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Archive for the ‘behavior’ Category

Pa’s fiddle, my DNA profile, & pics of Boo

Posted in autism, behavior, doctor, swimming, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on July 15, 2012| 3 Comments »

Sometimes if I leave too much time between entries, everything happens at once, and then I’m facing the task of the telling of it all.  How about a Reader’s Digest version, at least for now?  I’m so tired; I think I’m getting sick.

  • I got my genome results and now have all this information I can barely understand.  I think I’ll  contact a genetic counselor and see if s/he will go over it all with me.  I am mostly Northern European and I have genetic similarities with the following famous people:

    Famous People

    • C3 Genghis Khan
    • B2a1 Chris Rock
    • E Al Roker
    • E1b1a8a* Desmond Tutu
    • E1b1b1c1* Napoleon Bonaparte
    • G2a3b1a King Louis XVI
    • I1 Jimmy Buffett, Leo Tolstoy, Warren Buffett
    • I1a Alexander Hamilton
    • J Matt Lauer
    • J2a1b Dr. Oz, Mike Nichols
    • O1a1 Yo-Yo Ma
    • R1a Anderson Cooper
    • R1b Charlie Rose, Emperor Nicholas II of Russia, John Adams, John Quincy Adams
    • R1b1 Franklin Pierce, James Buchanan
    • R1b1b2a1a Malcolm Gladwell
    • R1b1b2a1a2d Mario Batali
    • R1b1b2a1a2f Stephen Colbert
    • R1b1b2a1a2f2 Henry Louis Gates, Jr.
    • R1b1c William McKinley, Woodrow Wilson, Zachary Taylor
    • T Thomas Jefferson

    Don’t ask me what the letters in front of the names mean, because I have no clue.  I am such a Heinz 57 that I ‘m genetically similar (in order of closeness) to the:  French, German, Norwegian, Irish, Austrian, English, Australian, Russian, Ukranian, Polish, Italian, Sardinian (an Italian island), North Italian, Tuscan, Basque, Curripaco, Puinave, Palestinian, Bedouin, Druze, Mayan, Pima, Surui, Karitiana, Mozabite, Byaka Pygmy, Mbuti Pygmy, Mandenkalu, Yoruban, and, last but not least, the San –  one of several names used for southern African people who speak “click” languages and whose traditional means of subsistence is hunting and gathering. (yes)   There is information about genetic predisposition to disease and carrier status, but not much that helps Jonah.  There’s no autism gene marker, and I am not a carrier for arthritis or any eye problems.  I actually have a decreased risk of just about everything.   There is a “relative finder” part of the site and I am already hearing from people within the site who think they might be my 3rd or 4th cousins, based on lengths of pieces on DNA strands.  Or something.  I need to take their “Genetetics 101” course.  Lots more to this story but I promised the Reader’s Digest version so there you go….at least for now.

  • I have decided I am going to see Pa’s fiddle and soon, damnit, come hell or high water.  I turn my back on the beach this year and am flying with M to Springfield, Missouri, where we will stay for 4 nights.  The first full day there is when I want to drive to Mansfield and go to the Laura Ingalls Wilder House and Museum.

* It will be my birthday! *

To end, as usual, I will post Saturday-Jonah pictures.  He went to the pediatric rheumatologist on Friday and was more than a little squirrely on Saturday.  But we had plenty of water fun!

Boo in the backseat, sucking his thumb, sittin’ all sideways, listening to old school rap with his dad. Punk Ass.

I tried…

…and tried…

…to get a cool picture of him jumping in, but (A) I’m not a photographer and (B) my camera is your average digital – always seems to take the picture a half a moment after you want it to.

…and finally got him mid-jump!

My happy water-boy-boo

Jonah says “need help?” and his dad lifts him out of the water.

He’d try to make it to the other side of the Hudson if we let him!

Bedtime for me.  It’s like 8pm.  LAME.

