthday, we had persuaded him to urinate in the toilet by feeding him full of
watermelon. Then the whole family cooperated to entertain him, as we stood
him in the bathroom without trousers. When he finally urinated into the toilet,
we cheered. Tony laughed. After that urinating into things became a game to
him. We had no success with bowel movements.
"Perhaps Tony doesn't think highly enough of himself to want to give away
part of his body," suggested Colonel Mann.
I had recently read a psychiatric theory claiming man's first love, even before
love of mother, was love of his own excrement. I suspected some people
might consider such a theory an obscenity if anyone but a psychiatrist uttered
it. Nevertheless, I resolved not to argue. I tried to sit quietly each week and
endure Colonel Mann's psychology.
As Tony's fifth birthday neared, I realized he would not be mature enough to
attend kindergarten and I looked for a nursery school. One turned out to be a
ballet class for four year olds. Tony would have considered ballet a
preposterous activity, and we laughed at the thought of independent,
super-masculine Tony in a ballet class. However, no nursery school would
accept a child with a problem. They were especially suspicious when I said
Tony wasn't retarded, but I didn't know what was wrong with him. At a
public-school, county-run nursery school for retarded children, I tried to
describe Tony to the teacher. She suggested he sounded antisocial. She
pointed to a good-looking little boy who sat laughing to himself. He was a
bundle of constant motion, playing with blocks with one hand and furiously
twirling something with the other.
"That little boy lives in a world of his own," she said. "He's schizophrenic."
We asked Dr. Lavalle to mail a report about Tony to Marin County schools.
Then Ike and I went to discuss the possibility of Tony attending the class.
Dr. Lavalle's report lay on the desk before the school psychologist. I looked
longingly at the folder. I wished we--Tony's parents-- were permitted to read
what doctors and psychologists wrote about our child.
"Tony doesn't qualify for this program," explained the school psychologist.
"He's not mentally retarded. Children like your son are smart enough; they are
emotionally immature."
The class for retarded children would have been good for Tony. Life would
have been easier for all of us during the next four years if he could have
attended school. We should have fought for his acceptance. Maybe, like
many people, we harbored a suspicion retardation might be contagious.
Indeed, it was commonly believed IQ scores were culturally induced. We
were probably relieved not to expose Tony to the harmful influence of a class
of subnormal children. I did feel a secret triumph at having Tony's lack of
retardation stated so officially, confirming my belief that doctors recognized
some specific diagnosis. Finally, I found a nursery school. The teacher was
a compassionate woman, and my ardent gratitude seemed to compensate her
for any extra trouble Tony caused. I promised to stay by the telephone, ready
to come for him if he ever became a problem.
While passing out cupcakes for PTA at Guy's and Sherry's school one
afternoon I heard of another unusual child. I got the mother's name and
phoned her. We talked a long time and discovered our children had
similarities. Both were slow to talk, toilet train and learn the things children
accomplish before school age. Both liked to play by themselves. Her
experience became painful when her pediatrician suggested she and her
husband weren't really happy. After listening to her doctor repeat that
suggestion for several months, she and her husband weren't very happy. In
fact, they were constantly at each other's throats over what to do with the
child. They finally took him to a March-of-Dimes, birth-defects clinic which
diagnosed him as suffering from minimal brain damage, or neurological
dysfunction. The parents were told their child had an excellent chance of
living a normal life. There was no medical treatment for the condition.
"Obtaining a positive diagnosis was a relief," the mother said. I was aware
of the agony of living with an unknown. "They said Eric is artistic," she added.
"So is Tony," I said. "I never heard of anyone calling that an abnormality, though."
I envied Eric's mother her peace of mind. Nevertheless, I couldn't imagine
Tony's diagnosis being neurological damage. He had a hypersensitive
nervous system, and his reactions were faster than those of normal people.
His coordination was exceptional. He could turn his tricycle upside down
and balance himself on the pedals while trying to rotate them.
"I don't know what your differences with Dr. Dingle were. Maybe they were
just philosophical."
I felt I'd avoided philosophical discussions. It sounded like a glib dismissal
of that entire, awful year of group therapy.
