Hello Jenny

“No, not again-” she sighed as the smell of poop filled the air.

As if on autopilot, she reached for the roll of tissues that had now become part of her desk ever since this seven year old boy had been added to her caseload. She led him to the toilet and went through the usual motions of cleaning him, then reached into the bag his mother always sent with him for a fresh change of underwear and pants.

When they came back to the therapy room, he sat looking up at her with his big, brown eyes. The AAC tablet lay next to him, the toilet icon glaring at them uselessly.

No sooner had the session’s hour drawn to a close than his mother's knock on the door sounded, right on cue.

Come in, she called.

How was he tod- she started, then scrunched her nose, the smell now having reached it. Ah. Her shoulders sagged as if to say 'still no improvement'.

The therapist read the unspoken words in the sag.

“Don't worry”, she smiled brightly at the mother. "As I told you, these things take time. I'll be sending you the practice exercises for home. If he can manage to do fifteen minutes every day before the next session, it would help a lot. The platform's very intuitive. It’s called Jenny and it will guide you through the set-up. To begin with, he’s going to have very simple, click on the icon type of tasks.”

“Thank you, really. As I keep saying, you're such a blessing. Have a good day, we'll see you next week.”

Once the door closed she slid off her chair and lay cheek down on the foam floor, inhaling the antiseptic scent of the cleaner.

She knew she only had ten minutes until the next session but her arms were now lead.

When there were exactly three minutes to go, her alarm blared.

With the weight of the world on her shoulders, she heaved and pushed herself off the floor, and back onto her chair.

She woke up her laptop from its sleep.

The screen was, as it always was now, on Jenny.

“Hi Jenny”, she said out loud.

The screen pulsated with understanding.

“Hi, how can I help?” Came the standard reply.

“Create an AAC training exercise for a seven year old autistic boy. Focus specifically on communication for going to the toilet, saying no, and asking for a hug.”

“I have just searched your caseload. I believe you are referring to client no. 3678, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Great. Based on his demographics, assessment scores, and your instructions, I have prepared a set of three different training exercises, to be administered daily over a period of six weeks with complexity increasing based on proficiency. Would you like to review them?”

“Yes. But wait, before that, make it just for one week, not six. I'll check in first.”

“Perfect. Here is the intervention plan for this week and the details of the exercises. Shall I send it to the client’s profile?”

“Hold on, Jenny.”

Jenny obediently stayed silent.

“Just a small tweak. Give the association game first.”

“Got it. Here is the intervention plan now starting with the association game first. Shall I send it to the client?”

“Yes, go ahead, Jenny?”

She paused, then added, “Who is my next client?”

A profile instantly popped up on her screen, complete with a picture. Although she had only needed the picture, she reviewed the demographics nonetheless.

Sixteen. Autism. Minimally speaking. Comorbid ADHD. No previous history of speech/language therapy.

She sighed. Tuesdays were truly the worst.

The mother came in, her son trailing behind her, eyes downcast.

“Morning!” the mother exclaimed in a singsong voice. “I’ve got to say darling, you’re a genius. We’ve spent like every single day this week with Jenny. He already loves her.”

“Jenny”, the boy muttered from behind her.

“See?”

“That's so great, I’m glad. Although I can’t really take full credit”, she replied, laughing. “It’s not like I invented Jenny.”

“Still, the choice to use her… and you control the exercises she gives, right?”

The slight pause before she replied with her smiling “oh yes, of course” was so short that it evaded the mother’s notice.

“Things like Jenny surely help, but honestly, it’s you that lets me breathe easy. My husband has been against going to an SLP all these years, and I think the only reason he was convinced when I dragged him for the consultation was seeing the kindness in your manner. And of course, your whole neurodiversity pitch helped too of course”, she said, laughing.

She smiled at the mother with all of the kindness she could muster on this long, long day. Was this really only the third session?

When the mother left the room, her son went and sat as he usually did in his favorite corner of the room– on the floor beside the shelf of soft toys. He had grabbed the rabbit with the sunglasses and sat rocking back and forth, holding the toy tightly to his chest.

But today, he was doing something new.

“Jenny. Jenny. Jenny.” The muttering went on ceaselessly, keeping time with the rocking motions.

“Now now”, the therapist sat down beside him, talking softly. "You’ll get to talk to Jenny once you go home. For now, how about we play a game?

“Game. Game. Game.”

“Great! Look here, I have some Play Doh for you, you like Play Doh, don’t you?”

Throughout that hour, she kept sighing in relief of a session going according to plan. She didn’t get many of those.

She also didn’t get many no-shows. Which the next one was, much to her continued relief.

The fifth slot of the day was an easier one. An eight year old dyslexic girl, who according to Jenny, could now write b and d with an improved accuracy of 37%.

“Say Jenny, give me some ideas for what I can do with her today.”

“Here is a list of ten possible in-person activities, based on client 3680’s current profile.”

“Thanks, Jenny.”

She thought about this child’s exuberant energy, and felt it would be a good idea to take this session in the backyard. One of Jenny's suggestions had included sensory play with sand in a tray. Why not use the ground itself? The grass-less patches in the backyard had some softly packed mud, she could add some water and make it-

From behind the closed door, she heard the pitter patter of tiny running footsteps. She involuntarily smiled, knowing the girl was going to barge in without waiting for her father to catch up and knock first.

The door opened.

“Hi, Jenny!”

“Darling, you know that’s not Jenny”, came her father’s voice, following her in.

“Sorry”, he looked at her apologetically. “She’s been spending a lot of time these last few weeks with Jenny. Force of habit, probably.”

“It’s no problem”, she smiled.

The father looked at her gratefully. “Thank you. So, I’ll be back in an hour, yes? Bye darling”, he blew air kisses at his daughter. “Bye Je- sorry, sorry, it was just on my tongue…” he trailed off, distraught.

“Don’t you worry about it”, she said laughing.

“Don’t you worry about it”, she repeated softly to the closing door.