Leisa A. Hammett

From the Presses: No Tricks And All Treats!

The creative team of From Heartache to Hope: Middle Tennessee Families Living with Autism didn't get dressed up to go to the printer this week of Halloween, 2009. Yet, hurriedly when we got "the call"-- "come now, quick!" we descended from our respective computer desks, west and north, slogging through messy, gray rain and into downtown. A little anxious we were. But like good chocolate clutched in eager hands, our fears melted quickly when we saw that our talented designer Mary Sweeney and her printing consultant, Scott Gerber, and the printers at Pollock Printing had worked just the right magic.

Relieved, a bit teary-eyed and ready to jump for joy at the site of our stash, from left, that's me, Curly; Mary's son, little Super Hero Patrick; standing behind him be-hatted, Mary; draped in her knit cape, Rebekah Pope, our talented photographer and Tim Fields, as himself, always our gracious publisher.

Our goods approved, we nodded to our printer and the presses--they hummed, they buzzed and they ran. No scares a'tal for our happy creative clan:

WOO-HOO and No BOO! Stayed tuned! We're running fast. And hard. Pant. Pant. Can barely keep up.  Don't make us knock on your door, come share in our treat at our Book Launch, Sunday, Nov. 15, 3-5, L. Greer Gallery, Edgehill Village. More events to come and details too. Pull back the drapes, turn on the porch light and keep a watch.

Happy Halloween, Ya'll! And, remember, for Christmas, ho-ho-ho, with our coffee table-style book chock full of stunning black-and-white photography and the moving stories of 18 area families living with autism--with From Heartache to Hope--we've got the goods for all those on your lists so very long!

(Our website is under construction as you read!) Pant. Pant.

Sounding Off. Again.

Thanks to Google Alert, I was reminded that I was quoted for an article in Saturday's Tennessean about the state's inadequate counting system for autism incidence. By the time I landed back at my desk and replied to the just discovered email 24 hours after the Tennessean reporter sent it to me, she'd wrapped the story. However, she called me anyway and then, evidently because I didn't let that deter me from colorfully asserting my opinion about the "hideous" state of being next to last in the U.S. in terms of disAbility service offerings--only above Arkansas--she decided to quote and plug me into the story. Thank goodness my daughter's disAbility gave me the largest flag I've ever had and the life-time job of waving it. The issues serves to help me channel my talents and be more focused in my energies.

Here, the story.

The Church of The Great Outdoors & Wrapping Fall Break

"The Church of the Big Breakfast." When I was married, Grace's father and I attended a church where that's what a spunky young woman in our Sunday School class referred to as her family of origin's denominational lineage as--"The Church of the Great Big Breakfast."

Yesterday morning, Grace and I attended "The Church of the Great Outdoors." And, I can't think of a better way, for me, to get a spiritual lift, a connection with the Great Creator, a fine tuning of my physical-emotional-spiritual relationship with nature, than our time spent in "The Church of the Great Outdoors."

Our day of worship started with a visit to "The Church of the Great Big Breakfast." It was The Fiance's idea to say Grace over a biscuit-, jam- and ham-ladened table here:

Oh, the man who broke my seven-year record of maintaining my 30-pound Weight Watcher's loss and the subsequent 10-15 pounds I've sported thanks to following his taste buds around the country, the world and into his gourmet kitchen.

I knew I was in trouble on our fall break launch when The Fiance's thrill-seeking taste buds led us to Full Moon Bar-B-Que in Birmingham and then proceeded to sample sumptuous fair in Florida's sunny Gulf Coast:

The Fiance. First bite. The Divine Oyster Po'boy at Stinky's Fish Camp

As our lengthy fall break wrapped up yesterday, I was struck by the contrast of going from this:

Grayton Beach

to this:

Natchez Trace Parkway

...on the last day of fall break. Our visit to the Church of the Great Outdoors, which also included a hike in one of Nashville's Great Big urban parks and, at the end of the day, a walk amid skyscrapers downtown for a birthday dinner on Second Avenue by the Nashville's Riverfront , to celebrate one of our newly independent young adult friends living with autism.

For Fall Break. For Church of the Great Outdoors. For Friends. For Family. For the Precious Gift of Life...Thank you. I am Grateful. A-men.

DeeLeisa-ous Travels: Grayton Beach

All photos copyrighted: Leisa A. Hammett

Pink and gold sunsets on ice-blue, rippled waters beyond white, sugary stretches of sand.

Morning walks to Starbucks followed by sumptuous, hot oatmeal laced with brown sugar; quiche-of-the-day and everything-but-the-kitchen-sink cookies at Hibiscus House.

B&B owner Cheri's daily message board.

