conducting an ABA session, she would have captured Max’s attention by any means necessary, hauling him back to the play station if he refused to cooperate on his own. But Rose never forced her son to do anything. Floortime was more about initiating communication than completing tasks. The idea was to inspire Max to desire something so badly he would risk human contact to get it. Enticing him to grab the soldier was secondary to initiating engagement with his mother. The trick was to raise the bar incrementally, moving toward that most elusive and precious of all interactions—eye contact—which made all her hard work worthwhile. She must have progressed too quickly.
The truth was Max hadn’t made eye contact with anyone for more than a month. Todd had noticed it. Sasha had made a note of it in her logbook. Rose had ignored this and every other sign that his recovery was stalled, at best. She had even begun withholding information from Sasha, most notably the fact that Max had begun spinning again. This was the first stimming ritual he had outgrown during the course of therapy, the most serious of all with the exception of head-banging. If they left him alone too long, he would spin around the living room until he wobbled and crashed to the floor. Sasha was prone to interpreting even the most incidental setbacks in an outrageously negative light. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, especially since Rose had no doubt trampoline therapy would stop the spinning once and for all. Max just needed more proprioceptive input to help integrate the far-flung parts of his body. He was, quite literally, lost in space.
Rose squatted between Max and the window, blocking his view of whatever it was that drew him so compulsively to the light. Optical wavelengths only he could see, perhaps. Or the soothing nothingness of sensory overload. She was afraid he would blind himself. He peered around her, twisting his upper body into a series of impossible positions, like a plant contorting its shape to reach the sun. His motor skills were usually impaired, but he could be extraordinarily agile in pursuit of one of his fetishes. Every time she moved, he moved. They were interacting, to be sure, but the language they were using was too pathological to qualify as actual communication.
“Max! Don’t you want to find another soldier?” Rose ran over to the box and grabbed a handful. “These were Daddy’s soldiers, did you know that? He used to play with them when he was a little boy. Just like you.”
She started lining the soldiers up across the windowsill, something Max himself might do. Arranging objects was apparently much more interesting than playing with them. Rose was wary of feeding into his compulsions. She was desperate. The bright light glinted off their various weapons, yet another enticement. Max remained oblivious to everything but the blanket of light, wrapping his senses in its warm embrace. Rose wished she could draw the drapes, if only to protect his eyes, but Max would go ballistic. She remembered that fateful afternoon when they finally decided to consult with Dr. Dillard about why a boy would spend all day every day glued to a window, staring into the sun.
Max started pulling on his eyelids, another behavior they thought he’d abandoned long ago. Rose refused to believe he was regressing. He had the benefit of the best of all possible treatment options. But there was nothing wrong with looking for yet another program to complement ABA and Floortime. There might be some aspect of his cognitive development she had overlooked. Her Facebook friends had already recommended every weapon in their therapeutic arsenals. So she’d have to strike out on her own. Somewhere in the vast outer regions of the World Wide Web, there must be something truly miraculous, the ultimate cure of cures everyone else had overlooked.
* * *
He likes to stand with his forehead almost touching the glass, drinking in the light. The
The truth was Max hadn’t made eye contact with anyone for more than a month. Todd had noticed it. Sasha had made a note of it in her logbook. Rose had ignored this and every other sign that his recovery was stalled, at best. She had even begun withholding information from Sasha, most notably the fact that Max had begun spinning again. This was the first stimming ritual he had outgrown during the course of therapy, the most serious of all with the exception of head-banging. If they left him alone too long, he would spin around the living room until he wobbled and crashed to the floor. Sasha was prone to interpreting even the most incidental setbacks in an outrageously negative light. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, especially since Rose had no doubt trampoline therapy would stop the spinning once and for all. Max just needed more proprioceptive input to help integrate the far-flung parts of his body. He was, quite literally, lost in space.
Rose squatted between Max and the window, blocking his view of whatever it was that drew him so compulsively to the light. Optical wavelengths only he could see, perhaps. Or the soothing nothingness of sensory overload. She was afraid he would blind himself. He peered around her, twisting his upper body into a series of impossible positions, like a plant contorting its shape to reach the sun. His motor skills were usually impaired, but he could be extraordinarily agile in pursuit of one of his fetishes. Every time she moved, he moved. They were interacting, to be sure, but the language they were using was too pathological to qualify as actual communication.
“Max! Don’t you want to find another soldier?” Rose ran over to the box and grabbed a handful. “These were Daddy’s soldiers, did you know that? He used to play with them when he was a little boy. Just like you.”
She started lining the soldiers up across the windowsill, something Max himself might do. Arranging objects was apparently much more interesting than playing with them. Rose was wary of feeding into his compulsions. She was desperate. The bright light glinted off their various weapons, yet another enticement. Max remained oblivious to everything but the blanket of light, wrapping his senses in its warm embrace. Rose wished she could draw the drapes, if only to protect his eyes, but Max would go ballistic. She remembered that fateful afternoon when they finally decided to consult with Dr. Dillard about why a boy would spend all day every day glued to a window, staring into the sun.
Max started pulling on his eyelids, another behavior they thought he’d abandoned long ago. Rose refused to believe he was regressing. He had the benefit of the best of all possible treatment options. But there was nothing wrong with looking for yet another program to complement ABA and Floortime. There might be some aspect of his cognitive development she had overlooked. Her Facebook friends had already recommended every weapon in their therapeutic arsenals. So she’d have to strike out on her own. Somewhere in the vast outer regions of the World Wide Web, there must be something truly miraculous, the ultimate cure of cures everyone else had overlooked.
* * *
He likes to stand with his forehead almost touching the glass, drinking in the light. The
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