Kootchie Koo!

“At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”
~ Albert Schweitzer (1875-1965)

Today, I worked with Jake. He is autistic, plus other special needs. He is five and a half. He is finally learning how to use the potty. He is slender, lightening fast, and has better gross motor skills than many nine-year-olds that I know. Jake has very few words, and his ability to communicate is sketchy, at best.

I worked with him at his house this afternoon. We worked on word fluency. He can look at a picture of a ball, and it might take him 10-15 seconds of concentrated effort to pull the word “ball” out of his mind and across his tongue. He might say “throwing” first, because that’s the function he has associated with that item. He might say the color, too, or the shape, or the last noun he named, while struggling to recall and pronounce that nebulous name “ball”.

Jake will scream loudly, like a fire siren, when he can’t think of words to tell you his needs. Or he will hit. Or he will throw himself down on the ground and curl into a ball. Sometimes he will sit and quietly weep.

Jake also has flashes of brilliance. Not intellectual brilliance – the kind of brilliance that lights up his face and explodes my heart with joy. They happen sometimes when he successfully pees on the potty. He looks up, smiles from the depths of his being, and my heart just melts. He knows he’s done something remarkable.

Today, we played tag. It was a strange silly version of tag that perhaps only an autistic child would enjoy. It started after he came downstairs with a pair of socks on, with a hole in the heel of one foot. When I saw him poking at the hole in his heel, I stuck my finger in the hole and said, “kootchie, kootchie, koo!” He shrieked and hid his foot under his other leg.

Part of my challenge as an ABA therapist is to interpret his shrieks, and give him words for communicating. It’s a guessing game at best. Was he shrieking in delight or frustration? I tried, “No tickle, Slaw,” but he didn’t respond. Usually, if I guess a close sentiment, he parrots my words back. Hmmm – he wasn’t minding the tickling. Was he perhaps enjoying the game? I tried again, poking his heel and kootchie koo-ing. He shrieked again, and I said, “More, Slaw!” No response again. But a giant smile this time.

Next thing I knew, we were racing back and forth across the basement floor, with Jake laughing big belly laughs, gales of delight! When I caught up to him, usually when he threw himself headlong onto the bed in the corner of the room, he would wave his feet in my face, and then try to hide the foot with the holey sock before I could poke my finger in again.

When I fell down in exhaustion, I heard some magical words. “Get you!” That was Jake, asking me to chase him again. I told him, “Get me, Slaw!” and he shouted back, “Get me!” So off we raised again, and again, and again, until finally I fell down on the floor again in exhaustion, this time pretending to be asleep.

This time, from across the room, I heard, “Get me, Slaw!” While I snored away, I heard, “Get me, Miss Slaw!” and finally, “Come get me, Miss Slaw!”

That’s a five word sentence! Enunciated correctly, with joy, appropriately used! In Jake’s case, almost miraculous.

As I snored on, still pretending to sleep, I heard, “Wake up! Wake up, Slaw! Come get me, Slaw!” With that, as Sleeping Beauty wakes with a kiss from her prince, so Jake’s words were as kisses to my ears, and off we raced, with Jake shrieking in joy, and my heart singing from a small step toward human contact.

Life can be very good.