"This has been hard on my wife," Ike said. "I've tried to explain it was a
probing to find out if there could be a problem in our family."
I remained silent. Ike was an admirer of my emotional stability, and felt it
must be obvious to the psychologist. He didn't fully understand how offended
I felt by all this probing. I wondered if he'd feel such tolerant understanding
if the probing had been directed at him.
"And of course you take an especially close look at the mother when you
suspect emotional problems," Ike continued, always able to understand
someone else's point of view.
I didn't expect an apology. However, I felt that, at the very least, I deserved
an acknowledgment that no one had unearthed any sinister flaw in my
character. The psychologist was staring glumly out the window. The silence
dragged on.
The psychologist wasn't agreeing with Ike, I realized. He still believed my
emotional maltreatment had made Tony abnormal! Sitting through these two
awful years of psychology had accomplished nothing! Something in me
snapped. Or maybe it wasn't a sudden change; perhaps I'd been gradually
losing my fear of psychologists. In any case, I was startled to suddenly hear
myself boldly challenge Colonel Mann,
"You used the term mentally retarded last week. If you suspect retardation,
why hasn't Tony been given tests?"
"The term mentally retarded doesn't necessarily mean mentally defective,"
the psychologist explained, ignoring the hostility in my voice. "Tony's
development is retarded, but we can tell by looking he's not mentally
defective. The hands and feet of defective children sometimes develop
differently, for instance." I wondered why doctors bothered with tests if
psychologists could determine retardation by looking? "Besides," the
psychologist added, "we'll soon be able to give Tony an intelligence test."
"Intelligence test," I repeated scornfully.
The psychologist looked annoyed. I had no particular criticism of IQ tests.
Frustrated by months of trying to make conversation, I was exploding. In fact,
it was a turning point in my life, a dramatic change in my reaction to people.
From that day I began to shed the overpowering feeling of intimidation I felt
in the presence of doctors--or anyone else for that matter.
"For over a year I've listened to you psychologists accuse me of horrible
things. Now I want to know about those other children like Tony. What
happened when they grew up?" I demanded.
"You are right," the psychologist agreed, ignoring my question. "We've said
harsh things to you. It was necessary. We had to make Mommy do something
about Tony."
What gave him such a right? I was also fed up with listening to
the
psychologist call me "Mommy".
"It's important to remember we are all trying to help Tony," Ike cautioned,
startled by such an aggressive manner from his usually diffident wife.
I glared at him.
"I don't know how to talk to psychologists," I said. "Other people just say
what they mean."
"Don't you think I mean what I say?" the psychologist asked.
"I never know what you are up to. Most of the time you seem to be trying to
maneuver me, hoping your psychology will have some effect upon me."
"Well, now--" Ike said.
"Oh, we've given up hope of having any effect upon you," Colonel Mann said.
"In fact, it's a damned shame how much time and money we've wasted on you
without accomplishing anything, isn't it?"
I scowled at him and continued,
"No one will answer my question about what might happen to Tony. I'll bet
the truth is all those withdrawn children, or whatever they are called, grew
up all right."
The psychologist shrugged.
"Dr. Dingle was willing to use anything short of a rubber hose to make me
admit I wasn't emotionally involved with my children," I said. "If something
terrible happens to children like Tony, he'd have been delighted to tell me."
"Maybe they grew up all right, but maybe they didn't grow up to be desirable
people."
"I'm not asking what you think might have happened to them. I'm asking what
did happen to them--if you even know."
"Yes" Ike agreed, "what did--"
"Besides," I continued, "I've decided what you consider desirable, and what
I consider desirable, might be two different things. Who do you
psychologists think you are, anyway, to decide what people should and
shouldn't be?"
"Would you consider it desirable if Tony grew up to steal cars?"
"I'll buy him a c--" Ike tried to offer.
"I don't for one moment think he will steal cars," I said. "Maybe he is just
going to grow up to be like me. You might not approve, but it's none of your
damned business."
"Yes! Except you talk!"
Then he added under his breath, "unfortunately."
"I have an appointment," Ike muttered, glancing toward the door.
"Is Tony psychotic?" I demanded.