The saw grass-bordered and lily-padded blue water bays leading to sandy dunes.

Bud and Alley's $$, the bar at The Southern Cafe, the airstream cupcake lady and, as always, an ode to Modica Market...ala Seaside.

 

Per-spi-cas-ity's outdoor bazaar--no trip to Seaside complete without a wonder-and-awe browse thru. Sundog Books: wooden tables bearing stacks of crisp pages begging to be devoured by hungry readers. The ambiance and vibe of Seaside. (Even though they did build succumb to greed and build on the waterfront and copycat Watercolors closing in all claustrophobic-like.)

Bike rides down the board walk. (Follow the rules of the road. PLEASE!)

Grayton Beach. A part of Florida still Southern.

Hibiscus House--a niche in "Old Florida." Every corner and cubby a curious find. It works, Cheri. It works.

Stinky's Fish Camp. The "Great Big Salad" with corn, potatoes, green beans and red peppers." Oyster Po'boys with lip-and-finger-licking roumalade. Santa Rosa Beach.

Grayton: we *heart* you. We'll be back.

And, btw: thems be my boots. On my feets. The same ones that went to Costa Rica post rainy season and shoulda gone to Trinidad. They were perfect for beach walking in the chilly October weather, which ranges from lows of mid-40s to highs of barely 60s.

This is an abbreviated DeeLeisa-ous Travels from our mini-Fall Break to Grayton Beach, Fla. Our travel blog is yet unofficially launched. We have still blogged our travels, but haven't posted but a few online. This trip the laptop was in Nashville while we were in Florida. An operation performed, ripped it's innards and placed them into a new computer home. I'm supposed to rescue it and take it home later today. Then, I hope. I hope. I hope to launch DeeLeisa-ous Travels by year's end. Wish me luck.

 

From There to Here

*Fall break, 2009, The Beach with her father.

The Mother's Day Out director predicted that when I left my two-year-old on the first day I'd run to my car with tears streaming. Ummm, more like I ran out into the parking lot, jumped in the air and clicked my heels. Okay. Well, that sentiment was certainly there. I've always reveled in Mommy Independence but I did have a moment of tears welling as I peeked through the open window and saw and heard my tiny toddler happily playing in the miniature kitchen. But, soon thereafter, all hell broke loose. By noon on my first day of twice-a-week six-hour-block Independence, I got a call from the director. Finally. Someone acknowledged that things were not right.

Lodged deep within my intuitive spirit, I knew something was different about Grace at six weeks. She was just too independent and happily self-entertained for an infant. At eight months, I questioned if she might have autism. But, this was 1995. All I and most people knew about autism was head banging, rocking in corners, and Rainman. That wasn't Grace. But the behaviors of isolation, repetition, oddity in movement, sensory seeking began to emerge. By 18 months the social disconnect was so strong I knew for certain something was wrong. But typical of the times, no one listened to parents like myself. Another year passed until the Mother's Day Out director phoned me at noon of that first day. My six hours of Independence ended abruptly. She asked me to come to her office then. Grace was not going to make it an entire day, she said. By the time I had gotten in my car and driven from the parking lot earlier that morning, Grace had turned around and noticed I was gone. A separation anxiety tantrum like none other ensued and persisted. And continued. Followed by characteristics of autistic oddity that the director could not name but knew were off. That day I was referred to Tennessee's Early Intervention Services and began to receive play therapy and then waited. For six l-o-n-g months as the clock for precious early intervention tick tocked. And then, at age 32 months, Vanderbilt Center for Child Development gave us the diagnosis of autism.

Flash forward two years post half-day preschool pasted to a hodge-podge, mish-mashed number of afternoon interventions, and we began Kindergarten. As I drove from the elementary school the first morning a panic overcame me. What was I doing? I'd entrusted my child's safety in the care of strangers. What if a gunman came off the nearby interstate and into the playground? Luckily, I dismissed the thought, not being one much prone to Fear.

We left the nurturing environs two Kindergarten years (one repeat) plus four grades later. And then the hurdle of Middle School came and went. We made that transition with such well executed finesse that High School transition did not illicit any nail biting. There are inconvenient details and typical systemic hassles, but I'm now setting my sights on the horizon of adulthood employment and Grace's own Independence.

But today, I drove the cool car, top down, parked, met her assistant. Grace walked far ahead of us by herself toward her the high school we'd visited weekly all late winter and spring. Parents were forbidden on for this special Freshman Orientation. So, I turned, went back down the steps and swallowed a lump of visceral emotion that was gurgling up from from my core.

On the phone last night, thinking of the week ahead, when school would actually begin, I sighed to The Fiance: "I Hope...They are kind. To her."