My very DNA is achy.  😉

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the eyes have it

Posted in Anderson School, autism, behavior, doctor, Uncategorized, uveitis, tagged , on June 15, 2012| 1 Comment »

I love when Jonah’s school sends me photos:

Jonah, my little Boo, connecting his train cars carefully at school

Oh, Jonah.  Mama and daddy are trying hard to advocate for you while dueling eye docs offer equally insistent yet diametrically-opposed opinions on your Retisert implant & whether or not to take it out.

Eye doc number one strongly recommends NOT taking it out at this time and thinks doing so could be dangerous.

Eye doc number two seems anxious to remove it, and the sooner the better.

Every pediatric ophthalmologist I can find within this area is in the same practice as either doc one or doc two, so no real possibility for another opinion there, and these constant medical problems for my little boy are pissing me off today.

Stop piling all this shit on my child, damnit…. most of Jonah’s doctor visits are two-to-three hours long, odysseys of which Jonah endures with admirable spirit and patience.  The poor kid.  I do research online and pore over articles I can only half-understand even after two or three re-reads.  Today I called the nurse at Jonah’s school and am going to call his primary care doc first thing Monday morning.  We all need to advocate together.  Andy has long shifts of work now so it takes both of us to figure all this out.

There is more.  Doctor number one sees “activity” in Jonah’s right eye indicative of the same uveitis as the left eye.  Now Jonah has drops given to him in both eyes.  I’ve read articles about uveitis, claiming that it is responsible for 17% of vision loss, and I’ve read articles about how glaucoma is treatable until surgery is necessary.  After that I hate the word they say.  Blind.  I’m going to indulge in my histrionic state of mind and say if Jonah loses his vision I will go fucking stark raving angry, mad with the universe, mad crazy.  Mad.

I would never blame Divinity.  I don’t believe God works that way.  I don’t believe “God does not give you more than you can handle” and I do not believe “God only gives special children to special people.”  They are nice things to say but I do not believe them.

“I do not think God makes bad things happen just so that people can grow spiritually.  Bad parents do that, my mother said. Bad parents make things hard and painful for their children and then say it was to help them grow.  Growing and living are hard enough already; children do not need things to be harder.  I think this is true even for normal children.  I have watched little children learning to walk; they all struggle and fall down many times.  Their faces show that it is not easy.  It would be stupid to tie bricks on them to make it harder.  If that is true for learning to walk, then I think it is true for other growing and learning as well.

God is supposed to be the good parent, the Father.  So I think God would not make things harder than they are. I do not think I am autistic because God thought my parents needed a challenge or I needed a challenge.  I think it is like if I were a baby and a rock fell on me and broke my leg.  Whatever caused it was an accident.  God did not prevent the accident, but He did not cause it, either…. I think my autism is an accident, but what I do with it is me.”

 ~ Lou Arrendale, the main character.  He has high-functioning autism.

From Elizabeth Moon’s The Speed of Dark

I agree with Lou’s assessment of what God causes and what God doesn’t.

Years ago, before he had uveitis or glaucoma,                    posing with his big brown eyes

What’s keeping me from freaking out entirely is that God has gifted me with doctor number three, brilliant and kind, who lets me cling to him….all during breakdowns, emergencies, and these kinds of what-the-hell-do-we-do-now decisions.   He’s going to help us get to the bottom of all this.  He’s my ace in the hole.

For now I’m going to just enjoy seeing Jonah tomorrow.  He’s been a good boy, they tell us.  Good in school, good at his house.  Good = no aggressions.  Good is what I will focus on.  What you focus on expands, they say.

Focus.  I really meant no pun.  But for now I’m done.

(I didn’t mean to rhyme, either).

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why did the venus cross the sun?

