Ogres are like onions

Shrek in existenstial crisis mode.

Don’t mention parfait.

IN ONE of my favourite scenes in Shrek, the titular Ogre and his Donkey friend are walking and talking about the vagaries of life. Well, at least Shrek is trying to.

He explains to Donkey, “For your information, there’s a lot more to Ogres than people think…Ogres are like onions”. Not because, as his little hooved compatriot points out, they stink, or make you cry. It’s because they have LAYERS.

Shrek is trying to say that he is more than the sum of his parts, more than the brute strength suggested by his enormous, green frame. He is a complex being, with, well, layers.

Donkey’s jive-talking wisecrack, “You know not everybody like onions,” is followed by a hilarious riff on the deliciousness of parfait more suited to Mary Berry’s love of perfect cake “lairs” than an existential crisis.

I can totally relate to Shrek’s onion-based reflections. When we found out that our daughter Amelia, who was born deaf, was also on the autistic spectrum with some serious developmental delays to boot, my mind reached out for a suitable analogy and came upon the humble onion.

I can remember saying in my flippant-but-painfully-serious manner to our pediatrician, “How many layers does this onion have?” We laughed but neither one of us was taking the news in our stride.

By drawing my own onion parallel with our life, I don’t mean that I view my beautiful daughter’s struggles as something to be bitter about, though I have cried more tears for her than the most gruelling meal-time chopping session could produce.

I’m trying to find a way to explain how it feels to start out as a family where everything feels certain, solid and whole, for at least a year, and then suddenly important layers start flaking off, one after another, revealing big problems in the rawness underneath.

When I think about the many phases of our life-onion in the nearly six years since Amelia was born, it’s hard to believe the number of challenges we’ve been confronted with.

On one level, it can make you feel dreadfully pessimistic and wary of the next bad thing waiting just around the corner. Once the layers start to crumble, it’s difficult not to see trouble in every cloud, every rainstorm, or every Bureau of Meteorology forecast annoyingly recited to me by my weather-nerd husband.

What could be more important than this?

What could be more important than this?

But the funny thing about going through massive life upheavals, one after another in a short period of time, is that you exhaust a lot of the energy that would normally be expended worrying about pointless things.

By the time you’re standing at the centre of that unstable onion, you have little need to be worrying about the next career move, big promotion, or shiny new car. Your perspective undergoes a radical shift and it will never be the same again. For that, I am extremely thankful.

In a weird twist of fate many years ago now, I was made redundant from what I thought at the time was an important job, the best job I’d ever had. In the blink of an eye it was all gone, the company car, the generous salary, the status symbols of a career I had built over ten years.

I was suddenly jobless, but within three months, we found out that Amelia was deaf and nothing mattered more than being with her and helping her recover lost ground. My life had been stripped back to the bare essentials and I found that I didn’t care about anything more than my daughter’s happiness. No job can compete with that.

I didn’t mourn the sudden loss of my career for too long and I’ve had a few false job starts since then; it hasn’t been possible for me to work for longer than a year or so in the middle of all of the real graft of raising an intense little person with very special needs.

I’m hoping the tide will turn in my favour sometime soon, but I have reserves of patience on that score. Life might not be strictly about me right now, but it will be again one day soon.

Over recent years – and forgive the introduction of a new analogy – life has felt akin to being in quicksand. The harder you try to grab onto the optimism of the proffered branch, the further you sink. And yet you do grow used to the uncertainty of it all. The not-knowing-what’s-around-the-corner nature of being in our family.

No caption required.

No caption required.

Maybe we’ve shed all of the onion layers we’re going to and have collected each flaking, brown piece to create a complete picture of our story. I’m not so sure. In fact, I’ll never be sure of that, not as long as I’m alive. None of us is in possession of an infallible crystal ball.

In any case, it’s a genetic trait in my family to expect bad things to happen to us. We’re almost annoyed when things go well because we have to accept that happy outcomes are possible. Good times are not to be trusted. There’s a sick kind of glee that makes us jump up and down and say “See, I told you!!” when life delivers us a body blow.

I don’t know if that’s a Scotch-Irish thing, a German thing, or just a really weird thing we’ve developed all by ourselves. But let me tell you, I think this sort of entrenched, biological masochism has set me up for the long haul. I’m not deriving pleasure from it, but it comforts me all the same.

Ogres are like onions and so is my life sometimes. Amelia’s catalogue of disabilities too. The general uncertainly of being on the planet and not knowing what the next day will bring. Let the layers fall where they may because I have a thick skin of my own and I’m ready for anything.

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2 thoughts on “Ogres are like onions

  1. I can feel where you’re coming from with the layers. Our son was diagnosed with possible spinal abnormalities at the 16 week scan, was born with a large cyst under his eye, when the cyst was removed at 3 weeks we found he was blind in that eye, and had limited vision in his other eye. At 15 months, we found out he was moderate-sever/profoundly deaf, so started with hearing aids and signing with him. At 6 we tried cochlear implant surgery – the surgery worked, but after 3 years we decided it wasn’t worth the constant battle with him to wear it. It wasn’t until he was 10 that he was diagnosed as autistic. He’s now 16.5, much more accepting of changes in routine, understanding lots more Auslan (but still not expressing much, particularly about emotions), but we are looking at the end of his schooling, and wondering what the next layer will unwrap.
    Thankyou for your blog, I have just discovered it, and am reading through and enjoying previous entries, and learning about your journey. Thanks for sharing

    • Thank you so much for telling me about your son, what a journey you’ve all had together. You’ve had a lot to deal with over a long time. I can understand why the onion analogy felt familiar. I keep reading about the need to improve the timely diagnoses of children with autism (the earlier the better) but I’m not sure that’s it as possible when there are other challenges present. In our case, we’ve just dealt with things as they have emerged more obviously and have tried to do our best to give Amelia the chance for a happy, healthy life. At the same time it has been weirdly helpful to sit with the pain sometimes and acknowledge how hard these experiences have been. Thank you again for getting in touch and for reading. I hope there are other pages you can relate to and please do write as many times as you like. xx

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