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His Brother’s Keeper

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It is a cold snowy afternoon, and the boys have just finished doing their homework. George – eleven years old now and as tall as me – is sitting on the couch trying not to cry. I am on the floor with my back up against the couch, holding his foot in my lap. I start ministering to his sore toe as gently as I can, knowing that no matter how hard I try, it’s going to hurt.

For the last couple of weeks, George has been plagued by an ingrown toenail. He was at the doctor earlier in the week – a feat in itself for this boy with autism who finds doctors to be mysterious and scary – and I am carefully following the care-and-cleaning instructions that I have been given.

He tries so hard to be brave as I clean and bathe his toe, but he cannot help getting distressed. As he cries out in pain, James suddenly appears in front of us. James – nine years old and full of energy – is just in from throwing snow in the back yard. His gaze moves from his brother on the couch to me on the floor surrounded by First Aid supplies.

“I want to do it,” he says.

“You want to do what?” I ask, not understanding.

“George’s toe,” he says. “I want to do it. George is my brother. I’m the one who gets to take care of him.”

I regard my son, blown away yet again by how much love and compassion is within him. I think about the practicalities of him dressing George’s toe and how I have already been kicked several times during these First Aid sessions. I don’t want James to get hurt.

But my Spidey-sense is telling me to listen to James. I switch places with him, and following my instructions, he calmly takes care of George’s toe. George is still crying but he is visibly less distressed. Maybe James’s small, light fingers are gentler than mine. Or maybe George is responding to the love of his brother.

James uses a little bit too much of the antiseptic lotion, and the dressing and bandage are a little haphazardly applied. But none of that matters next to the waves of kindness that are radiating from James.

With the job done, James gently kisses the newly applied bandage and gets onto the couch.

“You’re my George,” he says, wrapping his arms around his brother.

This is an original post by Kirsten Doyle. Photo credit to the author.

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Band-Aids and Autism: How my Son Saved the Day

Several nights ago, right after lecturing my younger son James about keeping fingers away from sharp objects, I sliced my thumb open on the lid of a freshly opened can of tuna.

I made a run for the bathroom and held my profusely-bleeding hand over the sink while James trailed in saying, “Mommy, you really should learn to be more careful.”

I really should, indeed. I’m not at all sure how this even happened. What I do know is that the amount of blood was startling. It was a deep cut, right across the soft padded part of my thumb. I wasn’t really sure what to do about it. I had a full box of Band-Aids, but I didn’t think they would do a great job of stemming the flow. I was out of gauze pads, and George had surreptitiously used up all of my surgical tape to stick bits of paper to other bits of paper.

As I stood at the bathroom sink stupidly watching my blood go down the drain, George – eight years old and autistic – came in with the box of Band-Aids, that he had gotten out of the cupboard without anyone asking him to. He started unwrapping Band-Aids and wrapping them around my thumb. They were instantly getting soaked, but George kept at it, adding Band-Aids down the entire length of my thumb. Eventually, my thumb was trussed up in about twenty Band-Aids. It looked absolutely ridiculous, but the bleeding was contained.

George then added an extra-special touch: he took my hand, and lightly kissed my Band-Aided thumb.

It’s hard to say what aspect of this whole incident is most significant.

George, autism and all, responded immediately and appropriately to what he saw as an emergency. This child, who gets totally freaked out at the sight of blood, showed no more than a little bit of mild distress. He managed to stay completely calm as he bandaged me up. He quietly took charge of the situation in a way that astounded me. The kiss demonstrated tenderness and empathy – just the kind of bedside manner that someone with a fresh injury needs.

It makes me think that I should start teaching him First Aid. If this incident is anything to go by, George seems to have that instinct of calmly wanting to help when someone gets hurt. It could serve us well to empower him to help in situations like this, starting on a small scale, of course. I wouldn’t expect my eight-year-old to perform CPR, but if he had the tools to handle minor First Aid emergencies, that could be good not only for his potential patients, but for himself.

Do you think George’s response to this situation might be evidence of some instinct that he naturally has? What opportunities do you think might arise from this?

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/honan/3779689068/)