The Sins of the Father

An original Hames Report article revised and reposted by request

Born into a small parochial community in the autumn months following the end of the 2nd World War, Ben was an only child and markedly dissimilar from other kids of his age. Ben lived in a world of his own – a world fertile in music, creative play and imaginings, but detached to some extent from actuality. Certainly many villagers thought the boy somewhat strange – artistic, spoiled, timid certainly, yet far too well-mannered and conceited for a mere farm mechanic's son. Are you bringing him up to be a pansy then, they would chide his mother?

Although Ben was aware of everything going on around him he did not utter a word until he was four years old. Painfully shy well into his teens, unable to make friends, and thus an easy prey for school bullies, he found it distressing to maintain eye contact with those around him, even for a few seconds. He would often stare intently at the ground when speaking. If on the odd occasion he did actually look someone squarely in the eye he would invariably blush while a faint smile would appear – often giving people the feeling he scorned what was being said. This nervous smirk would always be there when he was being scolded. It irritated his teachers no end. But what could he do? He knew it was happening. He could feel the rush of blood to his cheeks. But he simply could not control it. There were no words that could adequately explain his anguish.

Most of us know people who find it difficult to blend in, or to conform, and Ben quickly became the butt of spiteful remarks and snide pranks. On the other hand he would do nothing to dispel such attention. He politely doffed his cap to all the village matrons. He would skip rather than walk, but absolutely refused to tread on sand or pebbles in his bare feet, and did not much like playing on the beach for that reason. Indeed he avoided getting wet if at all possible, visibly flinching if water splattered on his face. All the many physical activities other children embraced with such vigor Ben found tedious or frightening.

In later years he would rashly relate stories of physical prowess to strangers – claiming credit in every sport from cross-country running to rugby. Such boasting was intended to be nothing other than a forlorn attempt to connect more deeply with others of his age who measured their maturity by such proficiency. But it always failed to impress. They could sense his true nature. Unsurprisingly it got him into no end of trouble when the truth was eventually disclosed, as it always was.

He taught himself to read by assuming that he already knew the meaning of shapes on the page. Scanning one book after another he would painstakingly decipher patterns as they ran into each other. By the time Ben was six he had a vocabulary that was the envy of his teachers and had read the Bible from Genesis to Revelation. Maps were also beguiling - inviting him to discover exotic worlds by tracing the steps of the great explorers. Where have you been today Ben, his mother would ask in her half-teasing, half-pleased manner? I went up the Amazon as far as Manaus, he would respond. And, Mummy I followed Dr Albert Schweitzer into Africa where he has built a hospital.

An extremely sensitive boy, he preferred his own company. He could often be found alone, writing poetry, tending his flower garden, composing music at the old out-of-tune piano his mother had bought from a neighbour for £2, or poring over absurdly erudite journals like The Lancet - pretending he understood medical concepts of which he had not an inkling, but imagining what it would be like when he became a surgeon, his one and only ambition.

Other factors marked a more leisurely development. He followed instructions rather reluctantly, for example. This made life at school particularly difficult - especially for certain of his teachers. He relaxed by reading books, playing with his pet puppy Suki, or assembling his collection of lead soldiers, putting them neatly away as soon as they were out, rather than playing with them as other children might. He was also fussy. So, for example, he would always separate the food on his plate, polishing off his favourite apple and blackberry pie before turning his attention to the custard. He was obsessed by neatness and rituals too. Everything had to be in its place before Ben could rest.

One person was pivotal in Ben’s young life. His father Jack was his hero. Although his mother was always on hand to protect her cherished boy it was his father that mattered most to the young boy. Jack was the first person to pick him up when he fell; the first at his side to wipe away any tears after he had been tormented by the village louts; the first person Ben would go to for reassurance. Ben also cherished being held by his father often perching on Jack's shoulders as he strode across the Common - though that feeling changed to one of intense discomfort when anyone else came too close.

These emotions became much more pronounced after Jack left his wife after 28 years of marriage, without prior warning, to be with another woman. Ben was eight years old at the time. He never saw his father again. Suddenly his young life was in turmoil. He did not speak a word, or cry a tear for seven weeks. Meanwhile, in the midst of her own heartbreak, Ben’s mother doted after him, keeping him close to her whenever and for as long as she could. One result from this early trauma was the fact that Ben avoided intimate contact of any kind with women until he was in his late twenties.

In later years Ben learned to manage his social and emotional mannerisms. But not every trace of his bizarre behaviour disappeared. Even today he is still embarrassingly timid and finds it particularly arduous to start a conversation or walk into a room full of strangers. He still compulsively rolls paper receipts and keeps a few of these in his car for when he needs something to fiddle with. As a professional speaker he has learned to face up to many of his early fears and actually enjoys playing to an audience. On the other hand he still feels uncomfortable when he senses someone staring at him on the street. Deep within his psyche he remains a child. But a child unlike most others.

