Bettelheim’s Theory in 1964

He was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen. He was born on May 9, 1961. His eyes were stunningly blue, and his thin strands of hair were white. He was my first child, and while holding him on my lap, I was overcome with emotion. I never knew I could love someone so much. I waited with the nurse in a wheelchair outside the hospital for my husband to bring the car around. I was looking forward to going home since the nurses took my baby boy away from me to bring him to the nursery a lot.

“Sleep now, you won’t get any rest after you go home," the nurses told me as they took him away each time.

But after four days of rest in the hospital, I was more than ready to have my baby all to myself.

My husband pulled up in a brand-new Chrysler New Yorker Town & Country Wagon. He had gone out and purchased it the day before. He told me that now that he was a family man, we needed a family car. I held our son in the front seat of the car as we drove home with the smell of new car filling my nose.

My husband had chosen our baby’s name, Joseph Christopher Campbell. I thought that was a wonderful name, and I repeated it to my little boy on our drive home. Joseph looked so peaceful in my arms. I kissed him on the forehead, and my husband smiled as he glanced over at us.

“Give him a kiss from me, or better yet, a nice handshake. I’ll make a real man out of this kid.” He winked.

I knew he was sort of kidding. He was always a proud man, but I’d never seen him so puffed up as when he was handing out cigars to the hospital staff as we left today. Knowing him, he had probably bought a ton of cigars to give out. I’ll bet the entire neighborhood and everyone we knew had one by now.

When we got home, my hubby got out of the car and ran around the front to open the door for me. I handed Joseph to him so I could get up. As soon as I stood, he handed him back.

My husband opened the front door for me and said, “So, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. The neighbor brought over a casserole and some lime green jello. Do you think you can get the casserole in the oven right away?”

I smiled at him and nodded. “Let me get Joseph into the bassinet first, and I’ll get right to it.”

I felt complete now as I tucked my baby in. Everything I ever wanted in life was mine. I had been raised by the best mother in the world, so I knew how to be the best for Joseph.

Waking up at five the next morning, I was startled to realize Joseph hadn’t made a sound all night. His last bottle was at ten, but shouldn’t he have woken up before this? I jumped up and looked at him in his bassinet next to the bed. I put my ear down to his face to make sure he was still breathing. I felt his little puffs of air on my cheek. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help myself; I picked him up. He slowly opened his eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes, but didn’t make a peep. He was such a good baby. I was so lucky.

There’s a lot of competition between mothers in my neighborhood. A baby’s first word, walking, and being toilet-trained were major milestones that gave mothers bragging rights. My beautiful Joseph never won or even came close in any of those competitions, and before long, everyone knew my son was behind. Way behind. So, between the upkeep of the house and taking care of my husband, I spent all of my time trying to help Joseph get caught up.

I even voiced my concerns to Joseph’s pediatrician. At first, he just dismissed me, saying that all children are different and develop at different times. However, when Joseph’s first birthday rolled around and he still hadn’t said a word or attempted to walk, the doctor’s attitude changed. Now, he said he would be monitoring his progress more closely.

By the time Joseph was two and a half, I had to stop going to church. The ladies in the nursery, although well-meaning, kept trying to teach me how to be a good mother. I remember the last time I went into the nursery to pick Joseph up, the pastor’s wife refused to hand him over to me right away. She insisted I watch her first teach Joseph. She walked around the nursery and repeated the names of things to him. And periodically glanced over at me to make sure I was paying attention. Joseph didn’t respond, so she put her finger and thumb on his little chin and turned his face toward each item. He squirmed. I kept asking for him, but she ignored me. Finally, after a few run-throughs around the room, she handed him to me.

“You need to interact with your child. You need to talk to him so he can learn,” she said.

I’m not a confrontational person, and she was the pastor’s wife after all, so I simply nodded and left. I met my husband at our car and tried my best not to cry as he drove us home. I didn’t tell him what had happened. He also didn’t know about the competitions with the other mothers in the neighborhood. I didn’t want to worry him, I told myself, but the truth was, I was humiliated.

I doubled my time with Joseph after that. Sometimes, almost missing getting dinner on the table in time. I’d sit on the floor with him for hours, but with very little progress. Usually by the end of the day, I would just sit there and watch him, crying from fear and frustration. What was wrong with me? What is it that every mother in the world is doing with their child that I’m not?

On Joseph’s third birthday in 1964, our pediatrician referred my son to a psychiatrist. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure why a psychiatrist instead of a pediatric specialist of some sort, but I guess the doctor knew best. The psychiatrist ran a bunch of tests on Joseph, and a couple of weeks later, the office called and asked my husband and me to come back for a consultation.

I left Joseph at home with my mother so my husband and I would not be distracted by whatever the doctor had to tell us. When we arrived at the clinic, we were led to the doctor’s office and asked to sit and wait for him to come in. My dear husband touched my shoulder and then took my hand and squeezed.

“It will be alright,” he said as he squeezed my hand again. “I’m sure the doctor will get Joseph right up to speed. You’ll see.”

I nodded and strained to smile.

Dr. John Billings was an older man, probably in his fifties. His hair was gray, and he had an authoritative air about him. He barely acknowledged us as he walked into the room. Sitting at his desk, he opened Joseph’s file. After reviewing it for a few minutes, he closed it and, for the first time, looked at the two of us.

“Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, after a careful review of your son’s test results and the files sent over from your pediatrician, I’ve been able to diagnose the issue concerning your child. But before I give that result to you, I believe it would be beneficial for you both to know the history of Bettelheim’s theory. It wasn’t until the 1940s that this theory emerged. It was thanks to Leo Kanner and Bruno Bettelheim that this diagnosis emerged and was eventually accepted in the psychological community by the 1950s. After much research, it was determined that children like Joseph were suffering from what is called the refrigerator mother theory.”

My husband leaned forward in his chair and released my hand.

“What’s that? What do you mean by refrigerator mother?”

“It has been determined that because of a lack of emotional warmth and nurturing from your wife, your child, Joseph, has withdrawn as a coping mechanism.”

“My wife caused this by not giving our son enough love?”

“Yes. I know this is hard to hear, but I’m afraid it’s true.”

And there it was. The final verdict. Indeed, I was a terrible mother, and my son was the victim of my abuse. I’ve never known such emotional pain. How could I harm my child in this way? Obviously, I was not the mother I should be, and now my husband was fully aware of it.

The relationship I had with my husband died that day, and it would only be a few years later that he'd leave me for another woman. Someone he had met at work. They went on to have four children together, and none of them showed signs of suffering from a refrigerator mother. As for me, I never dated or remarried after the divorce. I didn’t want to take the chance of getting pregnant and harming another child. My parents and I raised Joseph. I never got over what I had done to that poor boy.

So, what was the clinical diagnosis? What was Bettelheim’s theory referring to?

Autism.

Note from the author: Even though this story is fiction, it’s based on facts. It wasn’t until the late 1960s that Bettelheim’s theory began to be questioned and then disproven. Until then, the shame of a child being diagnosed as autistic left families devastated. So, it’s not surprising that in 1983, when my son received an autism diagnosis, no one I knew had heard of this condition before, even though by that time, autism was considered to occur as often as blindness.