There are moments when nobody would know.
Not many.
But some.
He is climbing the rope structures at the park. He is confident and secure in his ability to make it to the top.
He is just a boy: scaling the ropes; aiming for the highest bar.
He is taking a seat on one monster of a roller coaster. Grin from ear to ear. Anticipation in his eyes.
He is just a boy: ready to hear the clicks of the coaster as it climbs; ready to plunge and race at speeds so fast I can only count the seconds until the fun is over.
He is in a pool: gliding so effortlessly you would never know he has not had a single lesson.
He is just a boy: strong, sturdy and at peace.
He is eating an ice cream cone. He is riding the carousel. He is hugging me.
He is just a boy.
These moments are glorious. I treasure them. And I wonder what that says about me. I know that I love these moments -- moments when the autism disappears -- because there is still a part of me wishing it weren't so -- wishing my boy was not saddled with this beast of a burden.
There is more to it, of course. There are still moments, even after all of these years, when I cringe. They are the moments when the autism hits full force -- in public -- and I become the one who retreats inward. Because I know that for every person in the world who understands -- people who know that my child is struggling to do his best -- there are many more who are simply ignorant, or at worst, self-righteous and judgmental and ignorant.
Hey people: You know what?
He is just a boy.
It is not that simple. But, yet, it is.
February 28, 2011
February 17, 2011
Rick Perry's Bullshit
As Texans, we always take care of the least among us.
The frail, the young, the elderly on fixed incomes, those in situations of abuse and neglect, people whose needs are greater than the resources at their disposal – they can count on the people of Texas to be there for them.
We will protect them, support them and empower them, but cannot risk the future of millions of taxpayers in the process. We must cut spending to keep our economic engine on track.
Texas Governor Rick Perry, Jan 18 2011
Excuse me, Governor Perry. Please tell me: what did you mean by that big bunch of nothing.
We will protect them .... but
We will support them .... but
We will empower them .... but
I think you had more meaningful words coming out of your mouth when you were whoop-de-dooing in your Aggie yell-leader jumpsuit.
My son is one of those Texans who could use a little help. I am a Texan. His dad is a Texan. We grew up going to Texas public schools and universities.
We pay taxes. Lots of them.
And we have spent -- hold your breath -- in the six figures trying to obtain the best services for our son, who has severe autism and apraxia and a soul as pure as you will ever find on Earth.
What have we gotten from the state of Texas in the way of help?
Ahhh, let me count it all up. Oh, yes, nothing.
He is on two state waiting-lists for services.
One wait-list is for therapeutic services such as speech and occupational therapy, both of which he has needed his entire life. They are crucial to his ability to one day live as independently as possible, as well as his ability to contribute to society. (Yes, I do, indeed, mean contribute to society, as a working citizen, a goal that is attainable, especially if we could get a little help from a government that, unfortunately, seems more interested in instituitonalizing its disabled citizens than in helping them pave the way to independence.)
The other wait-list is for respite services, which my family could have used years ago.
My son has been on the Texas wait-lists for an entire year. I checked in with the "help-line" yesterday and what do you know. He is number 27,936 on one list and number 14,693 on the other. Which means we might get some help from our government about the time I need a nursing home for myself.
Or maybe not even then.
My state's longest-serving governor is serious about the "cut spending" aspect of his inauguration speech. Preliminary budgets for the state of Texas include more than 16 billion dollars in cuts to health and human services spending.
What does that mean for those who, in the Governor's words, are "count(ing) on the people of Texas to be there for them"?
It means that if you are waiting for help, don't hold your breath. And if you have waited it out and, finally, have received a little government assistance, get prepared to lose it.
What's up, Gov?
Aren't you one of those "pro-family" Republicans? I have yet to figure what the heck that label means to you guys, but it sure doesn't jive with anything I consider "pro-family."
My son has a disabilty. He suffers from a neurological disorder recognized by every pediatrician in the world. Yet, we receive not a red cent in assistance from our medical insurer. We live in the the richest nation in the world, and, yet, we receive no assistance from the federal government. And we have yet to receive one bit of help from the state of Texas, even though our Texas roots run deep into the ground.
