TreeHouse (London)

Setting Anmol free

Racing cars hurtled across the floor, smashing into my skirting board. Books, toy soldiers and the contents of board games spilled over the furniture. I could hardly hear above the noise of the children playing in my living room. But there was no sign of my little boy, Anmol. Finally, I found him sitting behind the curtain, staring out of the window. “Don’t you want to play with the others?” I asked gently. Anmol didn’t answer. He was two and had just started nursery.

He wasn’t speaking yet, so I’d invited some of the other children home to play, thinking it would bring him out of himself more. “Do you think he’s OK?” I asked my husband Inder. “Of course he is,” he smiled reassuringly. “Meheq was late to speak too, remember?” Our daughter was two years older than Anmol, and a chatterbox. But she’d been as quiet as our son when she was his age. So I pushed the doubts away and focused on enjoying my gorgeous children.

Meheq was bright and funny and Anmol was so loving, always wanting a hug or to sit on my knee. But he’d always look straight past me, ignoring everything I said. Then one afternoon the nursery teacher was waiting for me. “I think you should see your doctor,” she suggested. “Maybe there’s something wrong with Anmol.” I swallowed, nervous. So she’d noticed something different about my son too?

Diagnosis

We took him to see a paediatrician. Doctors carried out lots of tests, but the months went by without any diagnosis. Finally, the nursery teacher handed me a wad of papers. “I’ve written a report,” she said. “I think Anmol’s autistic.”

Her words winded me. Deep down, it’s what I’d suspected – the silence, the lack of eye contact. But I’d kept hoping he’d suddenly begin to speak. Now I’d have to face the possibility he might never talk. Inder was upset too. We were scared mostly. We didn’t know anything about autism. The only autistic person I’d ever seen was Dustin Hoffman in the film, Rain Man. Our son was nothing like that. But the doctor confirmed it.

For a split second, I couldn’t breathe. Right then at that moment, he died. All the hopes I’d had for my son, all the things he was going to do – football, girls, college, a career, marriage – it all vanished.

I won’t let it define him, I thought. I wanted the best for my little boy. It hurt so much. But we couldn’t let him down. So we threw ourselves into doing everything to help our little boy. Anmol couldn’t speak, and we didn’t know if he understood us. But I wanted to get through to him. I was his mum. I wasn’t going to leave him trapped in his own little world.

We found out about a teaching system for autistic children in the US called ABA – applied behavioural analysis. It was about showing Anmol how to do everything. He didn’t understand any of what we were saying, so we’d spend hours saying and showing him the most basic of instructions.

“Come here, Anmol,” I’d urge while Inder led him to me. The repetition helped him begin to understand what we meant. We’d also teach him to sign so we could find a way to ‘talk’, even if he couldn’t speak. Every day Inder and I would practise all we’d learned. Slowly, Anmol responded. He’d come when I called him and sit at a table so we could eat or play with a toy. Maybe that doesn’t sound a lot, but to us, it was a huge achievement.

But there wasn’t a nursery near us which knew the system. So I stayed home and taught him, along with private teachers. It was exhausting and we couldn’t get it financed, so we had to pay for it all ourselves. It meant we couldn’t afford holidays, nights outs, new clothes or treats. Over two years we spent £20,000 – all the money we had. But it was for Anmol, so was worth it. Any mum would do the same.

The only problem was our daughter, Meheq. We’d always been open about her little brother. But one morning when she saw me, Inder, and all the specialist teachers around him, she exploded. “I wish I was autistic,” she screamed, throwing down her school bag. “I want to stay home with you too.”

She struggled to understand. She was only 6 and jealous of all the attention Anmol was getting. Slowly, she learned what autism meant and why there was nothing to be jealous of, but it was hard for her.

Life Lessons

As Anmol grew we faced a different battle – where to send him to school. We wanted one that would carry on all the work we started. No one did ABA. And then we found TreeHouse in Muswell Hill, London, not far from our Wembley home. It was a small school which had been set up by four parents with autistic children 12 years ago.

It was perfect, but we couldn’t afford it. The local education authority refused to fund it. I wasn’t giving in though. Eventually, they agreed to help, and Anmol started at TreeHouse just after his fifth birthday. I was excited as well as nervous. How would he cope?

I needn’t have worried. Anmol loved it. There were only 20 children there, and the teaching was one-on-one. His lessons were worked out specifically for his needs. He couldn’t study geography, history or maths but he learned to communicate. His signing developed, as did his speech.

I was so excited when he said ‘brea’ for bread. He also learned how to point to pictures in a special book so he can ask for what he wants. TreeHouse has been amazing. They even came to my house to help me toilet train Anmol.

Anmol used to be scared of colour. He would only eat white food – bread, pasta and rice. But over time they taught him to eat vegetables, sauces and now he loves guacamole, fruit and salad.

He is 14 now and still at TreeHouse. He has learned to brush his own teeth, apply deodorant and lets us comb his hair. Being autistic means everything is a major battle for Anmol to understand and learn. But he’s learning life skills – things that help him become part of the world and not imprisoned in his own.

The other day Anmol made, then ate, his own sandwich. I couldn’t have been prouder. He’s growing up fast – at 5ft 6ins he’s taller than me now. He loves Michael Jackson music and going with his dad to watch Arsenal play football. He’s made so much progress and is happy.

In some ways, I’m lucky. Lots of autistic children hate being touched but Anmol is still very loving, always wanting hugs. He’s learning to type on a laptop too – simple words like cat and dog. Eventually he’ll be able to write sentences and read a book online. These are all things I didn’t think possible when he was diagnosed.

Anmol can stay on at TreeHouse until he’s 19. I do worry about the future after that. But I’m not as scared as I used to be. I’ve seen how well he’s done and hope one day he’ll be able to live a semi-independent life. We’re so grateful for TreeHouse. At one point I feared I’d have a breakdown knowing my son was autistic. Now I love him for everything he is – and that’s a very special, loving son.

Website: TreeHouse.org.uk