And then, as I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, I continued folding the perpetual Mount Everest of laundry that resides in my great room corner chair. And I chose to believe that they would.

Searching for unpublished posts, I unearthed this, written about two months back. And now I can say: they have been kind. Far exceeding anything I could have dreamed. And. I am Grateful. Very much so.

*Though grateful for the photo, too, I would not chop off my child's feet....;-)

Journal Snippets

Photo: lyssabee_baby

I'm a Believer. I'm back on the wagon. After a waaayyy too long of a hiatus while trying to figure out how to do this high school thing: get up at 5:30 and out the door at 6:30. An hour round trip commute and then repeat at 1:30. Woo! My practices went out the window. I shoved them back in this week. Damnit! Not to mention that it's been book-book-ALL-ABOUT-THE- BOOK ALL MONTH LONG!

...I'm back to Journaling, Yoga, Affirmations/Visualizations, Gratitude List and maybe a quick hand weights routine thrown in. The walking has to be fit in somewhere and it's being fit in. Reduced, but never stopped. Twice I canceled the 30 minutes with the gym trainer. Going to the gym was going to replace my practices and I decided keeping balance was more important than a tauter bod--and all the other benefits of weight training. I had to weigh (no pun intended) benefits against benefits. (Thank you, Anna.)

In the meanstime (sic) I've been reading one of my favorite blogs and one of her favorite blogs, which is also becoming mine. They're also writing about journaling and giving me, though I've done this since I was 17, some great tips.

So, this morning, I saw how the last two of my three pages became a stream of conscious list that dissolved into one word per line that I thought I'd share:

"I do not have to live with these feelings -- they are lies I am telling myself!
THAT just helped me disconnect just then...
Sabotage
Saboteur
Salad" (I listed my vision for eating well today)
"PB & cranberries
pain-Dee-talk
cereal
kefir
Ruth-concerned
to-do
yoga
Believe
What's next.
Know.
Confidence
Hope.
love
Compassion.
Self nuture
love
Patience." (I'm talking about myself here...again)
Time.
Beauty.
What this day will look like."

Invicible Aging?

Where did my middle age go? 

Where did my middle age go-oh-

Tell me my friend, if you know-oh. 

Senior citizen here I am

What ever became of

That middle age man, (or woman)

I can't believe what I see-ee.

How could this happen to me-ee?

Tell me my friend, tell me--

If you know

Where did my middle age go-oo-oh? 

Music and Lyric Ann Weber and D. Schoggen: Arr. David Arnay--Rev: Molly McMillan   © 1987, 2009 Ann Weber & Dikkie Schoggen

------------------------------

Discovered something new about myself recently. By some standards, I may not be old...Yet. But, here's my discovery: I like old people. Grace and I've begun walking at a different park than our usual now that she's going to school in another part of town. Our timing usually seems to coincide with a couple of different aging married folks in whose presence I delight. I was with The Fiance when we met one of these couples who drives over each week from another part of time and play a game with each other to see how many different kinds of wildlife they can spot. So, when I see them, I ask what number they're up to at the moment. Another couple cites the rosary as they walk and greets everyone with vigorous cheer and an uber positive comment. I told The Fiance, who was not with us the last time we were at the park, that I'd seen one of those couples that day. "You like old people," he said. And, I confirmed, I'd just realized that, having said the very same thing to myself during my walk that afternoon.

My attitude began to change toward those who are aging as I merged deeper into my 40s. I began to see those boat-like cars with the frequently tapped break lights interrupting the flow of traffic as "could be my mother and father." Then, it was: someday this could be me....As with divorce, writing a book, and any other endeavor I undertake, I become an arm chair sociologist. I figure I'm growing old, too, so I'm going to study how others are doing it. Observe. Ask questions. And take copious mental notes. I particularly like those who have found a way to merge whole, healthy and their spirits intact into the last phase of their lives. I want to have a gracious attitude to those who are slowing down and to acknowledge that they have many things to offer me because of their experiences lived. I want to treat them like I want to be treated me when my own numbers also add up.

All this talk about old...I hardly think of these following folks as old....Middle age, to me, doesn't begin officially until 50. I'm there shy of six months. And old? I know some early 80-somethings who aren't old by my standards. These folks aren't old by my standards. By the numbers, some of them, maybe. But that doesn't stop them from living life and celebrating it with vigor.