The one thing you could do to really give families a hand, Governor Perry, would be to speak out on behalf of the families trying so hard to maximize the potential of their special-needs children. We do not want our sons and daughters to go to one of our state's institutions for the disabled, where they will largely be forgotten, if not abused.
We are struggling under the weight of our children's disabilities.
And, wow, are we struggling: struggling to find and pay for the services that will help our children succeed; struggling to give our typical children the attention they deserve when their disabled brothers and sisters require so much; struggling to maintain our own identities separate and apart from the disabilities that rob our kids; struggling to even remember what a marriage felt like before every waking moment was dominated by worries.
It isn't as if Texas residents endure some unworldly tax burden compared to the rest of our nation.
It isn't as if Texas is somehow making up for its failure to provide for its disabled residents with increased funding to other areas of its social welfare network.
It isn't as if Texas is adeuqately serving our children with its anemic funding of public schools.
I know, Governor, that you sailed to victory in your campaigns. I know that my state is filled with enough Bubbas and gun-lovers and fat-cat-good-ole-boys to keep you around for another ten years or more.
I know that your loyalties do not extend to me and my family.
But if you aren't going to take notice of a "pro-family" need not being met in this state, would you at least drop the lip service about Texans whose needs are greater than the resources at their disposal. This Texan knows BS when she hears it. And I know my opinion counts for nothing, but I'd rather you not pretend to care about anything other than the economic engine behind your political career.
February 6, 2011
Off With the Cast, Into the Chlorinated Water: Hallelujah
It is off.
The cast is gone, and my boy has two good feet again.
Inhale, exhale.
I am so relieved.
Autism mothers everywhere can testify: there is great fear in facing the unpredictable, in trying to help your children deal with pain when there is a language barrier that transcends words.
When you struggle to hold your nonverbal seven-year-old while he gets a cast on his foot, you don't have time to think about the unfairness of it all. You just do what needs to be done in that moment--so that your child can heal the part of his body that doctors CAN fix.
That's the thing about autism, about severe autism--it teaches you to not think too far beyond the moment.
Your child has broken bones in his foot. Three bones, to be exact. (They told me two when the cast went on; turns out my son actually broke three bones in his foot.) That really sucks--in ways that parents of typical children cannot begin to understand. But what else is new? Everything about my life as a parent is far beyond what parents of "typical" children can understand.
This is just one more mountain.
One more obstacle.
And the white-coats actually know what to do in this scenario. They can fix broken bones.
For that, I am grateful.
Because my boy has his cast off.
And we are back in the pool.
I watched my two children this evening, as they swam and played in the water.
What a great equalizer the pool is for my son.
He cannot tell you what he thinks, what he knows, what he yearns for.
He can't even tell you that his foot hurts like hell.
He can't ask you what is going on, why he is feeling this unusual pain, why his life is not what it should be.
But he can swim to the depths of the pool. He can float like a jelly-fish. He can move through the water with speed and strength and confidence.
And he can laugh at his sister after she pushes him into the pool.
There are images in my life: pictures that carry me through pain I never could have imagined, and still do not know how to adequately deal with.
One such image is my two children as they were this evening: my daughter pushing my son into the pool and my son resurfacing with that beautiful smile on his face.
I watched my daughter giggle and call to her brother. I watched her climb up and down the ladder of the pool--playfully screaming as Daniel swam near to her, trying so hard to engage him in her world.
I watched him smile at her, in a way that he does not smile for many people. In a way that says, "I love you, dear sister, even though I may never verbalize it, even though I may never express it in a way that the typical world will appreciate."
It is amazing, to watch these two children--separated only by two years and two weeks... and a universe of words.
They share the same two parents, the same DNA, the same environment. And, yet, they could not be more different.
Like night and day.
One filled with words, drama, social graces and a desire to please.
