Guess what? I got my nose pierced. Yes me! This lady-of-a-certain-age. wrong-side-of-45 and whatever-other-category-you-want-to-file-me-under is now sporting a shiny, sparkly stud in her right nostril.
The day I got it done by the gloriously (and heavily) be-pierced Nikki, I was so excited. I couldn’t stop looking in the mirror or seeking out a tell-tale glisten as I passed by anything vaguely reflective. I felt immensely proud of myself for finally being brave enough to go and do something I’d simply talked about for years. Up until then it had been mere chat, one of those conversations you have after a few too many glasses of wine, full of bravado and usually with my free-spirit sister-in-law. But now, job done, I was living the dream.
However, about a month in, I had a major crisis of confidence. I’d been on holiday and gone swimming, quite a lot, despite explicit instructions from Nikki not to. As a result, my beacon of bravery was now red, inflamed, crusty and, dare I say it, oozing. Not quite the cool and funky look I was hoping to achieve. The voice inside my head, my sensible internal critic, berated met, screaming that this was nothing more than a mid-life crisis gone wrong.
Just at the point I was going to give up, take it out and let it heal over, pretending it had never happened, I stopped as it dawned on me why I had done it.
You see, my gorgeous, funny, smart, unique daughter was finally diagnosed with autism (ASD) with a side-helping of attention deficit (ADD) at the beginning of the summer. I say finally because, any person or family who has ever gone through this process will know that it’s far from straight-forward, or quick. To use one of my pet-hate phrases of the moment, it’s been a journey; for my husband, for me and particularly, my daughter.
ASD and ADD are both classed as neurological disorders, or to use less clinical (and more accepting) language, neurological differences or neurodiversities. In practice, it means that my daughter’s brain works differently to normal, neurotypical people and so a lot of the daily situations or experiences that we take for granted, she can find extremely difficult or stressful. What it doesn’t mean is that she is a stereotype; a Rain Man, a child genius or the kid who is bouncing off the walls 24/7. She is herself, a thoughtful, empathetic, kind almost 10-year old who has hopes and dreams for the future just like any other kid.
My daughter’s diagnosis has been a revelation to her, like finding the missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle. Up until that point, she had seen herself as different but had no explanation why. Like most girls of her age, she is desperate to fit in, to be accepted by her peer group and so puts an enormous amount of social effort into her day to be a fun and affable friend to many. Add to this her difficulties maintaining concentration and organising herself at school and it’s no surprise that she’s often running on empty by the time she steps out of the school gates. But now, with her self-proclaimed label of “Aspie Girl”, she’s beginning to understand that there’s a reason behind these difficulties and that there are countless others out there just like her.
I cannot deny that my daughter’s diagnosis has had a profound and irreversible effect on me. I feel like I’ve been pulled apart and pushed back together again. While she is still the same wonderful girl, I have changed. For the better, I hope. I feel freer than I have done for a long time, liberated and able to be bold and brave as a parent and in life in general. I am under no illusion that the rest of this journey will be an easy one, but I feel readier than I was before for whatever twists and turns it make take.
Which takes me nicely back to the nose-piercing and my reasoning behind it. Here was something I could do to show my daughter that it’s OK to be different. It was my ultimate act of solidarity, my touchstone to remind myself of who she is and what I have become.
Before her diagnosis, when I was in a particularly dark place, my daughter was chatting to me about how she felt. She summed it up beautifully by saying, “Mummy, I feel like a blue flamingo”. That picture has stuck with me ever since.
So next time you see this woman walking down the street sporting a shiny, sparkly nose stud, give her a nod and a smile. Because it’s here to stay. It’s my way of staying connected to my daughter and all the other blue flamingos out there; may they go through life being proud of providing a splash of blue in a sea of pink.
Jane Evans, Writer 