Friday, August 16, 2013

In Plain Sight: Thoughts on the Center for Autism and the Developing Brain

The life of a child with Asperger's Syndrome is often filled with routines: Those that are built for us by others, and those that we create ourselves. The structure of a day divided into evenly-timed segments is a source of comfort, of knowing for certain what will happen next. When the time is ours, the routine is different, but it is made of our own determining, borne from the desire to possess the smallest amount of control over our lives.

I remember being buckled in my parents' car, the arms of the straps across my lap and chest holding me close and the humming engine vibrating under my feet. It didn't stop until we were parked in front of a strange building with too-shiny windows and loose pebbles scattered across the unsmooth asphalt.

That was when a new routine began.

I am no stranger to the inside of an office: Offices in child psychology buildings, offices of occupational therapists, social workers. An endless procession of white coats and sweet-strong perfumes and colognes wafting in and out of every door, applied liberally as if to conceal the sterile odorlessness of those rooms. Every place I went seemed shrouded, far from the public's view, tinted glass keeping the broken children hidden.

This same thought passed through my mind when I recently paid a visit to yet another such facility.

Situated in the verdant hills of White Plains, the Center for Autism and the Developing Brain (CADB) sits on the edge of treatment and care for individuals with autism across the lifespan. A casual stroll onto the Westchester campus of New York Presbyterian Hospital--where the Center is located--reveals that the building in which it resides was a men's gymnasium in a past life, back in the days when individuals with mental health issues did not live at home, but instead received long-term care at a "convalescence" facility.

A few weeks ago, I joined several of my GRASP colleagues on the campus for the annual conference of AFAA (Advancing Futures for Adults with Autism). As part of the conference program, a presentation highlighting longitudinal studies of individuals with autism was given to us by Dr. Catherine Lord, who is the founding director of CADB.

Later in the day, we received a full tour of the Center, which was also given by Dr. Lord. Visiting the Center left quite an impression on me, though even now I am not sure if it is a good one.

In the main room of the Center, the ceiling is high and open--remnants of the gymnasium from the days of yore. In the middle of the room is a playroom/gym, strewn with toys and activities, and rows of observation rooms line the perimeter surrounding it. A tall and thrumming fluorescent light acts as a divider in between, and toward the entrance are glass display cases, each covered in a grid-like pattern and brightly back-lit.

It was these lights that caught my immediate attention, the whiteness being so stark as to jar my eyes from the earthy, calm tones that dominated the rest of the decor. Though I have never had extreme sensitivity to light, several of my colleagues did, and found themselves quite discomforted in the presence of those lights.

When I later visited the CADB's website, I was surprised by what I found: Multiple references to the "soft" and "natural/soothing" lighting (the references in links two and three are in the captions on the pictures on each page). I don't know for whom those lights actually are soothing, but I would have expected a bit more consideration to have been made in the design of a facility in which treatment is provided for individuals with autism.

As I walked through the still and silent corridors that day, I felt the memory of all those offices returning to me. Behind the toys, the cheery colors, the lush, green leaves of new plants, was that same all-consuming feeling that I found as inescapable then as I did when I was a child:

I am here because something is wrong with me.

Awareness about and visibility of autism and autism spectrum disorders has come so far since I was a child, as have ideas about treatment and embracing neurodiversity. Yet in spite of all this, the feeling of being "different" persists, and is augmented by the fact that a swing set surrounded by four walls and a two-way mirror is a far cry from a swing set on a playground bathed in sunlight.

At the time, I don't think I fully understood why I had to go to all of those offices, but I was always, always aware of being away from the light.

The very existence of CADB is tremendously promising, however, and represents a step in the right direction. It is my hope that facilities such as theirs will incorporate input from individuals on the spectrum into their design--the design of their buildings and of their programs.

It is we who spent so much time in these places growing up who can offer the best insight into how to make the experience a better one for individuals on the spectrum--not only while they are there receiving treatment, but as a positive foundation for the rest of their lives.

1 comment:

  1. Amy, thanks for sharing your perspective on your visit. It's so sad that people with autism would get the sense "Something's wrong with me, and that's why I'm here." Do you have any thoughts on how I, as a therapist, can prevent kids and adults on the spectrum from having that sense when they meet with me? [I'm a counselor]