As you might have guessed, if Ben was a youth today he would probably have been diagnosed as autistic or as having Asperger’s Syndrome. The term Autism Spectrum Disorder was originally applied to a range of symptoms just a year before Ben was born. Consequently nobody thought to suggest the boy was suffering from ASD. He was just a shy kid who didn’t seem to fit the mould of what was then deemed normal. He was just unlike other children of his age.  Since then an assortment of symptoms have become the condition known as ASD. And that is a truth I have to own. Why? Because I am the Ben in this story.

There comes a moment in everyone’s life when we begin to prepare for death. Not in any mawkish or morbid sense but in the realization that life must be lived to the full and embraced with a passion because it is so very short. For me that point arrived the day my mother died. My father had passed away a few years prior to that. I had felt little emotion to be honest. My grieving for him had occurred years before. But on the day of my mother's passing I felt intensely alone and empty. This was a weird feeling in itself because by that time I had eight wonderful children of my own as well as a trio of grandchildren.

But then something inexplicable and quite miraculous happened. I had begun to turn my attention to the legacy I wanted to leave behind. Feelings of fatherhood receded into a suite of distant memories as my life in Thailand with a woman half my age began to shape an altogether different destiny. The endless concessions and diversions that invariably arise from being a parent no longer interfered with my newly-discovered serenity. Until fate took a hand...

Nico, my ninth child, my third son, and a miracle baby, was conceived. We were not prepared for this. How could we? Having recovered from cervical cancer and then only months later an ectopic pregnancy that ended with major surgery, Suna had been told not to expect any more children. She had a beautiful 12-year-old daughter from her first marriage and would have to be content with that. Ha! So much for medical science and certainty.

Experiencing fatherhood after a gap of seventeen years is profoundly dissimilar from before. I suppose I should not have been surprised. Filtered through years, a degree of discretion that was previously missing and, hopefully, a trifle more maturity, I found myself calmer and more tolerant - even when things fail to transpire as I envisaged.

I am also fortunate in being able to consciously choose to spend more time with Nico than I did with my other children. Of course I love all my kids unconditionally and remain incredibly proud of their individual achievements and sad when they falter. But I do regret the fact that I might have seemed like a total stranger to them during times when I was most needed. I am privileged to have children who care enough about me to treat me as a friend, who tell me what a kind father I am, who forgive me my faults without question, and who show affection towards me in spite of my conspicuous absence from their lives when they were growing up.

But if Nico’s arrival was an unexpected gift then fate was about to warp our joy in a way that reminded us not to take too much for granted. For just as I was taking pride in the fact that my youngest son had the most striking good looks, had started to walk at the age of ten months, kicked and threw a ball with ease, scaled the outside rim of the stairs with a sherpa’s sense of balance, swiped an iPad like a veteran techie, shared his toys with visiting kids, displayed the most gentle character imaginable, and generally expended more energy during the day than a gaggle of puppies, a dark shadow was about to fall across our unbounded love.

By the time he was two years old Nico had invented his own language. We didn't think too much about this. After all he heard three languages around him much of the time. It would take awhile for him to unscramble and make sense of three languages, or so we reasoned. Besides, he was a creative and happy little boy.

We were slightly more bothered by a tendency to throw himself to the floor with such melodrama when he couldn’t get his own way or make himself understood. At first we assumed this was a phase he was going through. After all he seemed to understand everything we said to him and appeared 'normal' in most other ways.

Then we began to notice signs of a more disquieting nature, indicating his emotional development was much slower than it should have been. Although he was mostly a contented little soul he would often walk around the house on tiptoe joyously chattering to himself. Echolalia slowly crept into his invented language. He would ignore us if we gave him an instruction, as though he hadn’t heard. He seemed forever distracted and in a world of his own. His behaviour now began to attract comments from friends who also had children. Normal children. Clearly it was time to get some professional advice. Nico was almost 3 years old.

Nico’s pediatrician had consistently reassured us that he was fine. Trust your instincts he would urge us. Nico is alert, smart, loving, healthy and physically adept. Give him time. It was true that he seemed perfectly ordinary, if a little nervous when in a hospital environment. And slow to speak of course. Don’t worry, I assured Suna. I didn’t utter a word until I was four years old but now you can’t stop me talking! Hey, I even talk for a living.

Such reassurances were comforting for a while. But soon additional questions and awkwardly expressed concerns from family members reignited previous misgivings. In truth we did not know what to do. To us Nico was a loving child who was slow to develop, particularly in terms of his speech. To others, we now know, he was an oddity – a withdrawn and hapless deviant possessing tics and barks reminiscent of a mad person.

Our anxiety reached a peak as we tried to find Nico a suitable environment, such as a kindergarten, where he could socialize while learning how to play with other kids. This search proved futile. A refrain repeated over and over, one which anticipated from each school we visited, was that Nico was a child with special needs and that their school was not equipped to deal with such cases.

We quickly grasped their meaning: a child with special needs is a euphemism for when 'normality' for whatever reason is absent. As one door after another slammed shut in our faces we decided to do what we had been resisting for so long. We would have Nico tested by speech and behavioural therapists to rule out the possibility of it being autism.

