We’ll all laugh about this someday…well at least you probably will

Today we had an Autism triple-threat!  A trifecta of circumstance so horrific I have no recourse but to retreat to my bedroom with a case of Coke Zero, Ruffles and French Onion Dip, and a double-issue of People Magazine with an exclusive expose’ on Toddlers & Tiaras.

There was an episode of Lassie (oh would you just indulge me this once) where Timmy woke up one morning, sat down to breakfast and sneezed once and was immediately bedridden with Scarlet Fever.  While the ghost of Christmas future stood watch from the corner of the room and Aunt Bea and Barney wrung their hangs in distress, Lassie ran to Walnut Grove to summon Doc Baker.  Tonto hitched up the wagon and they made their way back to the farm where Doc Baker administered aspirin and after several time-lapsed scenes of worried pacing – Timmy awoke to Lassie licking his face and they all lived happily ever after…until he got involved with that Nellie Olson but that’s another story.

Today was absolutely nothing like that.

Last night in the bath, EB laid his head back in the water.  He realized that his voice sounded funny and began welcoming “visitors” to Earth.  This was to my amusement, so I grabbed my iPod and took about a minute of video for future generations.

Then I rinsed him off and to bed we went.

This morning wasn’t out of the norm at all.  He woke up around 4 a.m. complaining that he was starving for pizza.  I convinced him that he wasn’t and he went back to sleep.  Or at least I did.  When I formally woke up at 6 a.m. he was watching YouTube videos of people playing Mario Kart.

An insane side note we just discovered:  At some point this morning EB created subgroups on his iPad and sorted all of his apps.  He named them “peterg” (Peter’s Games), “peterb” (Peter’s Books), “petered” (Peter’s Education), and “petervg” (Peter’s Video Games).  All alone at the bottom was this poor little bastardized icon entitled “Mommys W S”  (Mommy’s Work Stuff) which included the stock market, weather, settings – all the stuff that comes preloaded – and NPR).  How in the heck does a five year old do that?  To not only be able to read, but to create these subgroups, to sort things, and to name them appropriately?

We went to grandma and grandpa’s house for breakfast.  He had pancakes.  All was well.  Then we came home briefly before leaving to meet his friend, Clara for a play date.  I should’ve known something was up when he started screaming about how he doesn’t want to go to his old school (the playground was near his old school) and that old friends aren’t silver or gold (yeah, so screw you girlscouts) and that he just wanted to go home and eat the day away (don’t we all young one, don’t we all…)  I texted E, Clara’s mom to let her know to be on guard that this could go really not well.

We arrived and he seemed okay.  He mentioned his ear hurt.  I thought about the bath last night.  I suggested that maybe there was some water in his ear.  Playing ensued.

A few minutes into things he began to come to me crying and mention that he wanted to go home, that his ear hurt.  I encouraged him to drink water, run around and play for a minute and see if it was better (at this point I wasn’t sure if he was projecting his anxiety about the playdate into a physical malady or not)…

Minutes later it was clear that regardless of the cause we had to go.  I apologized to E and Clara, as he screamed that he didn’t want to play with her anymore, and that he wanted to go away and never see Clara again (thankfully she is the most sanguine and forgiving child ever).  I shuffled him to the car, and realized that despite being removed from the potentially uncomfortable social setting, he was still increasingly upset.  I knew that his ear must really be bothering him.  I drove up to a pediatrician’s office and by chance they had Sunday hours.  They were available from 1-3, and it was 1:30.  That was divine intervention.  I shuffled him upstairs, explained that we were not patients there, that I didn’t have proof of insurance, or you know “an appointment” but in a whispered voice with quivering lips I said “Please, he has Autism.”

They got him right in.  Which I think they would’ve done regardless, but I was so grateful.  I filled out mountains of paperwork with him screaming in pain.  When we got into a room the nurse suggested he take some Motrin.

I laughed.  Through the tears – mania style.

“He doesn’t take medicine.” I said.

“We can try.” she countered.

Good freaking luck – I thought – and then she handed him a small cup of Motrin and told him that it would help his ear feel better and he drank it.

Oh, well, that was unexpected.

The meltdown continued while we waited for the doctor.  It was rough.  I was in tears.  He was in tears.  About 25 minutes into it I realized that I had my Blackberry and thought possibly I could pacify him with Facebook.

