10/17/97

The Power of Attachment

A oneway mirror covered one wall of the small room.  Visitors sat behind it to observe developmental evaluations, which took place every Friday at this school for handicapped toddlers and preschool children. 

Today's evaluation involved a three year old boy, Henry, who had been uprooted as an infant, taken from an abusive mother and placed in foster care.  The supervising Family Services Agency referred him to us because his third foster mother, like the foster parents before her, could not make emotional contact with him.  No one had heard him utter a single word; in fact he scarcely made any sounds at all.  If injured, he sometimes produced an eerie cry, a wail without tears.

On the afternoon of the evaluation Henry, a slender boy with huge blue eyes and white blond hair, took my hand limply, and accompanied me to a small table in the middle of the room.  He watched closely and accurately imitated my actions with blocks, crayons and other manipulatives used for cognitive assessment, but did not vocalize or respond to sound.  When the speech therapist called his name from another part of the room he showed no reaction whatsoever.  We began to wonder whether he could hear.

While other evaluators interacted with Henry, I left the room to watch from behind the oneway mirror.  When his back was to the mirror and he was engrossed in play, I purposely slammed the door.  Everyone in the room flinched except Henry.   

Medical records indicated that brainstem testing had ruled out deafness, but anecdotal reports consistently raised questions about his hearing.  One neurologist had told Henry's caretakers that emotional trauma can severely impair a child's development.  "Henry may never talk," he said.

Following the evaluation, Henry was enrolled in our preschool program, where he received speech therapy five days per week.  The first communication breakthrough occurred between Henry and the classroom teacher.  She had brought in a basket of large, floppy hats, decorated with feathers and colorful ribbons.  She engaged Henry in a simple game of trying on each hat, first on his head, then on hers.  He smiled at her each time he saw a hat on her head.  She reciprocated, with a big smile and exaggerated preening.  Next she held up a large mirror so Henry could see himself in one of the hats.  He took one look and burst out laughing, the first time any of us had ever heard him laugh.  This game went on for weeks, much to the amusement of everyone in the school.  He refused to play "hats" with anyone but his teacher.

Henry's class visited another preschool class each week to promote interaction between the special needs children and more typically developing three-year olds.  Bess, the school cook, who absolutely adored the children and they her, served them lunch family style.  Every day she greeted each of them by name, delivered with a warm smile and hug.  Henry submitted to her hugs, but otherwise just watched her in his quiet, solemn way.  She told us that the sadness she sensed under his reserve broke her heart.

At lunchtime during one of the weekly visits, the children were passing bowls of food around for their individual helpings, when Henry accidentally dropped the applesauce, half in his lap, the other half on the floor.  Everyone looked at Henry; Henry stared at Bess.  Moments into the silence, tears filled his eyes and began to spill down his cheeks.  Bess went over, sat down on the floor beside him, and gathered him onto her lap.  He nestled into her comforting arms and wept.

Everyone felt overjoyed, but no one more so than Bess who could hardly wait to get home to tell her husband the news.  She had been talking with him about Henry for weeks.  Bess and Henry's attachment visibly strengthened after that, while in the background, she and her husband requested guardianship and began adoption proceedings.  They wanted Henry to know they were making a permanent commitment to him, to be his parents forever.  Shortly after the adoption papers went through, Henry started talking. 

Please send questions or comments to bbruno@snet.net.