The other largely trapped in an existence without words, without social understanding, without a grasp on what the world expects and why it is necessary to try, at least a bit, to conform.
And I am the mother to both of them ....
God help me.
I will take whatever help I can get.
Tonight, I am just happy that they both can swim and jump and splash.
That their bones bend and straighten and move--with no casts to encumber.
I am grateful to see them both laugh, and to smile at each other.
The cast is gone, and my boy has two good feet again.
Inhale, exhale.
I am so relieved.
Autism mothers everywhere can testify: there is great fear in facing the unpredictable, in trying to help your children deal with pain when there is a language barrier that transcends words.
When you struggle to hold your nonverbal seven-year-old while he gets a cast on his foot, you don't have time to think about the unfairness of it all. You just do what needs to be done in that moment--so that your child can heal the part of his body that doctors CAN fix.
That's the thing about autism, about severe autism--it teaches you to not think too far beyond the moment.
Your child has broken bones in his foot. Three bones, to be exact. (They told me two when the cast went on; turns out my son actually broke three bones in his foot.) That really sucks--in ways that parents of typical children cannot begin to understand. But what else is new? Everything about my life as a parent is far beyond what parents of "typical" children can understand.
This is just one more mountain.
One more obstacle.
And the white-coats actually know what to do in this scenario. They can fix broken bones.
For that, I am grateful.
Because my boy has his cast off.
And we are back in the pool.
I watched my two children this evening, as they swam and played in the water.
What a great equalizer the pool is for my son.
He cannot tell you what he thinks, what he knows, what he yearns for.
He can't even tell you that his foot hurts like hell.
He can't ask you what is going on, why he is feeling this unusual pain, why his life is not what it should be.
But he can swim to the depths of the pool. He can float like a jelly-fish. He can move through the water with speed and strength and confidence.
And he can laugh at his sister after she pushes him into the pool.
There are images in my life: pictures that carry me through pain I never could have imagined, and still do not know how to adequately deal with.
One such image is my two children as they were this evening: my daughter pushing my son into the pool and my son resurfacing with that beautiful smile on his face.
I watched my daughter giggle and call to her brother. I watched her climb up and down the ladder of the pool--playfully screaming as Daniel swam near to her, trying so hard to engage him in her world.
I watched him smile at her, in a way that he does not smile for many people. In a way that says, "I love you, dear sister, even though I may never verbalize it, even though I may never express it in a way that the typical world will appreciate."
It is amazing, to watch these two children--separated only by two years and two weeks... and a universe of words.
They share the same two parents, the same DNA, the same environment. And, yet, they could not be more different.
Like night and day.
One filled with words, drama, social graces and a desire to please.
The other largely trapped in an existence without words, without social understanding, without a grasp on what the world expects and why it is necessary to try, at least a bit, to conform.
And I am the mother to both of them ....
God help me.
I will take whatever help I can get.
Tonight, I am just happy that they both can swim and jump and splash.
That their bones bend and straighten and move--with no casts to encumber.
I am grateful to see them both laugh, and to smile at each other.
January 28, 2011
I reject the Holland poem. I know moms who love it; some of them are my friends.
But not me.
My son is disabled. Profoundly disabled. And I am not happy about it, even though I love him dearly and celebrate the many aspects of his personality that make him a neat kid.
I currently am walking through life at a loss for what to say, which is unusual for me. So I want to note the post from a writer I admire. I identify, even though our children are the victims of different monsters.
http://www.schuylersmonsterblog.com/2011/01/those-stars-is-universe-of-gliding.html
But not me.
My son is disabled. Profoundly disabled. And I am not happy about it, even though I love him dearly and celebrate the many aspects of his personality that make him a neat kid.
I currently am walking through life at a loss for what to say, which is unusual for me. So I want to note the post from a writer I admire. I identify, even though our children are the victims of different monsters.
http://www.schuylersmonsterblog.com/2011/01/those-stars-is-universe-of-gliding.html
January 18, 2011
My 25-Cent Take on Prayer
"That and a quarter will get you nothing."
