English speakers use aspiration -- the tiny bursts of breath accompanying speech sounds -- to distinguish sounds such as "pa" and "ta" from unaspirated sounds such as "ba" and "da." Study participants heard eight repetitions of these four syllables while inaudible air puffs -- simulating aspiration -- were directed at the back of the hand or the neck. When the subjects -- 66 men and women -- were asked to distinguish the syllables, it was found that syllables heard simultaneously with air puffs were more likely to be perceived as aspirated, causing the subjects to mishear "ba" as the aspirated "pa" and "da" as the aspirated "ta." The brain associated the air puffs felt on skin with aspirated syllables, interfering with perception of what was actually heard. It is unlikely aspirations are felt on the skin, say the researchers. The phenomenon is more likely analogous to lip-reading where the brain's auditory cortex area activates when the eyes see lips move, signaling speech. From the brain's point of view, you are "hearing" with your eyes [my emphasis]. "Our study shows we can do the same with our skin, "hearing" a puff of air, regardless of whether it got to our brains through our ears or our skin," says Gick.It's not only our ears that are involved in interpreting what gets said, but our eyes. Though the researchers discount that we can feel the air puffs caused by human speech, it's an intriguing thought, especially in light of the sensory disturbances, even scrambling, that Charlie seems to experience; of his difficulties in regulating sensory input and in communicating when he's had too much.
Some sort of sensory over-disturbance may be, Jim and I think, why--on Wednesday morning, after a pleasant ride to school---just as we turned onto the main street leading to the big autism center, Charlie banged the back of his head on his seat and went, for lack of a better expression, berserk, crying out, thrashing around, moaning and then, as we pulled into the bus line and stopped the car, sobbing with his head down. We sat quietly with him in the car. While he was still upset when an aide appeared and walked him in, Charlie had a decent day at school.
Jim and I divined the culprit to be a certain soul music CD that Charlie had repeatedly been requesting for several days.
We've been working on having him listen to different CDs and for a day or two, Charlie had a nice little rotation going. Then, as tends to happen with him, many choices devolved into either one or two CDs, with Charlie insisting that these be turned as loud as we'd allow. Indeed, on Wednesday morning, he wanted the CD turned on really loud. Jim and I only turned the music up so far, but Charlie must have reached some kind of maximum threshold with the music, which was giving him not so much a buzz as, possibly?, a pain in the head, literally?
I stuck the CD deep into the depths of the CD case. When I picked up Charlie after school, he flipped around among all the CDs and then said "all done." I responded that, yes, we'd had to put away the soul CD. Charlie handed me the other CD he'd been asking for over and over and I told him that we'd listened to it plenty. He found another one and I skipped around to three songs randomly, and he didn't object. On another ride later in the day, after hearing a few songs on two of the same CDs, I told Charlie that he had to find a different one. He kept flipping through the CD case and giving me the same two over and over and, when I requested that he find a different one, he zipped the case shut.
We'd like to work on Charlie choosing a broad array of CDs. Maybe we can alternate him choosing and us choosing, and only listen to a few songs on each, and shuffle the order, and throw in some radio music, too. I suspect we often are a little slow on the uptake to get Charlie to change some of his obsessive requests because he seems happy to have them fulfilled, until too many repetitions gets to him. Charlie, at this moment, is still figuring out how to regulate when sensory sensations go from pleasurable to painful and there's disturbance.
Certainly Charlie's always struggled, sometimes subtly, to coordinate his mind and body. This was first most apparent to us when Charlie was a non-toddling toddler trying to figure out how to walk; his big head and long legs and body didn't help. Indeed, thinking over the slow process of teaching Charlie to walk (Jim used to get Charlie to move his legs while hanging onto the stroller, which Jim would pull little but little away from Charlie until he was, to his laughing surprise, walking! and without holding on), the fact that Charlie's become so adept a bicycle rider seems like a more than minor miracle to me.
Something less of a miracle, but a very pleasant turn of events, has been seeing Charlie's willingness to write. Yesterday it occurred to me that he should write the date and day of the week everyday, so we did that (why does Wednesday have to be such a long word?). And then, because Charlie had gone swimming at school (though alas, only in the 4-foot wading pool), I wrote "I like swimming" and he wrote it, too (and did a particularly nice job on the word "swimming").
On reading Emily's post about homeschooling her son TH and having him say the answers to some questions rather than writing them out ("I think a great deal of his weariness with school has to do with the pain--literally--of writing. For assignments in which written composition is integral, he will usually be typing," as Emily wrote), I couldn't help but thinking how regulating--sensory input, mind and body coordination, mind and hand and language coordination---is a common theme in many of our children's learning, and how their attempts to manage all of these can be "literally" painful, physically, mentally, and otherwise.
And about how, by thinking and doing differently, there can be a little more understanding. And learning. And even, fun.