Posted in autism, behavior, The Anderson School for Autism, Uncategorized, tagged , on June 5, 2012| 1 Comment »

Did you hear they recently linked autism to obesity during pregnancy?   I was a hundred pounds and 5 foot six when I got pregnant, so I guess I’m blowing that theory.  I love the endless links.  It’s almost like they are required by law to link something to autism at least once a week.  It’ll be interesting to hear how Jonah did today because Venus is crossing the sun and won’t do it again until 2117;  it’s been a weird day for me and a bunch of my co-workers too.

Tomorrow I’ll give you my doctoral dissertation about Venus’ crossing the sun, and how that, too, is now linked to autism.

     

But I don’t mean to make fun of autism research.  I’m afraid we’re in the infancy of figuring it all out, though.

Or maybe tomorrow in the newspaper I’ll read they’ve been testing some new non-drug behavioral therapy on children and guess what? it has led each and every one of them out of anxiety and confusion into a place where they feel more comfortable in our fucked up neurotypical world.  Is that the right thing to hope for?

I just want Boo to be at peace with his environment and the people in it.  That’s about it.  I want him to be happy.  I’m not asking for him to take a pill and turn into a “normal” kid.  I just want his demons exorcised, the violence gone, the aggression vanished.  There really isn’t a way to describe how I feel, except very small and very helpless.  It makes me want to gather up every brain cell I’ve got and go get a Masters degree in Autism Spectrum Disorders or Applied Behavioral Analysis, and take all this shit on my own self.  Yeah.  That’s gonna happen.

Jonah’s been good some days and then suddenly bad, throwing his plate,  screeching, and shouting.  I wish I could see at least some of his day, as if on TV.  I want to know what he does and what he says, what he makes in art class and whether or not he manages the cafeteria.  Does he run ahead of the other kids or stay with the pack?  Does he laugh hysterically while throwing puzzle pieces all over the room?  Do they hug him?  Does he run happily to people and want to snuggle?  Does he hurt people, and how bad is it when he does?  Does he get lonely?  Does he think about his mama the way I think about him?

I don’t want him to miss me.

And I don’t like this “transit of Venus” day.  It feels weird.  I’m even writing weird.

  Jonah and his daddy

Jonah loves his daddy so much.  I never doubted Andy would be a uniquely amazing dad to some lucky kid.

Jonah’s that lucky kid.

Now I’m going all stream-of-consciousness and I don’t want to… sorry for the drift-off.

“I know of nobody who is purely autistic or purely neurotypical. Even God had some autistic moments, which is why the planets all spin.”   ~ Jerry Newport

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a fine line

Posted in Anderson School, autism, behavior, grandma, singing, swimming, The Anderson School for Autism, trains, Uncategorized, tagged , on May 20, 2012| 4 Comments »

There is a fine line between telling my story “sans sugar” and telling too much, or, worse, lacing it with saccharine.  The truth is, the narrator is still not exactly sure where she belongs in this world, if she belongs in it at all – but also that this doesn’t matter.  It’s all about Jonah.

For an only child like me it’s a tough pill to swallow sometimes.  It isn’t at all about me.  And yet, can I be relieved of my role in all of this?  Of course not.  Jonah needs his mama.

Still I sometimes think:  I can’t live this life anymore

And:   What a nice hot day to park the car at the top of the Rhinebeck Bridge — so perfectly inviting for suicidals – no barriers to your leap, yet reminding you every few hundred feet or so that LIFE IS WORTH LIVING.  I know I have mentioned this bridge before.  I’ve always wanted to fly, and that view is so spectacular, and if I ever did come to that fine line and cross it, I think that would be my place to fly-bye

And:  I wonder if other people have places in their minds, like I do.   My place is like the cyanide pill they ostensibly give you when you go up in the space shuttle.  It is a choice you may never have to make but one that’s comfortingly there nonetheless

I still, though, think:  I have to do whatever it takes to ensure Jonah’s health, education, happiness, and nurturing.  I must ensure everything.  Some of that everything is making sure things can stay the way the are, and it looks like things are going to need my help for that to happen

And I berate myself:  You ain’t going nowhere, fool

And I can dance around things that were said this weekend, and all the millions of ways, as usual, in which I was spectacularly weak.  But I’ll post pictures too, for Jonah was mostly good, albeit scattered and frenetic.

