Embracing Chaos

An Inflatable Whale, an Autistic Boy and A Family's Lesson in Frustration -- and Laughter

Our youngest, 9-year-old Oskar, was the one who first figured out that the name of the whale was Chaos.

Much is written these days about autism and how it might be cured. Certainly, especially for those whose autism is profound, this hope for a cure is vital. Still, there is something to be said for living with someone who has an altered perception of reality. We've had some experience with this in our family.

The whale in question, a large, inflatable orca, belonged to Oskar's older brother. Owen met his whale while we were vacationing in the mountains of Pennsylvania. There, on the upper ledge above the Shurfine Market's meat section, sat the whale.

Immediately attracted by it, Owen str-r-e-e-etched up to touch it.

"It's -- a -- whale," he said in his mechanical way. Owen has autism and doesn't access language easily, so this indicated a serious connection had been established.

I asked if he wanted me to buy the whale for him.

It's hard to know what kind of presents to get Owen. His fascinations run to the unusual -- currently ladles and cooking spoons, and we have plenty of those. A lake toy was a great idea for his August birthday, but I favored the green crocodile lolling up there beside the orca. The croc looked a lot easier to handle. I studied the inflatable animals dubiously.

Owen answered me with his whole body, skipping, then pirouetting in pure joy. "GET -- A -- WHALE!"

Back at home, during the weeks that followed, we all tried to keep the massive inflatable inflated. Thankfully, my husband is gifted with a particularly strong pair of lungs, but still it was an impossible task. The seven-foot whale went everywhere with Owen. Into the tub and into the bed. Across the lawn.

To the orthodontist.

Owen can be particularly unsettled in doctors' offices; he can't be still. That is why on an August morning I allowed the whale (dubbed Robert De Niro by Owen's sister, who has a flair for the dramatic) to be taken to the orthodontist's office as a bribe. It seemed a logical concession as we struggled to get Owen out the door.

Sitting in the doctor's office, however, trying to inflate the cetacean, I felt transported into a Monty Python skit. Surely any moment John Cleese would walk in the door. My daughter quirked an eyebrow at me, as my cheeks puffed out mid-blow, and we collapsed in uncontainable mirth. We imagined a series of YouTube episodes: large inflatable whale seen around Bowie. The opportunity to laugh uncontrollably with one's teenage daughter is the sort of gift that life with Owen brings.