Even better, there was an app for YouTube.  Freaking YouTube, Blackberry has joined the 21st century, and I am so happy.

BB:   -+-+- You my incur additional network charges for using this application. -+-+-

Me:   Whatever.  Solace has no price.

This story is getting far too long and indulgent.  Let’s speed it up.  Enter doctor, diagnosis of severe ear infection, prescription for oral antibiotic.

On the way home I call Gus and tell him the exact brand, flavor, size, color, etc. of “Motrin” that was acceptable (because I assure you that he would know if it was Walgreens brand instead of Target).

I drop EB at home with his Developmental Therapist, Cassandra and make my way to the pharmacy to get the antibiotic filled.  While I’m waiting I fill my cart with 58 dollars of absolute crap.

Return home, Google social stories about taking liquid meds, decide I will have to make something and I’m just too tired at the moment and clearly he’s an expert med taker and I just didn’t know…

Glowing, acidic, chalky substance in one hand, sippy cup full of Coke in other.

“1…2….3…drink the medicine.  Drink it and you can have a new DS game!  OMG Yay!  You are doing such a great…”

SPEW

“F*ck!”  ”Drink the Coke.  Please finish it, baby.  Two DS games.  Dominos.  Anything you want….”

Spew, spit, gag, thrash…scream, cry, spit some more.

“If you don’t take the medicine your ear will fall off!”  (Oh like you’d have something better?)

Was it defeat?  A whole dose not achieved.  Or rather, a success….1/2 dose achieved.  Two more doses to go.

Ah yes, the triple threat:

The Ear.  The Autism.  And the Antibiotic.

Someday this will be really funny.

Maybe you’re laughing already.

Too soon, man.  Too soon.

 

 

Twenty years – in the blink of an eye.

Today is my Daddy’s 65th birthday.

But he’s not here to celebrate with me.

He died 20 years ago tomorrow from a massive heart attack.

I was thirteen.

This came up in conversation recently.  I mentioned his passing, the suddenness, my impressionable age at that juncture in life.

My partner in conversation reflected for a moment.  Then he said “Wow, could there be a worse age for that to happen?”

I never thought about it that way.

Let’s be real.  There is no good time to lose your father.  But it is true that there was a special cruelty in fate in taking the man I idolized so indiscriminately and unexpectedly – when I was at my most vulnerable.

It’s true also that there is no way to escape something like that unscathed.  I’ve managed the fall out in one way or another ever since.

Remember when you realized your parents were fallible?  Try reconciling that when they are no longer here.

Imagine seeking a father-figure in a mate.  Imagine the millions of ways that can fail.

My father was my hero and he was not perfect.

To commemorate twenty years of succeeding and failing about being the daughter that I believe I should be:  I treated myself to a haircut.  It’s absolutely hideous.  Fitting for a day I reflect on and celebrate my imperfections.  Not fitting should there be anywhere in public I need to be in the next 8 weeks.

Sometimes everything feels so overwhelming.  I often wish I could freeze time, escape to my own private island for while (a year, that should do it) to reflect, process, and heal.  Then I could come back “all better” and ready to face the world.

This clearly isn’t an option.  I would have to at least take a sushi chef and a container full of coke zero ergo I wouldn’t be alone.

Truthfully I know that the only way to process, to reflect and to heal is within the context of life as I know it.

I don’t know that I’ll ever be okay with the loss of my father.  I grieve for the relationship I missed.  I wish I knew him as a person and not just as this abstract figure that I both feared and held in reverence.

I wish he knew me as the woman I am today.  I wish he were here for my Mama.  I wish he were here to know his namesake…to celebrate the big and little things with Everybody’s Boy.  Like today, EB lost his first tooth.  I wish he were here to experience that.

I carry him with me.  In my ethics, my mannerisms, and most importantly when I catch a glimpse of his mischief in his grandson’s smile. Or see the depth of his character in the outcomes of my work.

His legacy lives on; in me, in Peter, and in generations to come.

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

I love you and miss you immensely.

In memory of Peter Gustaf Holmberg

9.15.1946 – 9.16.1991

 

 

Ten years of reflection

There are several significantly horrendous dates in my history.  I have experienced a lot of loss in my life. Thankfully a good sense of humor, and a tenacity to continue forward motion has enabled me to continue life fairly unscathed.