It was a sunny day, almost too hot.  A beautiful Saturday, and a good portion of Jonah’s day and mood mirrored that.

Andy was kind enough to drive Jonah up to visit us at my mother’s house.

my mom’s next door neighbors kindly let jonah use their play-set and pool, once it’s opened. jonah asked for “Pool?” a dozen or so times.

At home way at the top, my climber-boo

hey mama!!! hey mama!!!

Eventually he wanted to go see train so we piled in the car, Jonah singing along to the Top-40 Andy’s got on the radio.   We were relieved to see the green light down the tracks meaning a train is coming, so we pulled into a parking lot to wait and watch for it, like we’ve done hundreds and hundreds of times before.

This time, though, he got scared of the train after a few seconds.

This was the last of the pictures for the day.

Out of nowhere he grabbed for my hair.  I know what to do when someone pulls your hair (grab their fist and pull it in toward your head) so it wasn’t a big deal.  Andy got out of the car to let me out of the car, and then Jonah burst into tears, sobbing and upset.  Within minutes, though, he was okay and we were able to say bye bye to the train (thank God it wasn’t a long one) and go back to Grandma’s for another shower.  His beloved train reminded him of how much he misses home?  No.  Don’t invent things inside Jonah’s head, I tell myself.  You’ve got enough troubles inside your own. 

Today M and I went on a long Sunday ride, just like in the olden days when it was deemed neither wrong nor unusual to do so.  When we got home I planted flowers in the God-awful hot for about 13 minutes until I felt I would die.  I thought about Andy, and how unless I am mistaken he is working for somebody today doing some mulching under this same heat, and how under that same sun too my boy probably asked for pool ad infinitum.

Tomorrow I have to go back to producing numbers; here I can produce words.  It’s a fine line, my tightrope.  Sundays are difficult.  And I only took 3rd place in a “query letter” contest I was hoping to win.   And I’m not schooled in query letters.  Looks like I have some work to do.  First place was the opportunity and $500 to self-publish.  

I don’t really want to self-publish anyway.  Isn’t that, after all, what I’m already doing?

Anyway.  Jonah has his daddy close-by.  Today, after all that hot work in the sun, Andy came and got Jonah and kept him for another part of the day.

“He was fine,” Andy told me on the phone. “He had a fun day.”

For me, for now, it is enough.  As usual it is still only early evening and I am bone tired.  I imagine Jonah settling in to sleep.  I miss watching him sleep but imagining it is sweet — I can use memories and visions and dreams.  It is good.

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jawbone

Posted in Anderson School, autism, behavior, placement, The Anderson School for Autism, tagged , on April 22, 2012| 2 Comments »

When the principal himself at the residential school for autism
where you bathe live learn eat play please God are loved
calls my cell, I happen to be away from it. He speaks in an even tone.
I am upstairs pouring coffee comfort ritual routine into a blue mug.

A pretty co-worker comes into the kitchen, skirts me silently,
retrieves something from the fridge, and walks away. Invisibility.

My mother has just dropped me off in beginning-of-the-rain grey
after together we’d ushered my suffering sweet Sugar into Sleep.

I return to my cubicle, place the coffee down I am holding my breath
and on the cell phone a red light blinking blinking his area code

I dial into the voice mail it takes me two times, I hear Jonah is okay,
I hear significant incident hear how they tried to redirect him, keep him walking.
He was violently aggressive he needed a two-person takedown;
he likely hurt someone. More than one someone. Surfacing to bite.

Born of me who hated hitting, shrank from violence, submitted every time,
weak and yet I grew a wild white whale inside my womb, Ahab be warned.

