A Thorn in My Pocket: Temple Grandin's Mother Tells the Family Story (5 page)

After my sister and I, her only children, reached our late teens, our mother was torn between a fierce determination to return us to prepubertal innocence and an equally fierce determination to invade our rapidly maturing and much more interesting lives. Trapping us with amused sneers and sentimental treacle, she allowed us no rebuttal, no confrontation. There was no way to get free of her and try out life on our own. When young men began appearing, she either wanted them for herself or wanted to descant on her own girlhood triumphs which she saw as far superior. Perhaps they were; she must have been extraordinarily pretty.

Thus far, I think my mother’s life depresses her. She’s smart and talented but hopelessly provincial, under-educated, and untried. It all adds up to enormous ego but not the foggiest notion how to organize her intelligence to make it work for her. She has literary talent but never writes, perhaps dreading the thought that she might write something stupid and have to account for it. Or, worse yet, she might unconsciously reveal herself.

“I know exactly what I’m like,” she keeps saying over and over, before either of her daughters can say it. But she doesn’t know. Uninvolved, she spends her days endlessly critiquing other people and actively disapproving of me, the daughter who lunges at life from all sides. Now that I’m the mother of “a very odd little girl,” it doesn’t make for good social boasting.

In great distress over my mother’s disapproval, I go to my Great Aunt Ruby, whose ninety-nine years have yet to dull her sharp wits. Aunt Ruby hears me out and remarks, “Well, I always thought Mary was a fool. Thrown away her talents.”

Taking in Aunt Ruby’s swift truth, I realize with a start that I’ve seen Temple’s withdrawal in terms of my own need to escape my mother. I’ve vowed not to invade my child’s life as my mother tries to invade mine. If Temple doesn’t want me, I’ll keep my distance. I will not be like my mother. But Temple is only a baby.

Then comes an appalling thought: so am I! Guilt takes hold of me.

“Rubbish!” says Aunt Ruby. “Guilt is useless and irrelevant. If you really think you’re guilty through a neglect you haven’t even understood, then figure out how to help Temple now, and use your guilt to fire yourself up to do it.”

In the moment of her words, I understand my own odd prayer: “Give me back my child.” It isn’t just about Temple; it’s about both of us. We’ve each gone away from the other to somewhere quite far off.

“Thrown away her talents.” Now the second part of Aunt Ruby’s words sounds its note.

“Are you telling me my mother hasn’t lived up to her potential, and the loss of it has been her folly?”

“Your mother’s life is your mother’s life. If Temple is to survive, then so must you. But as yourself, not as your mother’s idea of who she’d like you to be.”

With those releasing words, I allow myself to see my mother in a new light—appealingly pretty but choosing to persist in deliberate innocence, trapped forever between two gold mirrors. They’re beautiful mirrors but positioned in such a way that each reflects her in the other, creating an endless hall of repeated images. Nothing will ever change in those images: nothing added and nothing taken away, just each reflection growing a little smaller than the one in front of it, until at last nothing is discernible.

*
“Layette” is an old-fashioned term for a complete baby outfit: sheets, blankets, shirts, nighties, etc. Best & Co. used to pack it all in a special pink-ribboned box. If you had twins, Best’s would give you a second layette for free.

*
Gardner Botsford,
A Life of Privilege, Mostly.
St. Martin’s Press. NY 2003. Botsford was a member of Squadron A.

Chapter 2

As the Twig Is Bent

If I’m going to guide Temple, if I’m going to stand up for her in any positive way, I must have help. But who? And what kind of help?

By some miracle I find and hire a nanny who’s cared for “a little boy with problems like Temple’s.” Where I learn of her and how we get in touch, I have no recollection. Even when we meet, we’re neither of us quite sure what we’re talking about.

“I think I know how to help.” That’s all the nanny says. “I had good results with the little boy.”

She shows me the learning cards she used with him, the games and coloring books she plans to use to hold Temple’s attention. “What’s important is to keep Temple involved and not to let her slip off into daydreaming.”

“Involved.” Yes. Together, we’ll pull Temple into our world. Every so often there are signs that she wants to be in it—like her humming the Bach.

The nanny comes to live with us, and her games have the same feel as Dr. Meyer’s game with the plastic cups. The nanny is better than I am at holding Temple’s attention, so I turn my attention to making home life smooth, hoping Dick will forget his uneasiness over his child.

Six months pass. Temple has responded to the nanny’s teachings, but she still doesn’t talk. Now that she’s three, Dr. Caruthers recommends that she come to the Children’s Hospital for a ten-day observational visit, also to have an electroencephalogram (EEG).

“An EEG will settle the question of her singular moments of stillness, her apparent tuning out. It could be an indication of petit mal.” (a form of mild epilepsy)

I agree to both the EEG and the ten-day hospital visit.

Temple doesn’t seem to mind the visit. Like the life jacket episode on South Beach, neither sad nor mad, she’s strangely indifferent to her new surroundings. Nor does she seem to mind when I leave her in the company of a friendly nurse. Oblivious to my goodbyes, she’s entirely absorbed with picking out a red crib to sleep in. It’s I who feels the wrench.

