Autistic Widower

When an autistic person loses the one person they rely on for everything Soon, it will be ten years since my wife Jane was diagnosed with secondary breast cancer, from which she died three years later. Back then, everything was fairly normal around here; sometimes it’s hard to believe that, because it seems like a lifetime ago. We were both working, and raising two children. Life seemed good, and we were happy. I’ve not really written about being widowed on this site before, so I thought I’d start with our early years together, and finish with our last days together. [Note: For privacy, I’ve changed my wife’s name to Jane.] The Early Years We met in 1992, after I answered a lonely hearts advert — remember this was long before the days of online dating sites. Jane and I got along incredibly well right from the start, and she chose not to meet any of the other men who’d replied. It might be a cliche, but Jane had a smile that could light up a room. And when she turned that smile

Now that I’ve processed my autism assessment report, I feel upset about it Three Years On In a few months, it will be three years since I got my autism assessment results. I’ve previously written about the assessment process itself, but that post was mostly factual. This time, I want to focus on how it felt, and what impact it has had on me from an emotional point of view. Before being assessed, I’d heard that some people can find the process to be quite difficult emotionally — almost traumatic. At first, I couldn’t really understand why, because the assessment process sounded fairly straightforward: just fill in a questionnaire, go and chat to a clinical psychologist a few times, then put them in touch with anyone who knew you as a child. I had to do some rather bizarre things during some of the sessions, like describing the pictures in a children’s storybook, and making up stories using props such as string and paper clips. Occasionally, it felt like I was on a hidden came