论文部分内容阅读
Speaking
I was no different from any other mother.
When my little boy, Skyler, was born, I longed for the day he would talk to me. My husband and I dreamed about the first sweet “Mama” or “Dada.” Every cry or coo was a small glimpse into my son’s mind.
My baby’s noises were even more precious to me because Skyler had been born with several health problems. At first, the problems had delayed his development, but once they were safely behind us. I looked forward to my son’s first words. They didn’t come.
At age three, Skyler was diagnosed autistic, a developmental disability destined to affect his social and emotional well-being in his entire life. Skyler couldn’t talk and wouldn’t talk. I would probably never hear any words from him at all. In a store, I would hear a child calling “Mommy,” and I would wonder if that were what my little boy might sound like. I wondered how it would feel to hear my child call out for me.
But I could have learned to live with his silence if it weren’t for another hallmark characteristic of autism: Skyler formed no attachments. He didn’t want to be held, much preferring to lie in his bed or sit in his car seat. He wouldn’t look at me; sometimes, he even looked through me.
Once, when I took him to the doctor, we talked to a specialist who was my size, age and who had the same hair color. When it was time to go, Skyler went to her instead of me—he couldn’t tell us apart. When Skyler was three, he spent three days at Camp Courageous for disabled children in Iowa, and when he returned he didn’t even recognize me.
The pain was almost unbearable. My own son didn’t even know I was his mother.
I hid the pain, and we did the best we could for Skyler. We enrolled him in our local area educational agency preschool, where the teachers and speech pathologist worked hard to help Skyler connect with the world around him. They used pictures and computer voice-machines that spoke for him, and sign language. These devices gave me little glimpses of who Skyler was, even if he didn’t understand who I was. “He will talk,” the speech pathologist insisted, but inside, I had given up hope.
The one dream I couldn’t let go was to have Skyler understand that I was his mom. Even if I never heard him say, “Mom,” I wanted to see the recognition in his eyes.
The summer of Skyler’s fourth year was when it started. A smoldering ember of understanding in him sparked, and fanned by our efforts, steadily flamed. His first words were hardly recognizable, often out of context, never spontaneous. Then, slowly, he could point to an item and say a word. Then two words together as a request. Then spontaneous words. Each day, he added more and more recognizable words, using them to identify pictures and ask questions. We could see his understanding increase, till his eyes would seek out mine, wanting to comprehend.
“You Mom?” he said one day.
“Yes, Skyler, I’m Mom.”
He asked his teachers and caregivers: “You Mom?”
“No, Skyler, not Mom.”
“You my Mom?” he said back to me.
“Yes, Skyler, I’m your Mom.”
And finally, a rush of understanding in his eyes: “You my Mom.”
“Yes, Skyler, I’m your Mom.”
If those had been Skyler’s only words ever, they would have been enough for me: My son knew I was his mother.
But Skyler wasn’t done.
One evening I leaned against the headboard on Skyler’s bed, my arms wrapped around him. He was cozily tucked between my legs, our bodies warm and snug as I read to him from one of his favorite books—a typical affectionate scene between mother and son, but because of Skyler’s autism, one that I could never take for granted.
I stopped reading. Skyler had interrupted me, leaning back his head so he could look me in the eye.
“Yes, Skyler?”
And then the voice of an angel, the voice of my son: “I love you, Mom.”
我与别的母亲没有什么不同。
我的儿子斯基勒一出生，我就热切期望着他能和我说话的那一天。我的丈夫和我一直都梦想能够听到那第一声甜美的“妈妈”或是“爸爸”。每一声哭泣或是每一个咕咕的细语，都是我探视儿子心事的便道。
斯基勒生而多病，所以对我而言我的宝贝的吵闹都弥足珍贵。一开始，这些毛病耽误了他的发育，但是那些毛病我们却曾一度没有觉察，我希望听到我儿子说话，可是他就是不说。