I think my therapist calls it “resiliency”.

I think it’s more that I’m petrified that if I really were to allow myself to feel those neglected emotions – well that I would absolutely self-destruct – and that would not be very convenient at this juncture in my life.

But communal grief – that’s on a whole ‘nother level – a level in which I can feel comfortable succumbing to my own sadness.

I didn’t lose anyone close to me on September 11, 2001.  Yet, it is significant nonetheless.

The pain of loss and fear are universal.

When I was thirteen I left for school the morning after my father’s 45th birthday.  When I got home that afternoon he had died of a massive heart-attack.

So sudden unexpected loss – I understand.

The fabric of our global community changed on September 11, 2001.

Weeks after the terror attacks I found out that I was pregnant.  I was 23, unmarried, and had just been laid off from my job selling cell phone contracts.

Shortly afterwards I married.

When I was 25 weeks pregnant, after two months of bedrest, high-tech genetic testing and second/third/fourth opinions – my baby – my son – died.  He had a 1 in a million congenital disorder in which his kidneys didn’t work.  ”Incompatible with life” was the prognosis.  We named him Bradley.

I spent the next month in bed, taking painkillers, first to numb my physical pain – later to numb my emotional pain.  I hadn’t known I wanted to be a mother until the option was taken from me.

Less than three months after Bradley died my (now ex-)husband accepted a job with the U.S. Department of State.  We moved to D.C. and seven months later we moved to Mauritius.

There I spent nearly two years in this utterly amazing, yet surreal, world as a psuedo-diplomat. I was far too young/immature to comprehend the gravity of those experiences.  I was 14,000 miles from the only home I’d ever known.

I was lonely.  Still grieving the baby that should’ve been crawling, walking, talking.

I wanted another baby like I’d never wanted anything else.

I was struggling immensely during this time with my eating disorder. I was very unhealthy.

Yet still, I got pregnant in May 2004.  I miscarried at 9 weeks.

A few months later my marriage ended and I left the surreal life of psuedo-diplomacy for the even more daunting experience of repatriating to America.

I remember entering a grocery store shortly after my arrival “home”.  I remember breaking down and sobbing in the cereal aisle.  I was utterly overwhelmed by choice – by excess – by the American “way”.

Oh but I acclimated.  Forward motion.

I met a wonderful man.   I fell in love.  I believed that love would conquer all.

Then my grandmother died in a horrific freak accident.

More unexpected loss.

I wondered what knowing a loss was coming was like?  I wondered if it were easier to have time to prepare or worse.

I also wondered what was next.

Happy things were next.  The wedding of my dreams.

Another pregnancy.  This time the baby was healthy.  I took my hits, with 16 weeks of bedrest and severe preeclampsia, but the baby was born alive.

He came early, due to my health, and at 36 weeks he was born on my birthday.

Closure.  Finally.

You know pretty much how it went from there.

He was the perfect baby I dreamed of.  In so many ways, he righted all the wrongs in my world.

Then there’s the Autism.

Enter that long drawn out “not knowing” feeling I’d always wondered about.

It turns out that it’s not easier than the sudden shock.

It no easier processed or controlled.

It’s hard.  It’s scary.  It’s utterly exhausting.

Some days – like today – I just want to walk away for a few hours until I can find my sanity.

I’ve asserted that Autism is not devastating to our family a time or two.  I feel like I should qualify that.

It *is* devastating.  But I can’t allow myself to feel it for us.  I have to feel it for the entire community.  I have to include ourselves in the fold, because then, for some reason I can immerse myself in the pain and the loss.

When I look at our little family, I still feel an immense gratitude, simply because my child is here.  He is alive.  That’s something that I honestly never thought I’d have.

He might not have siblings.  I might have to concede that at some point.  Our journey – his journey – is profoundly different.  It’s harder than it would be without the Autism.  But I can touch him, I can watch him breathe at night – he’s really here.  This baby lived.

That – to me – is still surreal.

On days like today, while I am typically unceremonious, I do find myself tearing up.  Loss is devastating no matter what form it takes. No matter if it’s holding your stillborn child or constantly replaying the possible scenarios of how your love one died ten years ago today.

So today I reflect, I cry, and I offer prayers to whatever heavenly body may or may not exist on this day.

