Earlier this week I was asked if I’ve ever successfully completed a cartwheel, to which I had to answer ‘No’ – unless that is you consider the placing of one’s hands on the ground whilst simultaneously lifting both feet into the air, however briefly, sufficient to be deemed a success. Which, in my book, it doesn’t.
All of which prompted me to ponder why I am so physically inept. Is it, perhaps, the consequence of my genetic makeup, such as is the case for those who are afflicted with the inability to roll their tongue? Because if it is, might it not also explain my inability to run a sub 4-minute mile, change a tap, or contribute meaningfully to a round-table discussion on the vagaries of quantum theory.
Either way, of course, there are some things that, not being adept at, make life altogether more problematic. Which brings me to the book I finished reading this week: ‘A Normal Family – Everyday Adventures With Our Autistic Son.’
Written by Henry Normal and his wife Angela Pell, it’s an honest account of their ordinary experiences bringing up Johnny, who at the time of writing, was a 19-year-old with a diagnosis of severe autism.
The book is a hugely helpful and worthwhile read, one that is funny and uplifting in places, yet desperately sad in others. I don’t mind admitting that some of the passages I attempted to read out loud to my wife I wasn’t able to, not because of some genetic inability, but because the words were just too tear-inducing.
Despite the authors’ occasional doubts about writing the book, I’m glad they did. And, should you read it, I think you will be too – if only to be reminded that for some the spontaneous sharing of a potato snack really is an achievement to be celebrated every bit as much as achieving a top grade in a GCSE. And not just because it might actually be more important.
Whether autistic traits are genetically determined, the result of other factors, or as perhaps seems likely, a combination of the two is not fully understood. Indeed, the origins of the condition remain as mysterious as the world can seem for those who live with the realities of autism, and as uncertain as the future is for both them and their parents – those who carry the very real concern of who will continue to look after their grown-up children when they themselves inevitably get older and, because of frailty or death, are no longer able to care for them as they would wish.
But what isn’t in doubt, as this book so beautifully demonstrates, is both the inherent value of autistic individuals – no matter how severe the difficulties their differences cause – and the love that they deserve to be shown.
Some musings 