The Real World of Autism: The Refrigerator Mother Club

by Chantal Sicile-Kira

It happens to us all. At some point or another, we become members of a club we never dreamed of joining. Membership is bestowed on us whether we want it or not. Take the Getting Old Club. No one wants to join this one, and membership is not bestowed upon you graciously as it is for prestigious country clubs. Those kinds of clubs usually send an a distinguished Board Member to call on you after having received your application including references from 2 club members in good standing and a check for half your net worth. “Hello, Winthrop Hamilton III here. May I please speak to Joe Smith. I’d like to extend an invitation to you to join the Silver Woods Country Club. You’ve been nominated by two of our illustrious club members.”

Membership to the clubs you don’t want to join are gradual and kind of creep up on you so that you become a member without even noticing it. When you are in the Getting Old Club, you wake up feeling stiff and your joints are creaky. You realize that supermarket checkout clerks refer to you as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ and insist you need help out to the car with your two bags of groceries. However, membership in this club is preferable to the alternative: membership in the Six Feet Under Club where relatives can come and visit you at your last resting place whenever they please and stay as long as they like.

I never wanted to be a member of the Refrigerator Mother Club, but I found myself in it none the less. We were living in Paris at the time, and my son who was born there was showing autistic tendencies early on. My indoctrination was quick and my membership was short. “Your son is not showing autistic tendencies,” the medical professional told me, “He is just showing ‘troubles de comportment (troubles in behaving). You must take him to see a psychoanalyst.”

Having taught autistic adolescents as well as counseled parents of developmentally disabled children in America before using those same skills to teach French executives business English, I was familiar with the effective methods of helping children with autism. Although I was raised bilingual and bicultural in Ohio and New York by my French parents, I wasn’t familiar with was the apparent cultural differences in medical treatment in general and in diagnosing and treating autism specifically.

Although most countries at the time recognized autism as a developmental disability, it was still considered a mental illness in Paris, with psychoanalysis being the only treatment on offer. I knew from my professional experience in the states that psychoanalysis was not going to do my non-verbal autistic baby any good, but my philosophy is when in Paris do as the Parisians do. So I decided to go ahead and take Jeremy to see a psychoanalyst. Besides, the ‘Powers That Be’ were threatening to cut off the little help I was getting for my son unless I followed the prescribed ‘treatment’ of psychoanalysis.

The first time I went with my son, the psychoanalyst opened the door and bid us come in. Seeing me visibly shudder as I saw shelves full of books by Bettlehiem (father of the “refrigerator mother” theory of autism, which blamed cold, unloving mothers for their child’s autism) she immediately stated that she did not follow or necessarily believe Bettlehiem’s theories, but read him. She said that, knowing I was raised in America, I was probably not in agreement with him and probably followed more the behavioral theories, but that did not fit into the French mentality. The psychoanalyst was right, the French are much too individualistic and emotional to stick to a reinforcement schedule. Think about it: a country which has it’s roots in existentialist philosophy and believes that your destiny is predetermined at birth, and that ‘Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose’ – ‘The more it changes the more it stays the same’ is not a country that believes that writing up behavioral goals and objectives is going to change one’s pre-ordained lot in life.

The third and last time I visited the analyst’s office with my son, my husband came with me. Our little boy, Jeremy, picked up a pair of rounded toy salt and pepper shakers and their holder, an exact replica of those you find on cafe tables. Jeremy stared at the rounded salt and pepper shakers as he rocked to and fro back and forth, seemingly impervious to all going on around him. He held them tight and twirled one of the shakers, concentrating.

“You are spinning that object. Why are you spinning the object?” the psychoanalyst asked my son.
‘Because he likes to spin things, obviously’, I thought, trying to count how many copies of the Bruno Bettelheim books were on the shelf. My husband (Jeremy’s father) glanced at his watch, wondering how we had gotten roped into this.
“There are two of them. Two round objects. Do they remind you of your mother’s breasts, Jeremy?” asked the psychoanalyst. She then turns to me and inquired, “Madame Sicile-Kira, did you breastfeed Jeremy?”
“Yes, I did,” I replied, alarm bells going off in my head. At this point I felt as if I were a character in a Woody Allen movie and I knew just how the rest of the scene would play out. “For how long?” questioned the psychoanalyst asked me
“About four months.” I replied.
Suddenly, one of the shakers fell out of the holder in Jeremy’s hands, dropped onto the wooden floor and rolled under a piece of furniture.
“Oh, you’ve lost one, “you’ve lost one of your mother’s breasts,” cried the psychoanalyst. I instinctively clutched my breast to make sure they were still there. They were. Both of them. I could not look at my husband; I knew we would both burst out laughing.
“And was it a difficult separation?”, the psychoanalyst asked.

“No I don’t think so, not to my recollection. Everything went smoothly,” I replied.
“Oh look” cried the psychoanalyst, observing Jeremy crawling past the psychoanalyst chasing after the missing shaker. “He is searching, he is looking for the lost breast, his mother’s breast.” cried the analyst. “Oh he has found it” said the analyst, relief in her voice.

I, on the other hand was extremely thrilled, but not because my son had found my lost breast. I was happy because this was the first time my son had gone looking for an object that had disappeared out of his sight. As child development experts know (including mothers), this is an important stage which my son should have reached months ago and had not entered until now.

I never received a bill for this particular session, nor did the psychoanalyst’s office ever call me back for another appointment. I can only fathom that the psychoanalyst quickly realized that I wasn’t going to accept membership into the Refrigerator Mother Club; no matter how tempting it was to find something to blame for my son’s autism.