Sad words.
Spoken by someone I love.
Referring to prayer.
I have mentioned before that my spiritual life is not what it should be.
I rarely attend church, even though I grew up going to Mass with my Catholic mom (and agnostic dad). A big reason I don't attend is because Daniel "cannot." We would receive too many stares, from too many ignorant people. And, in all fairness, he would be a disruption. (Although I think God would say, "So what? He is as much my child as any other." You know, suffer the little children to come onto Me, and all that.)
I also must confess that I am no Biblical scholar. I do, and believe, any number of things that the leadership of the Church would condemn.
But ....
I believe in a higher power. More specifically, I believe in God.
And ....
I would never, ever say that prayer is worthless.
I know many people feel that way. It doesn't make them bad people. Some of the smartest people I know are atheists or agnostics, and they are good, moral people.
But prayer is never meaningless. To even suggest a thing, I think, is insulting-- and, well, ridiculous. Even if the atheists are right, and there is no God, prayer has meaning.
When we pray, we recognize that we are not infallible. We acknowlegde our own limitations.
When we pray for others, we acknowledge our love for them. And, call me crazy, but I believe there is value to positive thoughts, expressed in a focused, sincere way. They sure as heck don't hurt anything.
When we pray, we reject evil. And without a doubt I believe there is plenty of that lurking in this world. All too often it is cleverly disguised--the "helpful" person is really just a shyster with a selfish agenda, hoping to manipulate, and willing to destroy those who stand in the way. I can't help but wonder if people who have turned from prayer with disdain have done so because they have been overtaken by a force of evil.
When we pray we are true to ourselves--our fears, our hopes and our insecurities.
And, perhaps most of all, when we pray, our hearts cannot help but soften.
I have prayed many times for my son, and what I have asked for has changed over the years, as I have reached greater amounts of acceptance with regard to his disability.
I will never understand how God operates. I do not expect to wake up one day and find that my child's limitations miraculously have been removed. I do believe, though, that prayer can only help me be a better mom--and surely the good Lord knows He has not heard a lot from me lately.
So, tonight, as I stop to consider the words I noted above--when I think about how uncomfortable I was with the sentiment--I vow to seek solace in some praying of my own.
I will acknowledge my limitations and ask for greater patience.
I will ask that He one day bring words, in whatever form, to my son. And to Clark, and Rhema, and all the children whose lives are touched by autism and developmental disabilities.
I will ask Him to help my daughter be the kind of sister her brother will need.
I will ask Him to heal my son's broken foot, and my broken heart.
I will ask that He help deliver my loved ones from evil.
And I will go to bed knowing that my prayers have meaning--meaning beyond measure.
Sad words.
Spoken by someone I love.
Referring to prayer.
I have mentioned before that my spiritual life is not what it should be.
I rarely attend church, even though I grew up going to Mass with my Catholic mom (and agnostic dad). A big reason I don't attend is because Daniel "cannot." We would receive too many stares, from too many ignorant people. And, in all fairness, he would be a disruption. (Although I think God would say, "So what? He is as much my child as any other." You know, suffer the little children to come onto Me, and all that.)
I also must confess that I am no Biblical scholar. I do, and believe, any number of things that the leadership of the Church would condemn.
But ....
I believe in a higher power. More specifically, I believe in God.
And ....
I would never, ever say that prayer is worthless.
I know many people feel that way. It doesn't make them bad people. Some of the smartest people I know are atheists or agnostics, and they are good, moral people.
But prayer is never meaningless. To even suggest a thing, I think, is insulting-- and, well, ridiculous. Even if the atheists are right, and there is no God, prayer has meaning.
When we pray, we recognize that we are not infallible. We acknowlegde our own limitations.
When we pray for others, we acknowledge our love for them. And, call me crazy, but I believe there is value to positive thoughts, expressed in a focused, sincere way. They sure as heck don't hurt anything.
