by Jo Bailey
I couldn’t help but smile. Bless my little Sam, talking about his friend and all the dramas we’d had with Chester. And then the doctors called to me – they’d had an idea. Since Sam still struggled with his speech, but excelled with his drawing, what if he illustrated how he was feeling for them?
It was a great idea. I fetched paper and Sam’s treasured collection of felt-tip pens.
‘Sam, can you draw some pictures of yourself, and describe each one to me?’ asked the nurse.
Without any hesitation, Sam got to work. The channels of communication had been opened thanks to Chester, and now Sam was trying to tell them how he was feeling through his artwork. I nervously stepped away, leaving them alone for the second time, though every now and again I would pop my head around the kitchen door to see how he was doing. And Sam was calm, he was speaking, and he was trying to do the best job he could with his pictures. I felt a little bit of hope spark inside me.
An hour later, they finally emerged.
‘Look at this amazing drawing Sam has done,’ the nurse said as she rolled the artwork across the carpet.
Sam had drawn five faces, and written a word underneath each one. My face fell as I saw that three of them were negative: Silly. Stupid. Sad.
It shouldn’t have come as a shock, considering how down he was on himself, but seeing his simple self-portraits really emphasised his lack of confidence. My poor boy, I thought.
I looked to the nurse for reassurance.
‘This is great,’ she said brightly, beaming at me. She told me it was a very positive sign that Sam was communicating his feelings so well. She told me I wasn’t to worry about how negative they might seem.
As Sam headed back out into the garden to see Chester, his running steps seeming lighter already, the women brought their visit to an end. They told me that they would be keeping a close eye on Sam but from what they had witnessed, and from what Sam had communicated to them, there was no imminent danger. It was such a relief to hear trained professionals tell me that.
As they left, I felt as though a weight was lifting from my shoulders. I went to Sam’s bedroom window again and watched Sam and Will playing with the pig. Sam seemed calmer and happier in his own skin. He wasn’t flickering his hands in front of his face, and from that point on he seemed less anxious to be alone.
It wasn’t an overnight recovery, but once Sam had expressed how he was feeling to the mental-health workers, he started to improve. And the catalyst for it all had been Chester. Talking about his pig had opened up Sam’s channels of communication again. Just as Sam had rescued Chester when he’d been ill and close to death, Chester had reciprocated by rescuing Sam from the dark place he’d found himself in.
I owed so much to that pig.
As July crept into August, Sam was able to go and see Chester on his own once more. I’d spy on him from the top of the garden as he fed his friend pignuts and tickled his tummy with the broom, just to reassure myself he was OK. And, when I glanced across the lawn to see Darren also looking up from his veg patch and gazing thoughtfully at the two friends, I could tell that he was thinking the same thing as me: we were so lucky Sam had Chester in his life.
Bit by bit, day by day, all the tension that had been building over the past few months eased. Sam was now happy to walk around the house by himself and he would play in his bedroom if Will was there too. The last thing to come was sleeping in his own bed at night – but he was getting there. When he did make it through the night in his own bed again, we made such a fuss over him and I bought him a little present as a reward.
By the time it came to starting secondary school in September 2014, Sam was almost back to his usual self. He still wouldn’t sleep without the lights on, but he’d made an incredible recovery.
In fact, as the big first day approached, he seemed a lot calmer than I was – though, of course, I didn’t let on. This next stage for Sam was a landmark, and I’m not ashamed to admit that, like many mothers, I found myself a bit concerned about him moving to ‘big school’. I fretted about him getting lost, being bullied or having a meltdown when there was no one there to help him. He was moving from a school with 275 pupils to one with 1,400, so it was a huge step up.
On the plus side, a lot of provisions had been made to help Sam. He would have two TAs looking out for him at all times. He would be taken out of class and back to the CAIRB just before the bell rang, so he could avoid the hustle and bustle and the noise of the corridors. Devon County Council had even assigned him a taxi service to take him to and from school. His TA would be there to meet him when he arrived at the start of the day and would put him in the taxi when it was time to come home.
Before the big day, I emailed the TAs, who I’d met during the week we had shown Sam around the school, to make sure they would be there to meet him from the taxi. Once I had their reassurance, I ran through with Sam what he should do if for some reason they didn’t show up. It was ridiculous, I know, but I was so concerned about Sam regressing again and I knew all it could take to tip him over the edge was one bad experience; and that one bad experience would then become implanted in his brain like a phobia. It might mean he would never want to go back to that school again.
Sadly, Darren wasn’t there to see Sam off on his first day. Will was, though, and joined in helping Sam get dressed in his new uniform of a black blazer and trousers, white shirt, and a red-white-and-black striped tie.
I handed Sam his lunchbox before he left for the day. I’d prepared his favourite sandwiches and also, tucked way at the bottom, I’d included a postcard of a pig. I wanted Sam to know Chester was with him in spirit! It was something familiar, something to make him smile. On the back of the card I’d written:
Dear Sam,
I hope you’re having a lovely day at school.
