ASD Snapshot: Eight Crane Toilets

I am in the women's change room at the local pool. Stepping into my bathing suit, I enjoy the familiarity of the half-lockers, pocked and dented; the tiled floor, two-toned—aqua and blue—and the wooden bench where I rest my tote bag. It's odd to be back, twelve years later, to where our children learned to swim.

I think of Erik and how he struggled through swimming lessons—level one, three times. And now, nineteen, game to work out in the gym and transition to the pool, do laps and head to the hot tub. It's seamless now. It was frightening and lurching back then.

I am immersed in these thoughts, but I hear the din. Background becomes foreground, explosive, like the smashing of oversized cymbals. But what this is is a tiny girl on the move, smacking locker doors shut while her mother gets changed. The girl is naked and she is shouting, frenzied by the racket she is creating. Yelp! Bang! Yelp! Bang!

It is escalating, and I realize I've turned around, stared. Or maybe glared. The mom quiets the child. Mom is changing quickly and the child is hopping on the spot.

"There are eight Crane toilets and we are in the women’s washroom!"

Women's is accentuated. Whooped.

The mom struggles with her bra strap and snaps to the present, "Y-Yes, eight Crane toilets, Honey…and this is the women's washroom." She is patient and kind.

"There are eight Crane toilets and we are in the women’s washroom!"

My vignettes vanish as I listen. As I look. I am staring at the past. I am that mom, and the little girl is Erik. But then I notice that the naked child is not a girl; she is a he, a naked boy. A small boy stuck on repeat. A mom making conversation out of whoops and wallops, ruckus and repetition.

Autism.

It makes sense from the child's perspective.

I am a boy in the women's washroom. We have broken a rule. I shouldn't be here. This is funny!

Eight Crane toilets is what I have noticed. There are eight identical toilets; they are made by Crane. They are all in a row. Repetition is reassuring. I am saying this to comfort myself because we are breaking a gender rule.

It makes sense from the mother's perspective.

Being in public is tough but we need to participate in healthy routines. We must leave the house but there is risk involved. My child with autism is disrupting the peace, and for that I apologize, but I am moving as quickly as possible. And as he shouts about the eight Crane toilets, I try to make his observations sound clever, astonishing, regular, normal. I try to model acceptance. Dignity. Bottom line: I am grateful that he can speak. We are both doing our best. Please know that.

And of course, I do. I am her, twelve years along. I am accompanying my nineteen-year-old son to the pool to make sure it all works out okay. I am here to keep him company, to make sure he swims in his lane, to model hot tub etiquette, to direct him through the outing. He has come so far and is no longer recognizable as "eight Crane toilets" and yet, the facilitator is still here. Just in case.

As I turn the key on my locker, I feel grateful that Erik can negotiate the men's washroom on his own. I feel grateful that he no longer counts toilets and gapes at naked bodies. Perhaps he notices both but now it is different. He is self-aware and discrete. He knows the rules.

I smile toward the mom and I nod. If only she knew. If only I could give her a hug and tell her to keep going and that her unflinching devotion is amazing and that it will all turn out.

But I don't. The clanging and the chirping recede as I head toward the washrooms. I count the bathroom stalls. Eight. I check out the toilets. Crane. Of course. I had never noticed either but now I will never forget. Autism is like that. You suddenly see.

Exiting the change room, I hear it for the last time, the sing-song voice, "Eight Crane toilets and we are in the women’s washroom!" I replay it as I swim in my lane. Eight Crane toilets and we have journeyed so far.

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Points to Ponder: What might surprise the public about autism? Everything makes sense from the perspective of autism. There is logic behind “strange behaviour.” All behaviour is communication. To support a family member with autism takes an incredible amount of thought and scaffolding. Environment drives behaviour and determines outcomes.

Teresa Hedley is the author of What’s Not Allowed? A Family Journey with Autism (Wintertickle Press, 2020), a memoir which offers an uplifting approach to mining the best version of each of us, autism or not. Teresa is also an educator and a curriculum designer. Teaching stints in Canada, Japan, Greece, Spain and Germany have shaped her perspective and inform her writing. Teresa and son Erik co-wrote a twenty-article series for Autism Matters magazine, “I Have Autism and I Need Your Help.” Additionally, Teresa worked directly with families and school boards in Ottawa as an autism consultant and advocate. She and her family live and play on Vancouver Island, Canada.

"Pure brilliance...Often funny, yet serious at its root, this book is a portrayal of how love and compassion overcome percentiles and projection."

–TELAH MORRISON, Colonel, OMM, CD, Director Military Family Service, Canadian Armed Forces; Ottawa, ON, Canada