Motherhood and Autism

Eilidh Campbell

Description

While autism is gaining increasing attention as an important subject of theological inquiry, the maternal experience of caring for a child with autism has had less attention.
Traversing issues of gender, embodiment, disability and motherhood, this book explores the distinctness of mothering within the context of autism, examining how theology currently responds to the challenges this lived experience presents.
Weaving together an honest reflection on her own experience with analysis of contemporary theological works on disability and motherhood, the book reflects on mothering, and especially mothering of autistic children, as a unique site of struggle and resistance.

Sujets

• Religion
• Christianisme
• Christian Theology
• Philosophie et théologie
• Autism

Informations

• Publié par: Hymns Ancient & Modern Ltd
• Date de parution: 29 octobre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780334061526
• Langue: English

Extrait

Motherhood and Autism
An Embodied Theology of Mothering and Disability
Eilidh Campbell






© Eilidh Campbell 2021
Published in 2021 by SCM Press
Editorial office
3rd Floor, Invicta House,
108–114 Golden Lane,
London EC1Y 0TG, UK
www.scmpress.co.uk
SCM Press is an imprint of Hymns Ancient & Modern Ltd (a registered charity)

Hymns Ancient & Modern® is a registered trademark of Hymns Ancient & Modern Ltd
13A Hellesdon Park Road, Norwich,
Norfolk NR6 5DR, UK
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, SCM Press.
The author has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the Author of this Work
British Library Cataloguing in Publication data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-334-06087-1
Typeset by Regent Typesetting
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd




Contents
Acknowledgements
Prologue: The Beginning

Introduction
Part 1: Autism, Ambiguity and Unusual Beginnings
1. Autism: An Enduring Enigma
2. Causes for Conflict – Theories as to the Origins of Autism
3. The ‘Triad’: Difference, Distinctions and Diagnosis
4. From Uncertainty to …?
5. Diagnosis: A Spectrum of Emotions
6. ‘The Power of Naming’: Who Wears the Label?
Part 2: Disability, Normalcy and Stigma
7. Disability and the ‘Other’: The Social Construction of Normalcy
8. Autism, Disability and ‘Lives Unworthy’
9. Autism, Invisibility and the Problem of ‘Passing’
10. Averted Gazes: Living with Stigma
11. Disabled Bodies, Able World?
12. Struggling for Support
Part 3: ‘Every day is a battle’ – Mothers ‘ en la lucha ’
13. Refrigerator Mothers: Too Cold to Care?
14. A Mother’s Work is Never Done: Struggle in the Everyday
15. Necessity is the Mother of Invention: ‘Maternal Thinking’ and Neglected Sites of Knowledge
16. Lived Experience in Practical Theology: Knowing Your Limits

Conclusion: ‘Pragmatic Unresolvement’ – Towards a New Theology of Struggle

Postscript: Micah’s Own Words

Bibliography





Did he ever begin himself, though?
Mother, you made him small, it was you that began him;
he was new to you, you arched over those new eyes the friendly world, averting the one that was strange.
Where, oh where, are the years when you simply displaced for him,
with your slender figure, the surging abyss?
You hid so much from him then;
made the nightly-suspected room harmless,
and out of your heart full of refuge
mingled more human space with that of his nights.
Not in the darkness, no, but within your far nearer presence
you placed the light, and it shone as though out of friendship.
Nowhere a creak you could not explain with a smile, as though you had long known when the floor would behave itself thus …
And he listened to you and was soothed …

Rainer Maria Rilke (1921)
‘Duino Elegies: The Third Elegy’