When we pray, we reject evil. And without a doubt I believe there is plenty of that lurking in this world. All too often it is cleverly disguised--the "helpful" person is really just a shyster with a selfish agenda, hoping to manipulate, and willing to destroy those who stand in the way. I can't help but wonder if people who have turned from prayer with disdain have done so because they have been overtaken by a force of evil.
When we pray we are true to ourselves--our fears, our hopes and our insecurities.
And, perhaps most of all, when we pray, our hearts cannot help but soften.
I have prayed many times for my son, and what I have asked for has changed over the years, as I have reached greater amounts of acceptance with regard to his disability.
I will never understand how God operates. I do not expect to wake up one day and find that my child's limitations miraculously have been removed. I do believe, though, that prayer can only help me be a better mom--and surely the good Lord knows He has not heard a lot from me lately.
So, tonight, as I stop to consider the words I noted above--when I think about how uncomfortable I was with the sentiment--I vow to seek solace in some praying of my own.
I will acknowledge my limitations and ask for greater patience.
I will ask that He one day bring words, in whatever form, to my son. And to Clark, and Rhema, and all the children whose lives are touched by autism and developmental disabilities.
I will ask Him to help my daughter be the kind of sister her brother will need.
I will ask Him to heal my son's broken foot, and my broken heart.
I will ask that He help deliver my loved ones from evil.
And I will go to bed knowing that my prayers have meaning--meaning beyond measure.
January 17, 2011
My Daughter, My Foundation
My daughter watched her brother get his cast .
She witnessed it all.
His screams, his pain, his confusion.
She watched me restrain him. She surely noticed how much I struggled to hold him still--how he struck out in fear.
How did she process it all?
How can I know for sure? She is only five-years-old.
But I know that she is incredibly attuned to my feelings. She has been for a very long time.
I know that she must have sensed my desperation and my sadness, as I struggled to keep her brother still.
She was incredibly interested in what was going on, and she watched closely at first.
But, after a while, I think her brother's screams became too much for her, and she crawled under the table and hid.
I wanted to acknowledge her in some way, as I held her brother so tightly that I thought my muscles might spasm. I didn't want her to think that I had forgotten about her.
So I praised her for her patience. I told everyone in the room what a wonderful, helpful sister she was.
And I tried to reach out to her with my voice, even as I clung to her brother with everything I had, and counted down the minutes until the whole ordeal would be over.
"Isn't it amazing, Olivia," I said to her, "how doctors can fix broken bones."
Less than 24 hours later, my daughter says to me:
"Mama, do you know what I want to be when I grow up? I want to be an autism doctor."
I can hardly type the words without crying.
If I wondered what kind of impression Daniel's injury made on Olivia, I knew when I heard her words.
Isn't it amazing how doctors can fix broken bones ........ I want to be an autism doctor .......
I have no idea what my daughter will be when she grows up.
But I know that right here, right now, she is the person who keeps me smiling.
She is my rock, my foundation, my greatest joy.
She witnessed it all.
His screams, his pain, his confusion.
She watched me restrain him. She surely noticed how much I struggled to hold him still--how he struck out in fear.
How did she process it all?
How can I know for sure? She is only five-years-old.
But I know that she is incredibly attuned to my feelings. She has been for a very long time.
I know that she must have sensed my desperation and my sadness, as I struggled to keep her brother still.
She was incredibly interested in what was going on, and she watched closely at first.
But, after a while, I think her brother's screams became too much for her, and she crawled under the table and hid.
I wanted to acknowledge her in some way, as I held her brother so tightly that I thought my muscles might spasm. I didn't want her to think that I had forgotten about her.
So I praised her for her patience. I told everyone in the room what a wonderful, helpful sister she was.
And I tried to reach out to her with my voice, even as I clung to her brother with everything I had, and counted down the minutes until the whole ordeal would be over.
"Isn't it amazing, Olivia," I said to her, "how doctors can fix broken bones."
Less than 24 hours later, my daughter says to me:
"Mama, do you know what I want to be when I grow up? I want to be an autism doctor."