3岁的时候，斯基勒被诊断出患了孤独症，这种发育缺陷直接影响他一生的社交和情感交流。斯基勒不会，也不愿意说话。我可能永远也不能听他说话了。在商店里，我常常能听到小孩子叫“妈妈”，然后就想想我的小孩子的声音会是怎样。我真想知道被自己的孩子叫妈妈的感觉是什么样的。
如果孤独症的另一个症状不出现的话，我倒还是可以忍受他的沉默，可是斯基勒没有展现任何的亲密感。他不希望有人抱他，只希望躺在自己的床上，或是坐在自己的车座上。他不愿意看我，有时候，他的眼光冷冷的穿过我的身体。
有一次，我把他带去看医生，我们和一个与我年纪、高矮、甚至头发颜色都相仿的专家谈话。看完了医生，斯基勒却缠着她，而不是我。他无法分辨我们二人。斯基勒三岁的时候去了爱荷华州为残疾儿童专设的勇气夏令营，当他回来的时候，他甚至已经认不出我来了。
那种痛苦无法忍受，我自己的儿子甚至不知道我是他的母亲。
我藏起了这心痛，我们为斯基勒做了我们所能做的一切。我们在附近的学前教育机构给他注了册；那里的老师和语言病理学家非常努力帮助斯基勒和周遭的世界联系。他们用图片和电脑发声机替他说话，他们还用手势语这些设备让我了解斯基勒多一点，虽然他还不能理解我是谁。一位语言病理学家坚持认为斯基勒会说话的，不过我们已经在内心里放弃了希望。
我只梦想让斯基勒理解，我是他的妈妈。哪怕我从不能听到他说“妈妈”，我也希望能够从他的眼神里读出这些字眼。
事情在Skyler四岁的那个夏天有了转机，他的理解能力慢慢的死灰复燃，我们努力煽风点火，于是渐渐熊熊燃烧起来。他一开始说话的时候非常模糊，难以辨识。接着，慢慢地他会指着一件东西，说出一个词。然后说两个词。接着就是喃喃自语。每一天，他说的话越来越清晰，他可以辨别图案，问一些问题。我们可以看到他的理解能力在提高，直到他的眼神开始找我的眼神，那是渴望被理解的眼神。
“你，妈妈？”有一天，他终于说了。
“是的，斯基勒，我是妈妈。”
他问他的老师和护理员：“你，妈妈？”
“不是，斯基勒，我不是妈妈。”
“你，我的妈妈？”他回头对我说。
“是的，斯基勒，我是你妈妈。”
最后，他突然用非常确定的眼神看着我说：“你我妈妈。”
“是的，斯基勒，我是你的妈妈。”
就算斯基勒只能说这样的话，我也觉得足够了：我的儿子知道我是他的妈妈了。
不过，斯基勒还没有做得很好。
一天晚上，我靠在斯基勒床头板上，双手抱着他。他舒舒服服地躺在我的两腿间，我给他读他最喜欢的一本书，温暖的身体互相依偎，这就是母亲和儿子非常典型的温情一幕。但是因为斯基勒的孤独症，我却难以释怀。
斯基勒打断了我，我停下来，把头往后靠了靠，这样他就可以看着我的眼睛。
“怎么了，斯基勒？”
接着，我耳边传来了一个天使一样的声音，那是我儿子的声音：“我爱你，妈妈。”
I was no different from any other mother.
When my little boy, Skyler, was born, I longed for the day he would talk to me. My husband and I dreamed about the first sweet “Mama” or “Dada.” Every cry or coo was a small glimpse into my son’s mind.
My baby’s noises were even more precious to me because Skyler had been born with several health problems. At first, the problems had delayed his development, but once they were safely behind us. I looked forward to my son’s first words. They didn’t come.
At age three, Skyler was diagnosed autistic, a developmental disability destined to affect his social and emotional well-being in his entire life. Skyler couldn’t talk and wouldn’t talk. I would probably never hear any words from him at all. In a store, I would hear a child calling “Mommy,” and I would wonder if that were what my little boy might sound like. I wondered how it would feel to hear my child call out for me.
But I could have learned to live with his silence if it weren’t for another hallmark characteristic of autism: Skyler formed no attachments. He didn’t want to be held, much preferring to lie in his bed or sit in his car seat. He wouldn’t look at me; sometimes, he even looked through me.
Once, when I took him to the doctor, we talked to a specialist who was my size, age and who had the same hair color. When it was time to go, Skyler went to her instead of me—he couldn’t tell us apart. When Skyler was three, he spent three days at Camp Courageous for disabled children in Iowa, and when he returned he didn’t even recognize me.
The pain was almost unbearable. My own son didn’t even know I was his mother.
I hid the pain, and we did the best we could for Skyler. We enrolled him in our local area educational agency preschool, where the teachers and speech pathologist worked hard to help Skyler connect with the world around him. They used pictures and computer voice-machines that spoke for him, and sign language. These devices gave me little glimpses of who Skyler was, even if he didn’t understand who I was. “He will talk,” the speech pathologist insisted, but inside, I had given up hope.
The one dream I couldn’t let go was to have Skyler understand that I was his mom. Even if I never heard him say, “Mom,” I wanted to see the recognition in his eyes.
The summer of Skyler’s fourth year was when it started. A smoldering ember of understanding in him sparked, and fanned by our efforts, steadily flamed. His first words were hardly recognizable, often out of context, never spontaneous. Then, slowly, he could point to an item and say a word. Then two words together as a request. Then spontaneous words. Each day, he added more and more recognizable words, using them to identify pictures and ask questions. We could see his understanding increase, till his eyes would seek out mine, wanting to comprehend.
“You Mom?” he said one day.