Just wanted to let you know how proud we all are of you.
Lots of love, Mum, Dad, Will and Chester XXX
Being the proud mum that I was, I pulled out the camera as the children and I waited for the taxi to arrive. I snapped away as I wanted a lasting memento of the moment.
‘And together!’ I directed the boys to stand by the flowerbeds so I could get a photo of the two of them.
I was in the middle of my impromptu photo shoot when the taxi pulled into our drive. The windows were steamed up, so I couldn’t see who was inside. I was expecting maybe one or two other children, but the door slid open and there were five in there.
I panicked momentarily, thinking that so many new faces might be too much for Sam.
And then I made a big mistake. Sam got into the taxi and I put his seatbelt on for him. As soon as I’d done it I regretted it, thinking that Sam might be picked on for me helping him like that. I told myself sternly that I had to stop mothering him. He was nearly twelve, after all.
As the taxi did a three-point turn, Sam rubbed a hole in the condensation on the window so I could see through to him. He smiled and waved enthusiastically, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He was fine. He was more than fine.
I walked back to where Will was patiently waiting on the front step for me to drive him to school . . . and promptly burst into tears. Will wrapped his arms around me.
‘Don’t cry, Mummy, he’ll be OK.’
Will was being so mature about it all, and there I was, crying! We’d all been through so much that I think, as I said goodbye to Sam that morning, all the emotions that had been building up over the last few months suddenly came out. I felt as if I was letting go.
It was a peculiar day. I must have checked my emails and phone dozens of times, just in case Sam or the school had rung and needed me to go and pick him up. But there was nothing: no messages, no calls, no cries for help. Just silence.
By the time the taxi pulled into the drive after school, my heart was in my mouth as questions rattled through my head. Has Sam had a good day? Is he happy? I wanted that more than anything: just for my son to be happy.
It was almost as if everything was happenin
g in slow motion as the back door of the taxi opened – first I saw Sam’s shoes, then his legs, and then the rest of him appeared with his satchel on his back. He bounced over to me.
‘I love my school, I’ve had the best day!’ he boomed. I burst out laughing. All that worry over nothing!
‘I’m so glad, Sam.’ I gave him a hug and a kiss.
Someone else had also heard Sam arriving home.
‘Chester!’ we chorused together. He was calling out for us to go and see him, probably hoping we would throw him some pignuts while we were there.
I put my arm around Sam as we wandered down to the end of the garden to see our pig – the pig that had changed my son’s life.
The pig that had brought happiness to all of us.
Chester, the larger-than-life pig!
Epilogue
Devon, April 2015
SEVEN MONTHS AFTER Sam had started at his new school, a letter arrived in the post.
It was springtime and I was weeding the flowerbeds near Chester’s pen when the postman pulled into our driveway. He handed me a bundle of letters and I leafed through them, expecting the usual mix of bills and junk mail, but one of them stood out. It had the logo of Sam’s school stamped on the front and was addressed to: ‘The parent/carer of Samuel Bailey-Merritt’.
My stomach lurched with apprehension. Oh God, what’s happened? was my first thought. Sam had seemed really happy of late – was there something wrong at the College that he hadn’t told me about? The boys were at school that day so he wasn’t there to ask – I just had to open the letter and find out.
I tore open the envelope in a rush. My legs were a little shaky so I sat down by the back door. As I read the words on the page, tears welled in my eyes.
Although the boys were at school, luckily I wasn’t alone; my mum was with me and had popped indoors for a break from the gardening.
‘What is it, love?’ she asked me as I joined her on the sofa in the living room.
I clutched the letter in my hand and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve just received this from Sam’s school.’
Mum looked pensive but alert at my words, ready to hear what I had to say.
I cleared my throat and began to read the letter aloud to her. As I did so, I felt tears pricking at my eyes again and the words on the page blurred . . .
Dear Mr and Mrs Bailey-Merritt,
I am pleased to inform you that Sam is invited to attend a celebration tea on Thursday for his continuing hard work and success within Fox Tor [Sam’s house at school]. He was one of only two students selected by me from the entire house. They were chosen in recognition of their approach to their studies and their ability to use a range of the emotional, social, thinking and strategic learning habits we wish the young people of the College to develop.
Sam’s friendly, courteous and reliable nature has won him many friends and made him a pleasure to have within the house. His endeavours to succeed will ensure he makes the most out of his future, and South Dartmoor benefit greatly from having someone like Sam within the College.
I would like to congratulate him and to share his success with you as his parents. We wish Sam continued success.
Yours sincerely,
Jamie Morrison-Hill
Performance Leader, Fox Tor
By the time I’d finished reading, Mum was stunned into silence.
‘Sam has made some friends!’ I exclaimed. Every single word in that letter was wonderful, but the part about Sam making friends meant the most to me. It was almost unheard of for children with autism to make friends, and one of my biggest concerns about Sam starting secondary school had been that he wouldn’t have any friends and would be bullied, so to hear this meant everything to me.