Because resilience doesn’t mean that we forget; means that we move forward in humble reflection.

 

 

 

‘Splaining in Pictures

I have a phobia.

It’s bigger than my fear of bridges.

It causes me to micro-manage and over-analyze, to obsess and to doubt until I retreat from the world; talking myself in circles until the anxiety, the guilt, and the shame destroy me.

There are times that I have doubted that Everybody’s Boy has Autism.

I nearly vomited writing those words.

Because the fear, the one that is worse than the tallest bridge?

It’s the fear of being a fraud.

Image is not everything.  It’s only half of everything.  Integrity – that’s the other half.

When he was diagnosed -in the beginning - I didn’t doubt.  I couldn’t.  It was so glaringly obvious, so black and white, that I could do nothing but see the Autism.  I remember that with the diagnosis evaluation, someone accidentally included the “CARS” score-sheet which said in bold across the top (For Diagnostic Purposes Only – File) with the handwritten post-it note that said “don’t copy, not for parents”.  The sheet had a scale at the bottom.  Everybody’s Boy had scored “moderate-severe”.

When I caught my breath after reading that I put it back in an envelope and returned it to our case manager.  I made a copy first, for the binder.  It was too late, the “damage” had been done.  I’d seen it.

Though I never saw my son through the lens of profoundly disabled.  He wasn’t.  He isn’t.

Instead we fought to implement a regimented early intervention schedule.  We have maintained speech, occupational therapy, and developmental therapy for three and a half years.  We were fortunate enough for him to experience a focused early intervention program through the school system.

We have constantly seen forward progress.

He was practically nonverbal until he was 3.5.  Now his vocabulary is more extensive than a majority of his peers.  While it’s too soon to officially make the call, I’m fairly certain that no one would argue that his cognitive ability is (at least) average.  He reads.  He can understand general scientific and mathematical concepts.

How dare I say my child has Autism?

How can there be such an expansive Spectrum?

I hear the term “mild autism” from time to time.  It seems such a misnomer. How does one have “mild” Autism?   I posed a similar question to my friends on Facebook recently (in reference to a comment on “slight autism”) and one replied that was like being “slightly pregnant”.

So I wondered if possibly parents were trying to play down their child’s Autism with these terms?  Or if doctors were using it as a descriptive (kind of like how ADHD became almost cliche’ in the 90′s) to explain a set of characteristics? Or if perhaps some form of “mild autism” that I’ve never seen before does exist- and seemingly affects a good deal of the population.

For years Everybody’s Boy’s therapists and my friends who work in the field have tried to explain Autism to me.  For years I have nodded that I understood because I couldn’t imagine admitting my stupidity to the most patient people in the world.

But I get it now.  I get it and I want to shout it from the roof-tops.  I understand! All it took was an everything bagel and a memo pad.  I just needed a visual and a carb.

I am not a fraud.  

All the people who have worked with my child are not totally wrong, or worse trying to appease my neurosis by treating my child for a disorder he does not have.  (Did I mention that I have analyzed this to death?  I wasn’t kidding).

It’s my duty to share this.  Because I am not the only person who goes through this doubt and confusion.  If I were – the picture on the memo pad would not exist.  Some one drew it for another crazy mom, and then another and then another and…  Hell, some PhD probably drew it to visualize it himself.  You know that guy who invented Autism?  Yeah, this has probably been around since him.  It’s just getting to the people.

In my case, it was courtesy of Katie Brady, Autism Whisperer Extraordinaire. If you live in the Triangle area of NC, and you have a child with Autism (and for real – you do – even if he talks) you must see her, just don’t take our time slot, yo.

Are you ready for it?  Shared, with Katie’s express permission, is the memo pad drawing that saved my freaking sanity.

Here it is.  Scanned with greatest care.  It’s being returned now to the platinum document frame with bullet-proof glass where it shall remain for all eternity.

Cause this picture is my peace of mind.  This picture helps me understand Autism, but also my son.

Before I explain this, I must explain High Functioning Autism vs. Low Functioning Autism.  This is very important because people, inside and outside of the “community” really misunderstand these terms.

High Functioning Autism simply refers to an individuals cognitive functioning (IQ).  If you have a normal or greater IQ and have Autism you are considered “High Functioning”.  Conversely, “Low Functioning” simply refers to IQ as well.  An individual with Autism who had also had an intellectual disability would be clinically diagnosed as low functioning.