That was easier said than done - at least in a country like Thailand where most mental health or psychological conditions are taboo, spoken of only in hushed tones, if at all. Finally we found a group of specialists we felt we could trust. Some baseline tests were done and we waited for the initial diagnosis. Of course nothing can ever prepare you for news you hope never to hear. The clinical statement was delivered as a matter of fact. Your son is autistic. No wavering. No possibility of an error. No doubt. The verdict was absolutely clear. Nico was on the spectrum. Therapy was recommended and it should start as soon as possible.

I was lost for words. Suna was asking questions, trying to make sense of what we were being told. Even now I can not account for every single emotion I felt in those first few moments where I learned the truth about my son: stunned, angry, defiant, frustrated, self-pitying and sorrowful certainly. I lamented the fact that Nico had been born. I had saddled Suna with a child who would be an impediment she would regret for the rest of her life…

But then a miracle happened. One that I will remember for the rest of my life. Nico rushed out of the adjacent room, laughing excitedly and holding a model airplane for us all to see. Let’s go he shouted, heading for the door. Suna and I glanced at each other and smiled. The heartache that so recently threatened to stifle any hope we had of a happy and fulfilling future for our son vanished in an instant. The truth dawned upon us both. Here was our beautiful son imagining a real plane flying through the air and deriving untold pleasure from sharing his joy with us. He was alive with energy.

Only then did it dawn on me what a crazy neurotic state we had helped contrive. We were almost persuaded that a disparate set of symptoms, which happen to occur in 15 per cent or more of the population, should be considered abnormal, requiring some form of medical treatment. Worse still was the realization that I had almost permitted an inconsequential acronym - one that strikes fear in the hearts of so many parents, yet means different things to different people - to define and shape my relationship with a 3-year old boy I adore.

That is not to deny the fact that some children are extremely disabled by autism and benefit greatly from the help they get from behavioural therapists. Nor was it to deny that Nico may have needed help at some stage with what appear to be easy tasks for most kids. It was also quite possible that a course of behavioural therapy could have helped him overcome some of his more, shall we say ‘theatrical’ traits. But at that moment I celebrated the fact that Nico was more like me, particularly in his sensitivity towards others, his gentle and loving nature, than I or anyone else had fathomed. And I aver that is not a bad thing.

As a consequence, and taking into account the upbringing I had as a child, the wonder of learning, the fascination I developed for all living creatures, and the appreciation of my very existence as an experiment for trying out new ideas, I no longer had any desire for Nico to be normal - whatever that is - nor that he should conform to other people’s conventions or stereotypes.

Over the course of the past 75 years particular traits such as an unwarranted reserve, nervousness and introspection, coupled with unusual repetitive behavioural patterns, have been singled out as being unhealthy, atypical and therefore needing correction or treatment of some kind.

But who decides what or who is normal? Why the professional classes of course. In today’s competitive business climate it has become commonplace for most industry bodies and peak associations to protect their niche, in accordance with their members’ interests, by broadening the scope of activities that fall within their jurisdiction.

Professional bodies representing healthcare practitioners, clinical psychologists and behavioural therapists alike, are not immune from this expansion in the scope of their pursuits. This is tantamount to putting Dracula in charge of the blood bank. As a direct consequence it is no surprise that we see healthcare professionals openly consorting with drug companies, insurers, investors and research scientists in an effort to classify increasing numbers of symptoms as abnormal disabilities. In the field of mental health it is widely acknowledged that individual traits, once viewed as features characterizing individuality, are now routinely portrayed as psychological conditions to be remedied with cures from drugs or therapy or counselling.

In the fifth edition of the American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, autism is defined as a lifelong developmental disability that affects how individuals communicate with, and relate to, other people as well as how they make sense of the world around them. In other words autism has become a convenient treasure trove for the health care industry to exploit.

My son Nico is unique. He now attends Verso International School in Bangkok, one of the most progressive schools in Asia, flourishing in an environment that explicitly encourages and supports his individuality. I am proud of that. I hope he retains his charm and character throughout his life. In our eyes he is not a child with special needs but a very special child with an inimitable personality and incredible potential.

But if psychologists persist on burdening him, and those like him, with labels signifying little more than shyness, introversion, or a tendency to focus on comforting repetitive routines, I hope that he will have the courage to look them in the eye and tell them he actually wouldn’t mind being as smart as Albert Einstein, as talented as Bob Dylan, as imaginative as Stanley Kubrick, as funny as Robin Williams, as wealthy as Bill Gates, or as kind as Yves Saint-Laurent – all of whom were diagnosed with autism. Or, for that matter, that being like his dad was as a kid is just fine by him.

This is an edited update of an essay I originally wrote seven years ago when Nico was just 3 years old. Now he is 10 years old. In the intervening period he has matured into an incredibly happy young man with a zest for life that is a joy to watch.

I dedicate this piece to every person on the planet who find themselves encumbered by a label that points to their flaws and inadequacies, all the while ignoring their unique talents and potential.