“Yes, Skyler, I’m Mom.”
He asked his teachers and caregivers: “You Mom?”
“No, Skyler, not Mom.”
“You my Mom?” he said back to me.
“Yes, Skyler, I’m your Mom.”
And finally, a rush of understanding in his eyes: “You my Mom.”
“Yes, Skyler, I’m your Mom.”
If those had been Skyler’s only words ever, they would have been enough for me: My son knew I was his mother.
But Skyler wasn’t done.
One evening I leaned against the headboard on Skyler’s bed, my arms wrapped around him. He was cozily tucked between my legs, our bodies warm and snug as I read to him from one of his favorite books—a typical affectionate scene between mother and son, but because of Skyler’s autism, one that I could never take for granted.
I stopped reading. Skyler had interrupted me, leaning back his head so he could look me in the eye.
“Yes, Skyler?”
And then the voice of an angel, the voice of my son: “I love you, Mom.”
我与别的母亲没有什么不同。
我的儿子斯基勒一出生，我就热切期望着他能和我说话的那一天。我的丈夫和我一直都梦想能够听到那第一声甜美的“妈妈”或是“爸爸”。每一声哭泣或是每一个咕咕的细语，都是我探视儿子心事的便道。
斯基勒生而多病，所以对我而言我的宝贝的吵闹都弥足珍贵。一开始，这些毛病耽误了他的发育，但是那些毛病我们却曾一度没有觉察，我希望听到我儿子说话，可是他就是不说。
3岁的时候，斯基勒被诊断出患了孤独症，这种发育缺陷直接影响他一生的社交和情感交流。斯基勒不会，也不愿意说话。我可能永远也不能听他说话了。在商店里，我常常能听到小孩子叫“妈妈”，然后就想想我的小孩子的声音会是怎样。我真想知道被自己的孩子叫妈妈的感觉是什么样的。
如果孤独症的另一个症状不出现的话，我倒还是可以忍受他的沉默，可是斯基勒没有展现任何的亲密感。他不希望有人抱他，只希望躺在自己的床上，或是坐在自己的车座上。他不愿意看我，有时候，他的眼光冷冷的穿过我的身体。
有一次，我把他带去看医生，我们和一个与我年纪、高矮、甚至头发颜色都相仿的专家谈话。看完了医生，斯基勒却缠着她，而不是我。他无法分辨我们二人。斯基勒三岁的时候去了爱荷华州为残疾儿童专设的勇气夏令营，当他回来的时候，他甚至已经认不出我来了。
那种痛苦无法忍受，我自己的儿子甚至不知道我是他的母亲。
我藏起了这心痛，我们为斯基勒做了我们所能做的一切。我们在附近的学前教育机构给他注了册；那里的老师和语言病理学家非常努力帮助斯基勒和周遭的世界联系。他们用图片和电脑发声机替他说话，他们还用手势语这些设备让我了解斯基勒多一点，虽然他还不能理解我是谁。一位语言病理学家坚持认为斯基勒会说话的，不过我们已经在内心里放弃了希望。
我只梦想让斯基勒理解，我是他的妈妈。哪怕我从不能听到他说“妈妈”，我也希望能够从他的眼神里读出这些字眼。
事情在Skyler四岁的那个夏天有了转机，他的理解能力慢慢的死灰复燃，我们努力煽风点火，于是渐渐熊熊燃烧起来。他一开始说话的时候非常模糊，难以辨识。接着，慢慢地他会指着一件东西，说出一个词。然后说两个词。接着就是喃喃自语。每一天，他说的话越来越清晰，他可以辨别图案，问一些问题。我们可以看到他的理解能力在提高，直到他的眼神开始找我的眼神，那是渴望被理解的眼神。
“你，妈妈？”有一天，他终于说了。
“是的，斯基勒，我是妈妈。”
他问他的老师和护理员：“你，妈妈？”
“不是，斯基勒，我不是妈妈。”
“你，我的妈妈？”他回头对我说。
“是的，斯基勒，我是你妈妈。”
最后，他突然用非常确定的眼神看着我说：“你我妈妈。”
“是的，斯基勒，我是你的妈妈。”
就算斯基勒只能说这样的话，我也觉得足够了：我的儿子知道我是他的妈妈了。
不过，斯基勒还没有做得很好。
一天晚上，我靠在斯基勒床头板上，双手抱着他。他舒舒服服地躺在我的两腿间，我给他读他最喜欢的一本书，温暖的身体互相依偎，这就是母亲和儿子非常典型的温情一幕。但是因为斯基勒的孤独症，我却难以释怀。
斯基勒打断了我，我停下来，把头往后靠了靠，这样他就可以看着我的眼睛。
“怎么了，斯基勒？”
接着，我耳边传来了一个天使一样的声音，那是我儿子的声音：“我爱你，妈妈。”