Acknowledgements
They say that ‘it takes a village’ to raise a child. I have learned that it also takes a village to write a book.
First, thank you to ‘Naomi’, ‘Scarlet’ and ‘Abigail’, the brave women who so generously offered to lend their voices to this research. Your stories have taught me, moved me and inspired me.
The research that contributed to this volume was supported by Trinity College Glasgow. I am grateful to them for providing me with the opportunity to undertake this research. Thank you to Dr Katie Cross for urging me to publish; without your encouragement, these pages would likely never have been read. Thanks must also be given to SCM Press, in particular David Shervington, for their belief and patience in this work.
The completion of the book would also not have been possible without the enduring patience, support and friendship of my doctoral supervisor Professor Heather Walton. It has been a long journey, but she has accompanied me with grace and kindness.
Thanks must also be given to others within the University of Glasgow TRS Department for their feedback and support. In particular to Dr Clare Radford, for her invaluable insight and solidarity, and to Doug Gay for his thoughtful perspective. Thanks also to Dr Patricia ‘Iolana, for her inspiring tutelage as both a mother and a thinker.
Thank you also to the staff at Goldenhill School, in particular Hazel Campbell and Sharon Lappin, for nurturing the conditions in which Micah has been able to thrive.
Thanks also to the friends and family who have offered their support and belief in me throughout this process. Particularly to ‘the Divers sisters’ (Nicola, Caitlin, Rachel) for providing feedback on this research, and for their unfailing friendship over the years. Thanks to Rachael Kydd, Karen Kenny, Grant Black and the Prices for offering me respite from this journey, and for their cherished friendship to Micah. Thank you to Kenzie, for being my son without birth, and the yin to Micah’s yang.
Thank you to the Anderson family: Colin, Ryan, Ben, and most of all, Carolyn. You have been mother to Micah when he has needed more than me. Without you, Micah would not have become the person he is.
Thank you to my sister, Mhairi, and my aunt, Catherine, for supporting us all during our worst days.
Thank you to my parents, for instilling in me a passion for learning and a pride in it. For my mother, whose absence I feel every day. You taught me to ‘always leave others better than you find them’, and your love, strength and kindness continue to inspire me to be better. For my father, who is and ever will be, Micah’s best friend.
Thank you to my husband, Sam. I do not have the words to express my thanks for having you in our lives. Your love has made me the best version of myself, and I would not be who I am without you beside me.
Finally, thank you to my son, Micah, my warrior prophet. Your strength of character, creativity and resilience never ceases to amaze me. I have never been prouder of anything more in my life than the opportunity to be your mother.




Prologue: The Beginning
After a long and arduous pregnancy, I remember his first months seeming effortless. We existed in a blissful bubble. Placid but inquisitive, he fed well, slept well, laughed and cuddled. He was affectionate, but not needy. I was naively smug in my ability to mother this tiny human. We knew each other intuitively, him and I. Two halves of a whole. But as his first birthday neared … our symbiosis began to fragment; dissolving slowly, but insidiously.
By eight months old, my once peaceful baby had become habitually disconsolate. His cries were impossible to predict and even more impossible to soothe. Something had shifted with him and me. Imperceptible, yet pivotal. A gnawing unease had begun to form in my belly. The intuitive ease with which I had always been able to anticipate his needs had evaporated, seemingly overnight, and I was paralysed by my inability to understand him. Something was wrong.
It felt like weeks since he had slept. Those days had turned into nights – nights in which daylight was simply replaced by the glow of the alarm clock, the minutes and hours ticking by almost mockingly. Those nights his cries, seemingly without purpose or interruption, would seem to last an eternity. I nursed. I held. I sang. I paced. One particular night marked the end of a week so long I could no longer do anything but sit on the bed and rock, trying futilely to guide my screaming child to a breast he did not want. By the time morning came, the soft light flickering through the curtains, I too was weeping. ‘Please stop,’ I murmured, over and over, a record scratched and jumping, constantly repeating; a desperate nursery rhyme that calmed neither him nor me.
My mother joyfully threw open the bedroom door, brandishing a huge balloon and a bouquet of flowers. ‘It’s Mother’s Day!’ she exclaimed. I had forgotten. Of course I had, the night had lasted weeks. The realization that I had welcomed my first Mother’s Day broken and weeping, and that I had not been the one to first waken the wonderful creature before me with the flowers and excitement that she greeted me with, wrought fresh sobs from my chest. My mother’s smile faltered as she took in the scene before her. Wordlessly, she took the baby from my arms. ‘It’s … he’s … and I … I can’t,’ I wheezed between sobs, staring down at the now empty space in my arms. With my baby deftly tucked under one arm, my mother turned her attention to her baby, now grown. Gently, she eased me back into bed.
‘Oh, my darling,’ she said. ‘But you can. There will be many more Mother’s Days, and many more nights like this before them. This baby will take every last ounce of energy and love you have, and you will still find more to give him. That’s what it means to be a mother. And that’s why we get the flowers.’ As always, my wonderful mother was right. There would be many more Mother’s Days. There would be many more flowers. But there would also be many more tears.




Introduction
A few tentative weeks after my son was born, I took him to my mother’s church so that she could proudly display him to her friends. Her minister, who had known us since I was the same tiny bundle wrapped in blankets, enquired as to his name. ‘Micah,’ I shared.
He laughed, deep and knowingly. ‘“The Warrior Prophet”’, he said. ‘Well, you’ve set yours