The Horse Father

Parents learn about the possibility of "healing" their child from autism and, against numerous odds, undertake a long journey to a faraway place on behalf of their child who, after numerous difficulties, shows small signs of "improvement" and, in time, "improves" to the point that he has friends, has age-appropriate academic skills, talks, no longer tantrums, and is, it could be said, "healed."

Sound familiar?

So many books by parents of autistic children follow this basic narrative that you could say they comprise a genre: Parents of autistic child seek far and wide for answers, find someone (a talented therapist, a biomedical practitioner, etc.) or something or some place that promises a shred of hope, go after that someone/thing or go to that place, and the hoped-for miracle ensues: The child gets better. "Autism" fades into the background.

The Horse Boy: A Father's Quest to Heal His Son by Rupert Isaacson is the latest addition to this genre. When the book was published back in April, publishers were predicting that the book would be a bestseller. It's gotten a great deal of press, though the book hasn't made the New York Times bestseller list. Most of the attention on The Horse Boy: A Father's Quest to Heal His Son seems to derive from the novelty of its subject matter.

The content alone---parents take autistic boy to Mongolia where he is "healed" by shamans and rides horses---is certainly a bit different from the usual stuff of books about autism by parents. At the core of The Horse Boy: A Father's Quest to Heal His Son, or at least at the core of Isaacson's sorrow about Rowan's diagnosis of autism at a young age is that his son will not be able to do the things that he loves to do. For Isaacson, this means riding horses; in the early chapters of the book, Isaacson writes about how riding horses saved him during his difficult teenage years. Noting Rowan's direct affinity with a neighbor's horse, Betsy, he thinks:

He's got it. He's got the horse gene. But he's autistic. I'll never be able to share it with him. Never be able to teach him to ride. Never share this joy with my son.

It's stunning how wrong a parent can be. (p. 22)

After noting how Rowan---who's struggling on all fronts, while and after doing ABA, chelation, special ed preschool, supplements---seems to connect with Betsy, a neighbor's horse, Isaacson starts taking his son on long rides (starting in chapter 3, whose title is "The Horse Boy"). Rowan talks more on these rides (p. 37, 52) and clearly loves to be out in open air, in movement. Often it seems that riding Betsy is the only way to calm Rowan from terrible tantrums.

Reading about Rowan on Betsy, I was reminded of very much as my son Charlie riding his bike with Jim. Charlie doesn't simply like to be in motion. He not only craves motion, he needs it. He can sit still for long periods of time when he's interested in something, but he often seems most relaxed, calm, and focused when moving. Many a parent of a child on the spectrum has noted that the rides in the car, and long rides at that, were the only way to stop a child from crying. Long rides on Betsy in the country in Texas are the equivalent for Rowan. Charlie's often at his most peaceful when he's in motion due to his own efforts.

Certainly it's not the norm to read about shamanistic healing ceremonies involving chanting, drumming, whippings (of the parents and of the child, though the shamans seem to have been less intense about delivering these to Rowan), and a great deal more (pp. 84-97). I'm about halfway through the book and so far the parts that most intrigue me are when Isaacson first puts Rowan on Betsy, and they learn to ride. There is plenty that's hair-raising, including the time they fall off Betsy and Isaacson manages to get his body under Rowan's to cushion him (pp. 40-42). I very much got the sense that it was on these rides when Isaacson "broke all the rules" about riding because he "had to" (p. 31) that some kind of bond was forged between father and son, learning to ride together.

Indeed, the scenes when Issaacson and Rowan fall off Betsey reminded me of some of Jim's and Charlie's bike-ride adventures, including the time Jim turned around and didn't see Charlie riding behind him on a trail. He did hear Charlie calling "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy"---Charlie (who was about eight years old) had somehow gone off the trail and into some shallow water, with his bike on top of him. Jim leapt off his bike and raced down an embankment and got to Charlie and later on told me how his heart started racing when he didn't see Charlie on the trail.

They were up and riding again the next day, just as Isaacson got Rowan back onto Betsy. All those rides must have made traveling on horseback, even in a totally foreign place---Mongolia---something familiar for Rowan, used to riding with his father for many miles. And as glorious as it must have been to be riding in Mongolia (how we'd love to take Charlie bike-riding 'round the world; so far, he's only ridden once---in Golden Gate Park---outside of New Jersey), it's Rowan's connecting to animals and riding and riding with his father that seem a big part of the book, as in so many books by parents of autistic children, trying to find a way to connect about the things they love, with someone they love very much.