Daily Mail, Friday, August 16, 2019 Page 7wheel of the car, or broke their leg
on a country walk, my sons would
have no idea what to do.
Sam speaks very little. He under-
stands much of what is said to
him, but would not be able to give
any useful information to a police-
man or passer-by. Sam’s variant of
autism means that he is socially
isolated. He does not recognise
that other human beings are
sources of help or comfort.
Equally, he does not know that
humans could be dangerous. Hehas no concept of ‘stranger danger’
because, as far as I can tell, he
has no way of defining what a
stranger is.
George, by contrast, speaks
clearly. He is relatively sociallyactive. He forms strong attach-
ments to people. Unlike Sam, he
does know that people help him.
In fact, he’s wholly reliant on help
and will, for instance, carry on
brushing his teeth until somebodytells him to stop. But he would put
his trust in anyone, would get into
any vehicle at anyone’s request,
would swallow any drug that he
was offered.
In the event of emergency,
George’s clear speech and large
vocabulary would be of little use,
because he only talks about the
things that he wants to talk about:
pop music, modes of transport,
eye colour.
I worry, of course I do, but most
of the time, I can put the ‘what
ifs?’ out of my mind. Disasters are,
after all, very rare.
Day after day, my sons are
delivered home safe and well. But
when something like Nora’s disap-
pearance happens, I am sharply
reminded that, when it comes
down to it, they rely on me to make
decisions that will keep them safe,
almost as much as they did on the
day of their births.
What’s difficult for anyone who’s
never experienced life with a
special needs child to understand
is that it can be so hard to know
when something is wrong.
You won’t be told there’s a
problem, either because your child
can’t express themselves, they
haven’t identified the problem or
— and this is especially true with
autism — because they don’t know
their parent doesn’t already know.G
EorGE regards me
as omnipotent and
omniscient. He will
endure a discomfort — a
blister, an insect bite — in silence,
waiting for me to do something
about it, because he assumes that
I am also experiencing what he
is experiencing.
Nora had been on many family
holidays before. Her parents knew,
from observation, that she was
very unlikely to wander off. I would
say the same about George who
always likes to know where I
am and stays within my orbit.
And while it’s been many
years since I’ve had to make
the nerve-racking decision
about how long I could wait for
Sam to return before calling
the police (who, I have to say,
were always extremely helpful
and non-judgmental), there is
still no certainty.
My observations of both my
sons right now tell me that they
won’t wander, but things can
suddenly change. We need to
be brave.
We’d more or less given up on
travelling with George and Sam,
because the difficulties seemed
so great. But last year we took
them to Glen Affric in the
Scottish Highlands, to the wild
and beautiful remains of the
ancient Caledon Forest.
The trip, with a special needs
group, was meticulously planned
and risk-assessed — and involved
a lot of help — but nevertheless, it
was a big step into the unknown.
As a test of our nerve and
resourcefulness, it was well worth
it. We came home with a new con-
fidence as to what was possible.
Nora Quoirin was inexpressibly
precious to her parents. Her death
reminded me, with a stab, of how
deeply I love my sons, how
important their ‘otherness’ is in
enlarging my understanding
of life.
If I were to lose either of them,
nothing would ever be the same.
But the dreadful tragedy that
befell the Quoirins remains highly
unusual and extremely unlucky.
Taking Nora to Malaysia was an
extension of their love for her, to
continue the enrichment of shared
experience that was at the heart of
their life as a family.
My heart goes out to them.
n George And Sam by Charlotte
Moore (Penguin, £9.99).W
HEN my son Sam
was a small child,
he would often
disappear. I never
knew why. Sam hadinscrutable plans; he seemed to
be in search of something, but
he couldn’t, or didn’t, tell us
what. Sometimes he set off, on
his own, from the house.
If I locked the doors, he would find a
window to climb out of. other times
we’d be out on a walk, when Sam —
strong, fit and very fast — would simply
run off.
The worst time was during a trip to
Hereford, a town he didn’t know. After a
couple of hours of frantic searching, the
police found Sam dancing on the bank
of the fast-flowing river Wye.
He’s a grown, 27-year-old man now,
but I can still recall every slow ticking
minute of that fear.
Every parent, of course, dreads the
disappearance of a child more than
anything else. But when your child has
no means of seeking help, of extricating
themselves from a difficult situation, or
even of understanding that they are in
danger in the first place, that fear is
beyond measure.
For Sam has autism, with associated
learning difficulties, as does his older
brother George, who’s 29.
I can hardly bear to think, therefore, of
how poor Nora Quoirin’s parents felt
when they entered her hotel room,
nearly two weeks ago, and found her
empty bed.
Nora was 15, and while her learning
difficulties were completely different to
those of Sam and George — with limited
communication and comprehension —
like them, she was as vulnerable as
an infant.
While most parents can take small
comfort from knowing that brushes
with danger might, eventually, teach
children life lessons, Sam and George
never will.
When little Sam disappeared he was
never, in his opinion, lost and therefore
he was never frightened. It was I who
had lost him.
Y
oU can understand why
some parents of children
with special needs might
retreat from the world, to
keep them safely at home for their
whole lives, making sure they are
cleaned, fed and watered, but not
much else. Like the Quoirins, I could
never do that.
At times it can be immensely chal-
lenging. They have an extensive time-
table to keep them physically and
mentally healthy: art, music, swim-
ming, cycling, golf, trampolining,
shopping, socialising (up to a point)
in cafes or visiting people at home.
To enable all this to happen, I place
great trust in a great many people
who look after them. I have to; the
alternative would be to have my sons
sitting about at home all day,
physically safe, but vegetating.
Every morning, in a sense, I send
them off into the unknown. I close
my mind to possible disasters.
The caregivers are all cheery,
resourceful people who have George
and Sam’s best interests at heart,
but if — God forbid — one of the
carers had a heart attack at the
Facing day-to-day
challenges: Charlotte
and her sons George
(left) and SamI know the
unique
agony when
a child with
special needs
vanishes
COMMENTARY
by Charlotte
Moore
A mother’s heartfelt sympathy
for a family shattered by grief
Picture: ANDREW SHAW