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the dreaded area code

Posted in Anderson School, autism, behavior, The Anderson School for Autism, tagged , , , on April 18, 2012| Leave a Comment »

I’m at work and my cell phone rings.  (If it’s the area code where Jonah lives now, my heart goes into my throat, even though they’re usually “only” calling to notify me, as they must, that Jonah was involved in an incident.  That means he probably scratched, bit, kicked, and pulled God knows how many people’s hair.  It means they had to physically restrain him to prevent him from hurting himself or others).

It is the area code, and they are calling me to relate an incident.  When we hang up I call Andy and tell myself to just go back to work.  There isn’t anything I can do.

For years, behaviorists and teachers, psychiatrists, Andy, me – everyone – has been searching for a pattern to Jonah’s aggressions, a cause.  A reason for all this.  It isn’t who he is, the violent kid trying to scratch your eyes out.  It isn’t who he is.  It is as frustrating as anything I’ve ever known.  I don’t want to think about it today.  I want to know my son without having to fear him as well.  Thank God the world is catching on and more & more is being done for people with autism.

They say Jonah loves the new temporary house.  He can see the river and the railroad tracks, and right there you’ve got two of his favorite things:  water and train.

Jonah, at the glaucoma appointment, wearing J's sunglasses, playing it cool

I’m taking a couple days to go offline and see Guster (again) for my last concert this tour.  If I’m lucky, the dreaded area code will not appear on my cell phone until I return.  Be well, Boo.  Your mama loves you.

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kiss quiet

Posted in Anderson School, autism, behavior, grandma, placement, The Anderson School for Autism, Uncategorized, tagged on April 15, 2012| 3 Comments »

Yesterday’s visit with Jonah was awesome!

We all expected him to be thrown off by his temporary move, just the night before, to a different house for 4 or 5 months while Birch House is renovated.  But the caregivers know how to prepare the kids.  Staff took the children to the new house lots and explained over and over again about the move.

But you never know what’ll set Jonah off, and this kind of change seemed likely to have made him angry.

To be honest I really didn’t want to drive down at all.  After losing Sugar and spending a couple days in an “off” place myself, I hesitated to risk another bad Saturday, another violent visit.   My mom would have gone anyway; nothing keeps her from seeing Jonah, but she’s more selfless than I.  In the end I went with her;  I missed Boo awful too.  Plus, it was such beautiful weather so I decided to spin the wheel and hope it landed on GOOD DAY.

It did.  Jonah was happy and excited.  He and I sat in the back of the car on the way to Andy’s apartment, and he sang with me, played with his hands, and looked up front at daddy and grandma.

But he didn’t ask for “daddy in backseat” like usual.  He was content with mama.

We played where is thumbkin and I taught him how to be The Fonz.

Aaaayyyy!

Jonah wanted to kiss me lots.

He’s got this little game he plays where he asks “kiss?  kiss?”  and we move our faces in slowly toward one another until, at the very last moment, he smiles and I end up kissing his teeth.

“Yuck!”  I say with an exaggerated icky-face, which sends Jonah into hysterical giggles.

“Kiss?  Kiss?”  he asks again.  “Oh—kay”, I say slowly, “but only if it’s a real kiss.”  So he arranges his face into mock-seriousness  as we prepare to move in for our kiss but he just can’t help it — the sides of his mouth twitch in suppressed laughter and he and I both start giggling.

Of course everybody gets his or her share of “huck?  huck?” and real kisses too.  Hugs and kisses, bath, park, turkey sandwiches, black soda, Hudson-River-by-the-train-station:

Then holding daddy’s hand and walking back down to see Grandma again…

In the car he wanted “more kisses?” and it made my heart fill up with something usually not present anymore.

“Kiss hand?” he asked, holding his arm out –so I took his little hand and kissed it.

“Kiss cheek?”  he wanted next, so I leaned over and soundly kissed his soft-child cheek.

“Kiss quiet?” he then said, holding out his pointer finger.  I took his finger to my lips and kissed it, tilting my head at him inquiringly. 

Kiss quiet?

