Roger is an expert really. A true natural. An autistic whisperer.
Since Brian and John got the diagnosis he has been an exemplary friend and guide to a sometimes confusing world to his two good friends. He studied books. He sorted through bad sources and purely stereotypical descriptions in both old and new books.
He instructed Freddie how best to show patience when things progressed a little too slowly for him. Told him how autistic minds work. What environments they excel in. Calm and predictable.
So, no, Freddie couldn’t announce half way through a show that they would suddenly mix things up a bit and rearrange some songs.
He couldn’t blame it on Brian when he thought it all became too repetitive and conservative. He couldn’t call John boring and ‘never in it for some fun.’
Roger knew Freddie didn’t mean it harshly. He had his own stuff to deal with. ADHD didn’t always go hand in hand and see eye to eye with autism. So Roger had developed into a perfect little diplomat. A true neutral force between arguments and misunderstandings.
The first signs started showing before their third grand tour of Europe. A trying time in his three friends’ and bandmates’ lives. He knew. He was well aware of that.
Brian and John reacted strongly before any big changes. Going from practise to recording. Or going from recording to playing live shows. They enjoyed those three activities separately. Just not the transition between them.
Roger combed through his hair that morning. He was already planning in his head what he would tell his mates.
He would show John a series of pictograms illustrating the next week. He would then tell Freddie to stop rolling his eyes at John, Roger would get to him in a minute, don’t be impatient, don’t blame John for his special needs in having a pictogram of his days.
Then trying to get Brian to pack his things. Yes, Brian, I know your guitar picks always go in the second drawer in the cabinet, but you need them for the tour now, so they must be in your luggage from now on. Where do you usually keep them in there? Then put them in the front pocket again.
Freddie. Please stop bending the cords. Freddie, pack your bags, see, just like Brian is. Freddie, it’s been twenty minutes now, I’ve told you to pack your bags one hundred times, please get on with it.
Roger yelped. Ow! He looked at his comb. Blond hair. Almost an entire nest of blond hair. He looked in the mirror. It wasn’t that visible, but a bald spot appeared just over his right temple. He screamed.
He heard Freddie echoing his scream and then making a little tune out of it.
No. No, no, no. He couldn’t be going bald? He was still in his twenties!
The next sign came the day after, during a coffee break. Brian was fiddling with his luggage, still not happy about the changed place of his picks.
Roger’s hand shook so badly that he had trouble lifting the cup. He put it down again and shook his hand. Maybe a muscle cramping up? As a drummer, he had to be careful with his hands and wrists. They were both important and in constant strain.
He massaged his wrists and tried again. Slightly better, but he could still feel his hand being a bit wobbly.
When they entered on stage he almost tripped over his own drumset, from not paying attention.
When they were giving an interview, he rubbed his forehead. John preferred holding hands under the table while talking to the press, but Roger had to let go to lay a hand over his head. A throbbing headache had bothered him all afternoon.
The next days Roger felt worse and worse. Every day had something new and miserable to introduce him to. He’d had cold sweats the night before. After breaking up the tension between Brian and Freddie. John was overly sensitive about changes in the atmosphere, so Roger had spent the better part of an hour talking him down, reassuring him that it would pass and urging him to look at some of his several drawings of mechanical equipment.
Freddie and Brian had started again when Roger returned.
“You always want it your way, Brian!” Freddie shouted.
Brian was sitting on the floor, legs crossed. He was rocking back and forth.
Roger hurried to his side and grabbed his arms. Brian didn’t like light touches, so if anyone had to touch him it should feel heavy on his skin.
Freddie walked back and forth. His pace quickened and by the end he was almost running.
Roger stood up and got in the way of Freddie’s pacing. “Yes?”
“What’s gotten you two all riled up?”
“Oh, you know Brian! Nothing new under the Sun there!”
Roger tried his best to mend their relationship and restore the normally friendly tone between them.
Freddie had wanted change. Brian didn’t.
The next morning Roger couldn’t get out of bed. He tried. He really did. Nothing worked. He was as paralyzed. After an hour he manages to go to the bathroom, but had to go to bed again immediately after.
He could hear John rustling around just outside his bedroom door. He knew why. It was his turn to make the pancakes, but Roger hadn’t laid out the recipe on the counter for him. And now he didn’t know what to do next.
Roger struggled. He had to get up. When he sat up he saw his pillow. It was filled with strands of his hair. He felt nauseous. Almost gagged.
Freddie walked past John and entered Roger’s room. “Aren’t you up yet?” He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the state of his friend. Pale face. Thinning hair. Closed eyes due to headache.
Later, at the doctor’s Roger waited while he wrote something down. Then the doctor looked up at him. He had a stern way of looking above the rim of his glasses.
“Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”
That caught Roger by surprise. “Um, well, we’re just starting a tour. And, well, you know?”
“This looks like severe stress. That will be a serious strain on your health if you don’t rearrange your life, starting immediately.”
Roger couldn’t keep a straight face anymore. He broke down crying, all the years worth of pent up stress overwhelming his senses.
When he left the doctor’s office, it was with a prescription for calming the nerves and a recommendation of a therapist specialising in stress.
His bandmates took the news hard. Brian and John were worried that they would never see Roger again.
Freddie huffed. “Of course we will .”
“Is any of this our fault?” John asked with hesitancy.
Roger looked him deep in the eyes. “No. None of this is your fault. It never will be your fault, John. This is really important. But I might have worked myself too hard. I’ve been a chump and haven’t listened to my body’s signals. And that’s important, right?”
Brian was inconsolable at first. He held on to Roger for what seemed like forever. He rocked him back and forth, humming a tune for him, just like Roger always did for him when he became over-stimulated.
“It will be all right.” Roger reassured him.
Freddie shook his head. “No, you don’t get to comfort us now. You always do. Now it’s our time to comfort and help you.” All three surrounded Roger and held him close until he could barely breathe anymore. Roger thought to himself that they do help and comfort him. Everyday. By being his very own special and loving friends.
The guys started helping each other out more after that. Brian and John drew John’s pictograms together every Sunday evening.
Freddie helped Roger and their manager plan their tours and press meetings.
When they felt an argument approach, Brian and Freddie had written down a script of nice things they’d say to each other instead of arguing. They never made it to the end without bursting out with laughter.
And Queen could once again resume their obligations (almost) trouble-free.
Oh no! This made me so sad for Roger reading this!!! They all need a good sit down to remind each other that Roger is their friend, not their caregiver.
Lovely story, friend! Thank you so much!!
