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Family Counseling

 In Lorrie Moore's famous story about pediatric oncology, Moore encourages the other parents (people she finds in a hospital waiting room) to tell *their* own worst stories. "Hit me--hit your hardest."


My group, Autism Moms, has a standout. She recently had a ruptured aneurysm; she believes that stress didn't help the situation. In her account of her life, her ex-husband refuses to read about autism; he believes that the daughter in question will "learn" if the stakes feel threatening and punitive. He uses corporal punishment; the family judge says it's OK, because "it's not like he is beating anyone senseless." The dad has made noises about weaponizing Child Protective Services; if the mom isn't compliant with certain wishes, CPS might need to get involved.

The mom is frightened when the daughter gets violent--it's difficult to manage this if you're alone in the house with the child.

As I listen, I have two strong reactions. One is--regrettably--schadenfreude. I think of the song from "Avenue Q." 

Sorry, Nicky, human nature--
Nothing I can do.
It's schadenfreude--
Making me feel glad
That I'm not you.

On the other hand, I also feel empathy, specifically because I know about being alone with an aggressive kid. When my son's verbal range was notably limited, and my husband was away on a business trip, my son certainly drew blood. I remember having something like an out-of-body experience--it was 7am, and the noise in the house was so loud, and it was almost comical to try to imagine getting from this scene to another scene, an orderly, quiet walk to the bus stop.

The special-needs summer camp requires that you confirm your child is not violent or aggressive--but, if you're a special-needs summer camp, then you *must* be ready for violence and aggression. Parents of autistic kids are left to make evasive, legalistic maneuvers. We become something like Bill Clinton. "Tell me your definition of violent..... It depends on what the meaning of is is...."

The Lorrie Moore story is my all-time favorite--and everyone's favorite--because of its dryness. When Moore's son gets his diagnosis, the spouse, Mister Lorrie Moore, says, "Lorrie, you should write about this. We could use the money." And the writer does not need to make explicit any of the near-homicidal feelings that flow through her; you *feel* the would-be homicide within the white spaces on the page. Moore then *completes* her assigned task. And she ends on a crescendo, one of the greatest endings in American fiction.

There are the notes.
Now, where is the money?
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