I can hardly type the words without crying.
If I wondered what kind of impression Daniel's injury made on Olivia, I knew when I heard her words.
Isn't it amazing how doctors can fix broken bones ........ I want to be an autism doctor .......
I have no idea what my daughter will be when she grows up.
But I know that right here, right now, she is the person who keeps me smiling.
She is my rock, my foundation, my greatest joy.
Broken Voices, Broken Hearts and Broken Toes
Fractures of the fourth and fifth metatarsals.
The day started with me waking up a grumpy daughter who did not wish to rise. As she she settled down to eat her breakfast, I went to wake my nonverbal seven-year-old son, who had injured his foot the evening before.
Daniel is a monkey. He loves to climb. And even though he is careful, he takes risks. I know it probably sounds ridiculous to make those two comments in the same sentence, but parents with children on the severe end of the spectrum will understand. Let me put it this way: he appreciates that he might fall, but he is a boy who loves to climb.
And, as I mentioned, communication is not his speciality, so he always has preferred to take care of his needs, and especially his wants, himself.
Which explains how he wound up falling from the very high shelf in my closet--the one where I had stored the Halloween trick-or-treat pumpkins. I thought they would be out of sight, out of mind.
I should have known better.
I heard the crash. I heard the screaming.
That was last Thursday evening.
I thought, and hoped, he had an ankle sprain. Two people even looked at it and said as much. OK, so they weren't doctors, but they were guys who probably have had their share of ankle sprains.
But when Daniel woke up on Friday morning and still wouldn't put any weight on his foot, I began to get very scared.
I took Olivia to school and then began a series of phone calls to the doctor's office.
We can't see you until after 3, they told me.
Ah, that is not going to be good enough, I said. I have a nonverbal seven-year-old who might have a broken foot and I have to carry him everywhere. I also have a five-year-old. And, at the moment, I have no help (something I could have said many times over the past few years). I can't wait until the end of the day to start this process. He is in pain. Something needs to happen--now
Go ahead and bring him for an x-ray, they said.
Thank you, I will.
I drove 20 minutes to an unfamiliar hospital, carried my 55-pound child from the parking lot, placed him in chairs at two waiting places, filled out a ton of paperwork, carried him back to radiology, and then--joy-of-joys--restrained him while he got an x-ray of his foot.
Then I rushed out to the car so that I could pick up my daughter from school on time.
The three of us then went to the doctor's office, to await word of the x-ray results.
(Daniel was acting terribly. Somebody could have shot a film of his behavior in that office and played it for audiences around the world. "This is what a child with severe autism looks like," the narrarator might say. It was that bad. Of course, he had a broken foot, to go along with the major behavior problems that have sprung up recently, so what could I possibly have expected?)
Two broken bones.
Shit.
I would gladly accept a dozen broken bones in my own body before wanting Daniel to have one.
Any mother would probably say the same. (Well, a lot would. I have seen a few very selfish mothers, both when working for the juvenile court system and more recently.) I say it with a little more zeal than most moms, though, because Daniel, is Daniel. And everything in his life is so much more complicated than it should be.
But life is life. And bones break.
So, what do we do, I asked.
You take him back to the hospital and go see the orthopedic specialist--immediately.
So, Daniel, Olivia and I drive to the hospital.
More paperwork. More carrying. (Thank goodness I have been lifting weights the past year.) And, then the highlight of my day, I get to restrain my son while two very nice people put a cast on his foot.
It was torture.
Pure, agonizing torture.
I held Daniel in my lap and did my best to pen his good leg and both arms. I had to grip both of his forearms with all my might. Whenever he got a hand free of my grasp, he would claw, hit, pull my hair, you name it. I dodged multiple headbutts, but he landed plenty.
I wondered what must have been going through his mind.
Why does my foot hurt so badly?
What are these people doing to me?
How long is this going to take?
I hate the feeling of this thing on my foot!
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. How long is it going to hurt?
That was Friday afternoon.
He seems to have figured out that the cast is there to help him. He is motoring around on it quite well.