The terms have nothing to do with how one functions in life.

Autism is a social, emotional, and neurological disorder.  Those are the primary markers.  Most people with Autism also have Sensory Integration Disorder (or whatever it’s called this week) meaning that they over or under-register sound, touch, movement, textures and visual stimuli.  They also, often have coordination and motor planning (dyspraxia) issues.  For example, EB took a lot longer to learn how to use a fork (he was almost 4) and his balance is still off.  He also has core strength issues due to low muscle tone (hypotonia).

These things are very common on the Autism Spectrum.

Right, so back to my “precious”.  The drawing that gave me my “aha” moment.

You’ll see there are four quadrants, divided by a horizontal line in the center with the far right being high “IQ” and the far left being low “IQ”.

Politically I resent the assertion of anything on the “right” being representative of high IQ, but it’s a picture so I won’t read too much into that.

The vertical line down the middle that intersects (bear with me I didn’t learn the fancy words for this stuff in “Applied Math II”) illustrates “A lot of Autism” at the top and a “Little bit of Autism” at the bottom.

In layman’s terms, how much the person is affected by Autistic symptoms.

We’ll start with the lower left quadrant.  This individual has an intellectual disability and a “little bit of Autism”.  This person might be calmer, more social, and less rigid than other’s with Autism – yet still on the Spectrum because they have the trademark Autism symptoms not found in the general population.

Then we have the upper left quadrant.  This individual has an intellectual disability and a “lot of Autism”.  They may be unable to communicate verbally, may have self-injurious behaviors, and extreme rigidity.

Let’s go to the lower-right quadrant next.  This person has average or above average cognitive abilities.  Often they are socially awkward or “quirky”.  They might have fixed interests, but can function fairly well in society.  These are the Bill Gates kind of leaders we see that are likely undiagnosed (or maybe they are the “mild-autism” people) or possibly even labeled with Asperger’s syndrome.  They are mildly affected by their Autism but are high-functioning enough to gain and retain the skills they need to function with little support in society.

This brings us to the upper right quadrant.  These individuals have average to above average cognitive abilities but they also have a lot of Autism.  They might have extreme difficultly socially and with emotional regulation.  They may be very rigid in their ideas, coming up with very creative schemes but have a very difficult time including their peers in this play.  They may struggle when things don’t turn out as they anticipate, or are different than usual.  They may be rigid in their interests to the point of obsession.  They may also become frustrated and exhibit self-injurious behavior.

Everybody’s Boy is in the upper right quadrant.  While he is not cognitively impaired, he does struggle immensely with social situations and emotional regulation.  Tasks like potty-training and putting on socks have been extremely challenging.  These things must be taught and they must be taught in a way that makes sense to him.

Often it is said that people with Autism “think in pictures”.  Many famous people with Autism have said so themselves.  Temple Grandin even wrote a book called “Thinking in Pictures”.

While I don’t consider myself one who thinks in pictures, I definitely have a strong visual component related to my comprehension of abstract ideas.

It all came together for me.  Not that I understand Autism one bit more than I did a week ago.  But I no longer doubt my child’s struggles are directly related to Autism.

I also see clearly the danger in having unrealistic expectations of individuals in the “upper right quadrant”.  Autism is, oftentimes, the invisible disability.  It’s easy to see a child who is verbal and capable of working at grade level and label their social and emotional struggles as “behavior” problems.

For us, we are fortunate that from the time EB was a baby and my loving mother-in-law noticed the earliest signs to our fortune of ending up in an area rich in resources for and education about the Autism spectrum.

So many people have invested themselves in the story of Everybody’s Boy.  So many people have given their time, money, and hearts to our family.

It’s no accident that I named our story Everybody’s Boy.  In part, because Autism can touch everybody’s boy (or girl) but mostly because each person that has touched our lives is in some way responsible for our child’s success.  His story, his life, his success – all a product of the ‘it takes a village’ philosophy we embrace – means he is intrinsically linked to every person who has touched his life.

After having been given so much, it’s only right that I share (on the rare occasion) that I gain knowledge.

I hope that there is someone out there that needs a graph just as much as I do.

I hope that person is reading this blog.

But most importantly, I hope that person will share it with their friends, family, teachers and professionals.