‘Oh, Jo, that is wonderful.’ Mum beamed with happiness. She grasped for my hand and squeezed it, her face suddenly serious. ‘I cannot express how proud I am of you. I have not known another mother to do for her child what you have done for that boy.’
It was wonderful to hear her words and they made me reflect on everything the whole family had done to ‘save’ Sam when we’d moved from Spain to start our new life in England. But that battle seemed a world away now. For when Sam had first been diagnosed, my fight for him wasn’t simply to ensure he had the best opportunities and the best teachers; I’d actually believed that early intervention and the right help could rewire his brain; that he could literally be ‘saved’ from something I then saw as a negative. It was wrong of me, but I think many parents think like that when they first receive a diagnosis of autism for their children.
But, of course, I now knew that no manner of techniques would make Sam neurotypical – and I was very, very glad of that fact. Autism was part of Sam and I loved him for who he was; I now celebrated his differences rather than thinking they were something from which he needed ‘saving’. He was not a tragedy. He was Sam!
So while Mum may have been proud of me, I knew this wasn’t my victory. This was all about Sam – and I could not have been prouder of my boy.
And pride became a familiar feeling as time went by. For Sam went on to succeed not just at school, but in other ways too. In the spring of 2016, life came full circle when Sam was offered a volunteering job at Pennywell Farm. Mr Murray was so accommodating about it and said he’d be delighted to have Sam on board: one of the team helping with the next generations of miracle-working micro pigs.
I will confess that my own, personal hope is that, after a couple of years of volunteering, when Sam turns sixteen, he will know the ropes well enough and be confident enough to perhaps land a summer job at the farm, at the very least. It would be an incredible achievement and I know such a job would make Sam very, very happy. What could be more perfect for him than working with the pigs he loves so much?
But all that is for the future. And while Sam loves all the Pennywell pigs he works with, there remains one pig who is snout and shoulders above the rest. Chester, of course! The pig who started it all, who set Sam on the path to living a full and happy life – the pig I owe my life to, too.
The not-so-little ginger pig has transformed my boy over the years. Chester showed him friendship and proved to Sam that he could be loved, just the way he was. From the moment the two buddies bonded, first at the farm where Sam now volunteers, and then beneath our dining-room table in their den, my son blossomed. When I look at him now, it’s just incredible – he is succeeding, he is communicating and he is living the life I always dreamed for him.
And I know he could never have done it alone.
Sam and Chester still play together frequently, chasing each other round and round the garden, Sam howling with laughter as Chester dodges and dives and simply delights. As I watch them gambolling about, two friends doing what they love best – being together – I often raise a toast to them in my mind, as I give thanks for that special bond they share, which has made such a difference to my son.
Won’t you join me now in celebrating them?
To Sam and Chester.
This gorgeous photo was taken on the day we took Chester home from Pennywell. Sam chose the spot by the radiator for Chester’s basket himself.
Chester basking in the warmth of our open fire.
Mum and Chester: ‘I’m going to send a copy of this to all my friends in Spain and tell them you’ve had a new baby!’
Taken during the weeks when Chester was the perfect pet pig. A very warm and happy spring day in 2009 spent drawing in the garden.
After the boys had gone to bed, Chester would sit on the sofa with Mum, as if butter wouldn’t melt! He was still a perfectly behaved pig at this point (most of the time!) but beginning to show some signs of growth
My nephews, Tom and Dan, with Chester sitting beautifully in return for a grape. Chester might look the image of the perfect piggy here but this photo was taken the day after he stripped the wallpaper off the bathroom wall and gobbled food from everyone’s plates at the housewarming party. Who would have thought it?
A
trip to Pennywell Farm (after we had purchased Chester) to get to know some of the other animals. Sam and Will cuddle some guinea pigs . . .
. . . and feed the sheep and goats.
Snow in Devon! Sam and Will’s first real taste of snow since we had left Spain and their first ever snowman! Even after the snow had melted, their hardy snowman stood there defiantly for days.
Chester in the garden of our rental house, taking a stroll in his new bandana. He is about a year old in this photo. If you look closely, you can already see some of the many potholes he has created.
Easter Sunday. The boys take a break from their Easter Egg hunt to say hello to Chester.
Christmas at Keeper’s Cottage. When this photo was taken, Chester had already taken a tour around the house and Sam was busy enticing him back down towards his pen.
Chester makes another bid for freedom. Much to the boys’ delight we found him waiting on the patio when we returned from the school run and he got a huge hug from William.
Armed with a jug of pignuts to entice Chester back into his pen. Time for a quick cuddle first though!
It’s not often you find Darren inside the pen with Chester. Here I catch him sitting on Chester’s new pig ark, having just treated him to some weeds from his beloved vegetable patch.
Chester smiles at us from atop our wedding cake in December 2011.
Darren helps Sam get ready for his important role of walking his Mum down the aisle.