"That word is difficult to define."
"Do you consider him schizophrenic?"
"We considered it!"
"And what conclusion did you come to?"
"Well, we don't like to use labels."
"Does or doesn't the term childhood schizophrenia apply to Tony?" I persisted.
"Yes!" the psychologist shouted.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
"We have to leave," Ike said. "I'm late for an appointment."
Ike never spoke impolitely to anyone, and he'd never heard me attack anyone
so belligerently. He obviously wanted to escape from this embarrassing
melee. The psychologist had been about to continue angrily, but stopped and
looked at Ike.
"We have accomplished one thing for you in therapy," he said. "We've
pointed out a difference of opinion seems to exist between you and your wife."
"My husband and I are capable of living with differences of opinion," I
snapped. "We don't try to stuff our beliefs down each other's throats."
Ike and I got Tony from the playroom and left. In the waiting room I noticed
people eye us with curiosity. At times our therapy had probably become so
loud everyone heard.
In the car I accused Ike,
"I suppose you agree I need a psychologist to tell me how to treat the children?"
"I didn't say that."
"You said--"
"Don't start telling me what I said. I didn't even get in a word."
"That damned psychologist said Tony hasn't grown up because of me, and you
didn't disagree."
"I didn't hear him say that!"
"It's what he really meant!"
"How the hell do you know what he really meant?"
"The Goddamn psy--"
Tony, frightened, reached over from the back seat and tried to hold his hand
over my mouth. Ike and I stopped shouting and drove home in smoldering
silence. During the next week Ike and I erupted into argument whenever we
tried to discuss Tony. I had come across the term childhood
schizophrenia
and had read that it was unrelated to adult
schizophrenia. I'd read some
children outgrow childhood schizophrenia, but
had been unable to find out
what happened to those who didn't.
When we returned to the clinic the following week, Colonel Mann apologized.
"I'm afraid I said things I didn't mean last week."
"And I'm sorry I became so angry," I said. "I know your intentions were
good, but I have loathed every minute of this therapy."
Ike asked again if the term childhood schizophrenia applied to Tony.
"Yes. But remember, there are different degrees of it," Colonel Mann
cautioned.
I felt a pang of fear. I wished calling Tony schizophrenic were one of the
things the psychologist hadn't meant to say. Even a mild case of
schizophrenia sounded terrifying to me.
Then Colonel Mann turned to me.
"I've stated that if Mommy wants to know the cause of Tony's illness, she
must look to herself. However, I want to emphasize again I do not blame
Mommy for what has happened to her child."
Now that's big of you, I was tempted to retort. I knew psychologists
felt
smug about not blaming mothers who don't love their children. Dr.
Dingle sat
unperturbed while some of the women in the group expressed
resentment and
hostility toward their families. The only thing which really angered
him was
my insistence that I didn't have any such feelings.
"You are entitled to your opinion. But as Tony's mother, I know he isn't
suffering from emotional problems," I argued.
"Tony certainly does have emotional problems," protested the psychologist.
"We wouldn't treat him here at the clinic if he didn't."
"Tony is obviously a happy child," Ike pointed out.
"Don't let that happy smile on his face fool you," the psychologist said.
"There is absolutely no doubt Tony either is, or has been, extremely unhappy."
"There are doctors who disagree with you," I objected.
"I never heard of any. That civilian psychiatrist you went to last year sure got
Tony's number fast. He phoned and asked about this autistic child we were
treating."
The psychologist was still talking, but I wasn't listening.
Autistic! I'll bet that's what the mother I spoke to on the phone said.
Her
little boy, Eric, was autistic--not artistic. Maybe Tony had more in
common
with her child than I'd thought.
It was nearly two years since I'd first taken Tony to a doctor, and this was the
first time I became aware of the term "autistic". Psychologists had reason for
reluctance to use it to parents. With the phrase "not emotionally involved",
they were trying to state everything euphemistically, while psychiatric
journals stated bluntly autism was caused by maternal rejection. When
psychologists did begin using the term, parents of autistic children, some of
whom were themselves doctors, read psychiatric journals and they vigorously
protested such psychiatric theories.