Indeed, he is climbing.
Four weeks with no swimming and no bath. Did I mention how much Daniel loves water.
Somehow, we will get through it.
But I can say this about life: sometimes when it rains, it really does pour.
The day started with me waking up a grumpy daughter who did not wish to rise. As she she settled down to eat her breakfast, I went to wake my nonverbal seven-year-old son, who had injured his foot the evening before.
Daniel is a monkey. He loves to climb. And even though he is careful, he takes risks. I know it probably sounds ridiculous to make those two comments in the same sentence, but parents with children on the severe end of the spectrum will understand. Let me put it this way: he appreciates that he might fall, but he is a boy who loves to climb.
And, as I mentioned, communication is not his speciality, so he always has preferred to take care of his needs, and especially his wants, himself.
Which explains how he wound up falling from the very high shelf in my closet--the one where I had stored the Halloween trick-or-treat pumpkins. I thought they would be out of sight, out of mind.
I should have known better.
I heard the crash. I heard the screaming.
That was last Thursday evening.
I thought, and hoped, he had an ankle sprain. Two people even looked at it and said as much. OK, so they weren't doctors, but they were guys who probably have had their share of ankle sprains.
But when Daniel woke up on Friday morning and still wouldn't put any weight on his foot, I began to get very scared.
I took Olivia to school and then began a series of phone calls to the doctor's office.
We can't see you until after 3, they told me.
Ah, that is not going to be good enough, I said. I have a nonverbal seven-year-old who might have a broken foot and I have to carry him everywhere. I also have a five-year-old. And, at the moment, I have no help (something I could have said many times over the past few years). I can't wait until the end of the day to start this process. He is in pain. Something needs to happen--now
Go ahead and bring him for an x-ray, they said.
Thank you, I will.
I drove 20 minutes to an unfamiliar hospital, carried my 55-pound child from the parking lot, placed him in chairs at two waiting places, filled out a ton of paperwork, carried him back to radiology, and then--joy-of-joys--restrained him while he got an x-ray of his foot.
Then I rushed out to the car so that I could pick up my daughter from school on time.
The three of us then went to the doctor's office, to await word of the x-ray results.
(Daniel was acting terribly. Somebody could have shot a film of his behavior in that office and played it for audiences around the world. "This is what a child with severe autism looks like," the narrarator might say. It was that bad. Of course, he had a broken foot, to go along with the major behavior problems that have sprung up recently, so what could I possibly have expected?)
Two broken bones.
Shit.
I would gladly accept a dozen broken bones in my own body before wanting Daniel to have one.
Any mother would probably say the same. (Well, a lot would. I have seen a few very selfish mothers, both when working for the juvenile court system and more recently.) I say it with a little more zeal than most moms, though, because Daniel, is Daniel. And everything in his life is so much more complicated than it should be.
But life is life. And bones break.
So, what do we do, I asked.
You take him back to the hospital and go see the orthopedic specialist--immediately.
So, Daniel, Olivia and I drive to the hospital.
More paperwork. More carrying. (Thank goodness I have been lifting weights the past year.) And, then the highlight of my day, I get to restrain my son while two very nice people put a cast on his foot.
It was torture.
Pure, agonizing torture.
I held Daniel in my lap and did my best to pen his good leg and both arms. I had to grip both of his forearms with all my might. Whenever he got a hand free of my grasp, he would claw, hit, pull my hair, you name it. I dodged multiple headbutts, but he landed plenty.
I wondered what must have been going through his mind.
Why does my foot hurt so badly?
What are these people doing to me?
How long is this going to take?
I hate the feeling of this thing on my foot!
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. How long is it going to hurt?
That was Friday afternoon.
He seems to have figured out that the cast is there to help him. He is motoring around on it quite well.
Indeed, he is climbing.
Four weeks with no swimming and no bath. Did I mention how much Daniel loves water.
Somehow, we will get through it.
But I can say this about life: sometimes when it rains, it really does pour.
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