Allen runs his hand over his chin. “Guess I should shave,” he says.
I nod. It is our agreement that Allen shaves and showers on Saturday before church on Sunday. But I was away last Sunday, so two weeks of beard have sprouted on Allen’s chin.
“Three spoons,” he says and sighs. It’s been a work day for him. He’s already used a lot of spoons.
“The Spoon Theory” was developed from the personal experiences of Christine Miserandino, who used it to explain the energy that is required to live with a chronic illness, in her case, lupus. The spoons represent units of energy; each action takes a certain amount of spoons. Medical practitioners have adopted the theory as a planning tool to help those who have a chronic illness manage their day. While considered developmental, not chronic, people on the autism spectrum need to avoid burn-out and manage their own energy.
Despite being the mother of this autistic adult for many years, I’ve not always understood how tasks I consider simple, such as taking a shower, consume Allen’s energy. Thinking of energy in terms of “spoons” helps us both. I can empathize with how his energy can be rapidly depleted during the day and he has a way to manage his tasks accordingly.
Allen figures that on average he has 15 “spoons” a day. His part-time job assembling bicycles takes 10 and includes getting dressed, making breakfast, and driving to and from work. Social interactions might take an additional toll. And if it’s his night to clear up after dinner it will take at least one more spoon.
Allen sighs. “Guess I’ll get started.”
I visualize the steps he needs to take. First, he’ll use my mother’s barbers’ shears to cut off the excess beard growth. Then, he’ll lather non-scented shaving cream onto his face and get to work with a straight razor. He doesn’t like the feel of the blade against his skin, so he’ll try to make it quick. But the electric razor is even worse, so he sticks with the straight edge. Then he’ll rinse off the foam and, hopefully, clean out the sink.
Fifteen minutes later Allen plods down the steps and plops onto the sofa. His beard is shorter, but it’s not a clean shave.
I shoot him a quizzical look.
“Ran out of spoons,” he says. “Guess I underestimated.” He yawns and stretches his arms over his head. “I’ll finish in the morning,” he says. “And shower. I’ll have more spoons then.” He leans his head back and closes his eyes.
“I’ll clear up dinner,” I offer.
Allen doesn’t respond. Depleted of energy—and spoons—he’s fallen asleep.
Do you have any experience with adults with autism? How can you help them manage everyday tasks?