Luscious serendipity would have me meet Dikkie Schoggen and her husband, Phil, when I moved back  to Nashville 16 years ago. Both retired research psychologists, Dikkie headed a women's writer's group at Vanderbilt, which I attended. When Grace was just a fistful of tissue in my womb, they treated me to dinner and, in during our conversation that night, told me to take my folic acid. Little did either of us know that our acquaintance would continue because of their former work in the field of developmental disabilities and because my baby would eventually be diagnosed with autism before she reached preschool age. I cross paths with these two busy octogenarians from time to time. Out shopping, at some liberal cause-function, or in a media interview spotted on the tube or in the paper. And last I check, Phil, at least was driving a Prius....

So, here's sharing and celebrating the creative endeavors of Dikkie and crew that will be premiering in Nashville's famed Ryman Auditorium, Saturday, Oct. 17, 4-6 p.m.

The Vincibles, named such because they know they are not "invincible," are a group of talented “seniors” sponsored by Health Spring’s Silver Stars. They include Phil Schoggen, Jan and Dan Rosemergy (whom I really do not consider old), Jim (“Mac”) McKanna, Keith Clayton, Carl Haywood, Dona Tapp, Janet Davies, Enid Katahn, Susan Logan and Elaine Blake. Their pianist is Barbara Santoro. (Most of them I do not know. So, I can't vouch for the "old" thing.) They will perform a medley of three original songs about aging written by Dikkie: "Where Did My Middle Age Go?," "Growing Old Gracefully," and the "Nineties Tango." (The title of the musical that Dikkie wrote, from which these songs come, is “Aging Grace: Or I Feel Like a Summer Sunshine Trapped in an Autumn Rain.”) The group is apparently one of several groups auditioning for a contest at the Ryman.

That, to me, is how I want to go down in the aging process. Vincible in age? Maybe. In spirit? I think not.

Autism & Adulthood: Taking Flight

What if?

What if our children grew up as fast as wild animals?

I wondered this today as I looked up from my laptop and spotted out in the corner of my yard five healthy teen deer. Every year I watch these beautiful beasts morph from Bambis awkwardly trailing after their sturdy mothers and the rest of her clan. I watch the turkeys, too, as they grow from large little birds into skinny feathered teens and, interestingly, just in time for Thanksgiving, massive gawky creatures who strut their way, necks leading, through my backyard. And, no, I wouldn't dream of shooting one. But, their numbers are plentiful on the nearby Natchez Trace Parkway, which was traveled frequently by my wuzband in the last years of our marriage as he commuted to and from northern Alabama and our home here. He hit one once. Accidentally, of course. He said it was akin to driving over a bowling ball.

It's a good thing our human young take a couple of decades to reach physical maturity, at least, and not the span of one year where life is perilous due to humans driving large metal machines and wielding weapons of destruction. Yes. I won't go there that the same can happen to our mortal ones. I'm just glad I have my kid around a lot longer than these mama turkeys and deer who grace my yard.

Still, someday, like the mama birds ruling the nest, I will fling my babe into the air...after much, much preparation. After a longer than usual stay in said nest. After insuring the ground is heavily padded and fortified with supports. And, I know that for my babe, I will always need to spread my wings for her shelter. That flying solo will look quite different for her than the other mama's babies. And that is okay. I have made my Peace. Long ago.

Supporting Other Writers, Authors & Nashville Moms Who Blog

Nashville Moms Who Blog, Blissdom'09

Despite 30 years in varied facets of the communications industry--public relations, newspaper, magazine, promotions, corporate communications--nothing prepared me for the bizarre world of book publishing. Just as I did when I knew I'd one day have a child and wanted to have a home-based writing business, just as I did when I divorced and knew I wanted to avoid common mistakes and go about the process in a heart-healthy wholistic manner, I plunged into my reporter research mode with the publishing industry as my subject. I sought out. I hung out. I attended. I questioned. I listened. I took copious notes.

Though my first book does not come out until next month, last month I had two friends of friends contact me for advice on the enigmatic industry. I shared what I knew, what I'd done right, pitfalls that other authors shared with me one-on-one and what I'd gathered at the slew of conferences I've attended during this five year process. (I am a seminar slut, afterall.)

Somewhere along the way, I made a personal commitment to support other writers. When it was not convenient--and as a single mother, rarely has it ever been--I showed up. I bought. I stood in line. Sometimes the signee didn't know me but I knew she was like me. Sometimes we became friends. Sometimes they were acquaintances. Sometimes they were already my bosom buds. 

In the journey toward publication, I launched into the blogosphere. And now I have a new circle of friends. Who know way more about this technology than moi. Many of us met at Blissdom08, 09 and will meet again in Blissdom'10. We've met for coffee and bagels at one of our abodes. We met for our own version of BlogHer'09 here, called MargaritHer. I'm open for discussion, but I've branded the little band of bloggers who are coming to my house on Monday: Nashville Moms Who Blog. (You see, we're all mothers, but not all of us are "Mommy Bloggers." And that's just fine.)