The EEG is another story. Temple rages at the violation of her space. Her face turns scarlet; her hair is soaked from flinging her head about. Finally the anesthesia takes over; her screams turn to hiccuping sobs, and she falls asleep.

To everyone’s relief, the EEG shows no brain damage, no retardation, and no sign of petit mal.

The next day when I come to the hospital, I’m not allowed to visit with Temple but must watch her through a one-way mirror. The room is full of children, but Temple sits by herself on the floor near the door. Dr. Caruthers pushes a slip of paper under the door; she pushes it back. Over and over, the two of them do this.

“See? She’s responding,” he observes comfortingly. “That’s some kind of two-way game.”

Is it? She can’t see you. To me it’s just as solitary as bouncing a ball against a wall and catching it on return.

Next, Dr. Caruthers wants Temple’s hearing tested and recommends an ear specialist named Dr. Onesti. For the first time, he implies a character judgment, something, perhaps, in the nature of a caution. He tosses it out to me in a gruff, offhanded way.

“I want you to understand before we have our joint meeting that Dr. Onesti chooses to wear those long earrings. I don’t know why—that’s her affair—and, ah, a bit too much make-up. But, that’s all right. She’s a wonderful doctor, the best in the field, the very best.” He keeps on assuring me of Dr. Onesti’s excellence, almost begging me to look beyond the Christmas decorations.

After the hearing test, Dick and I assemble with Dr. Caruthers for the conference. In comes Dr. Onesti in her white medical coat and her long earrings. She’s a very pretty Italian girl, and her earrings are very pretty. She sits down, crosses her legs, her legs are very pretty too. How delightfully exotic she must look to a conservative Boston medic, her earrings dancing in distracting contrast to her white medical jacket. I can’t help but wonder if Dr. Caruthers’ caution might not be for himself, a fear that he could be relishing Dr. Onesti’s prettiness rather more than he should, considering his age, his position, his Yankee-ness.

We confer together. Though Temple still isn’t talking, Dr. Onesti has found no hearing loss.

“Well, I think Temple will learn to talk,” Dr. Caruthers assures us, “but let’s see if we can’t speed up the process. There’s a wonderful speech teacher in Belmont: Mrs. Reynolds. She gets amazing results. She’s very kind, I think Temple will take to her. She has a little school in her own house. Yes, I think she’s just the one to help.”

Mrs. Reynolds, white-haired and dear, proves to be everything Dr. Caruthers has said. Temple goes to her three times a week for both individual speech therapy and a small nursery school class. The class is in Mrs. Reynolds’ basement and consists of a handful of children with mixed abilities: some retarded, some Down Syndrome, all with varying degrees of speech problems. I decide not to let Dick see the school. For the time being he’s at peace with the diagnosis that Temple isn’t retarded, but I fear if he sees those little Down Syndrome children, he may take up his obsession again.

At home, the nanny continues her lessons, introducing Temple to the notion that there are other people in the world and, like it or not, she must learn to take turns with them. A beachhead in Temple’s isolation? I admire the nanny’s effort, and, for the most part, it works. But as yet, I see no sign that Temple will ever want to share her toys, projects, time, or affection with another child. And the nanny is cruel to the sibling; her focus and love go only to Temple. The nanny is older than I. Strong-willed, ready to override me at every turn, she’s trapped me in a devil’s bargain. She knows that I need her to help with Temple, knows I need her presence to keep the household running smoothly, allaying Dick’s anxieties. She knows too that, as Temple is gaining a foothold on life, Dick and I are losing ours.

Finally, I screw up my courage. Despite the closed door, I make a personal call to Dr. Meyer and tell her I’m having problems with my marriage. Her only comment is, “These things happen.” She suggests a psychiatrist who specializes in marriage counseling, a dear wise man I will go to for years.

The next time I call Dr. Caruthers’ office, I’m told that the department thinks that Temple should see a child psychiatrist. Meaning what? That Dr. Caruthers functions only as a diagnostician? That he knows we have family problems? All I have to go on is a departmental recommendation that Temple should be under the care of a young Viennese doctor whose first request is a session with Temple’s parents.

Winter 1951. Temple’s new doctor is reading a notebook that lies open on his desk, its pages handwritten in tight cursive, the grooves of its cramped loops almost cutting through the paper.

The doctor is slight, blonde, good-looking. An arrogant Austrian, a skier perhaps. Perhaps a Jew who has fled Europe before WWII. He has a European accent like Dr. Meyer’s, only more sibilant, more like a war movie Nazi. He stands to greet us. I’m taller than he and I sense it annoys him. He returns quickly to the chair behind his power desk, to his study of the notebook.

Dick and I wait for him to speak. I wonder why we’re here. What are we supposed to confide in him and how will it help Temple? Dick chews the inside of his cheek and avoids my eye. He’s returned lately to his daily thrashing of words—why I’m not sure because Temple’s doing quite well. No, she still can’t talk, but she’s begun; she’s trying. Yes, she still has tantrums, but not so often and not such big ones. Improvement, isn’t that the point?