Community feels good. We've all been there or will be. Here's to blogging, to publishing to writing. May our communities be rich in many blessings for us all. 

Here's the original post about Monday's brunch meet up. A few mothers who work outside the home have indicated they will try to make it during their lunch hour. There will be more night time opportunities as well, or as willing people organize them. Our group Monday may be small, but I say bigger is not always better. And quality can come in small packages. My location may be a deterrent to some as well as the fact that I've used this blog and Twitter as the primary promotion vehicles. Also, I've just been plain swamped with book details. That's another good reason to get organized and so we can be more inclusive of all you great Moms Who Blog out there! And: pass it on. Share the love here. There's plenty to go around.Talk, thus far, amongst those wanting to organize is a Facebook page and also a quarterly meetup maybe with speakers. I suggest we have two day time, two night times, one of those weekend. But, we'll need passionate volunteers to take the ball and run with it. I may only be the instigator here!

Autistic-Like? And the Numbers

Special Post: I was invited by The Atlantic to comment on their article, "Behind the Autism Statistics":

While a three-ring circus of journalists led by the blogosphere, a conglomeration of government, and medical agencies and the autism community wrestled with unofficially announced CDC numbers indicating an increase in autism, a quiet revolution was taking place. A revolution led by a filmmaker-dad and an increasing number of empowered parents pushing back at labels that they claim should not and do not blanket their children.

Erik Linthorst is a soft-spoken, talented man impassioned by his family's traumatic experience of having their son sucked into a vortex beneath the autism umbrella and later finding their way out from under that broad label and bonding with a growing community of others who claim they are only "autistic-like." 

I first wrote about Linthorst here in April, including my review of his film, Autistic-Like, preceding its Nashville Film Festival showing. Eight film festival showings and a Health and Media Award increased the momentum of Erik's message. This weekend, 90 venues worldwide are showing the film--in Asia, Australia, Africa, Europe, South America, the United States and Canada.

What's not clear, because the CDC's embargoed report on an increase of autism incidence will not be released until later this year, is how children, like Erik's son, will be affected by the new numbers and also by the new Diagnostic and Statistical Manual to be updated soon as well.

Last week, The Atlantic covered the controversy of families who received an autism label that didn't fit their still differently abled child. My review of Autistic-Like is candid. And, I admit here that the three of us in our local ASMT--a Middle Tennessee autism support organization--who viewed it had mixed feelings about recommending that the Nashville Film Festival show it. (The Festival graciously gave us the option of reviewing it and recommending it be included or not.)

While we winced that the film's interviewees questioned autism incidence numbers, what we also recognized was an important message--and one that we already knew: that some children present some of the characteristics but not even enough to be diagnosed with autism, yet still maddeningly "autistic-like." What the Linthorst family unearthed in their son's profile and that of many others, and hence the ground swelling of support of the film's message, is instead a rather involved or severe sensory integration disorder (which, is also almost always a part of autism). 

Further, the scary thing to me after spending an hour over coffee with Linthorst, while he was in Nashville for the showing, is that he believes had his family not intervened so early and vigorously with their son, he would have spiraled into a valid, full blown diagnosis of autism. Which opens yet another can of worms: that of the children being diagnosed increasingly early (which is good!) but that because of early detection and thorough intervention, and by grace the right--yet unknown--combination of genes, loose that label. YET: these children are shown in studies to still manifest some sort of disorder, such as speech difficulties or learning disabilities.

What Linthorst has probably done in his personal crusade is gotten ahead of scientists in helping to parcel out a subset of autism. Or, rather of autisms (sic). (Plural.)

Regardless of what you call it...Families. Need. Help. From their state governments. From schools....And, "mild" is a misnomer. 

To Erik Linthorst, your experience may not be mine, exactly, but carry on. Carry on families of children "autistic-like." Even if it makes me and others in the autism community uncomfortable. Your voice needs to be heard. And...more Power to the Parents!

On the homefront, our book team wrestled with the situation of the confusing media reports, early week, indicating increased autism incidence figures. We went to press a week ago with our book, From Heartache to Hope: Middle Tennessee Families Living with Autism, stating that at press time the CDC's figures, as of 2007, were 1 in 150. We knew, because of the autism advocacy community that higher figures were to be released, but CDC would not state to me as a journalist and the book's author, before we went to press, what the new figures were or an exact date of their release. Our medical university advisers and ASMT, the beneficiary of our book and our team agreed we weren't going public with the information until...ahem, the fat lady in the CDC press room sang.