He held the finger up to his lips:  “sshhhh.”

Oh!  “Yes, Boo,” I whispered, smiling, admiring the clever way his mind constructs language, the way he is a new kind of lexicographer.  “Kiss quiet.”

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resurrection

Posted in Anderson School, autism, behavior, grandma, potty training, The Anderson School for Autism, Writing, tagged , , , , , , on April 8, 2012| 2 Comments »

“Faithfulness to the past can be a kind of death above ground.  Writing of the past is a resurrection; the past then lives in your words and you are free.”  ~ Jessamyn West 

I know exactly what Jessamyn means, though I’d never have been able to state it so succinctly.  And so resurrection occurs for me this Easter through writing.  When you write about something, your perspective gets to control it; when it has already happened you can shift it…place it under the microscope of your perception.  You can then craft it, shaping it, painting and whittling and building.  When something inside me has died, this is its resurrection.

Several things died inside me yesterday.  I am hoping the writing of them will resurrect.

My mother wanted to drive us down to see Boo for “our Easter” with him.  On the trip I would look over at her, worry over her; she drives the car a little jerkily these days, and she has lost so much weight.  She has not smoked in almost a month, and I told her I was proud of her.  I am.  But for her to quit smoking, she must have been very close to calling-911 sick, that unable to breathe.  She doesn’t let on to things and she does not go to the doctor.  Ever.

And so my mother and Andy and I repeat this process every Saturday, spinning the wheel of Jonah-Fortune, each time getting a different result.  This time my mother and I passed a truck on the way down; on its back was painted a Bible passage about hope and trust in the Lord.  This my mother took to be a good sign.  I took it too.  If  God wants to throw us a bone, I’m a grateful pup.

Anyway, Jonah’s school had an Easter Egg hunt that morning, and Jonah loved it, they told us.  I wish there were pictures, a video.  I wish I could be Big Brother watching.  No, not really.

I just want to watch my son smile and laugh.  He laughed on the way to the apartment.  We held hands and sang Guster songs and Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.  We played Where is Thumbkin…

I took 3 pictures of us.   I’m a homely thing, but I’ll post one anyway.  Jonah must have gotten the cute from his dad’s side. 

When we first got to the apartment everything started as usual — Jonah almost immediately stripping down for a bath, my mother spreading out food on the table, Andy supervising the filling of the tub, me preparing to help where I’m needed.

Downhill it all went, quick as a bunny, you might say, and there isn’t going to be much of a blow-by-blow today because I don’t have it in me.  Jonah ramped up and ramped up, splashing water, then throwing his plate of food, then turning like lightning and going for my face.  I caught his wrists, he scratching the insides of my wrists.  On time-out in the bedroom Jonah decided to use poop as a weapon and started to push.

Andy quickly picked him up and put him on the toilet, where Jonah finished pooping – but not before he got some on the white knitted throw.  Andy did restrictive holds and scolded Jonah while my mom put the bedspread in the sink, scrubbing it, and I stood in silence.  There was fighting and yelling among us all.  It was chaotic and felt dangerous and wrong.  It made me want to scream that scream inside me, the scream that keeps getting bigger, tight and thick as a brick.    All this was supposed to be our little Easter celebration.  I didn’t eat more than a few bites.  I don’t know how long it will take for this to feel like another new normal.

I think it’s time we make an appointment with Jonah’s caseworker and we can all go and talk about Jonah, ask for guidance, find out what’s working for them and what isn’t, find out something.  Find out anything.

Eventually we did get a small amount of playground time with Jonah, and we walked over to the vending machines and bought him pink lemonade. “Pool? pool?” he even asked as we passed the gated, empty, cavernous rectangle .

Yes, bunny, pool is coming…just a few more months…

Then back to the playground, where he actually scampered up the slide and on other play equipment (as opposed to swinging to the exclusion of all else).  Abruptly he asked for “Birch House?” –which is where he lives, right next to the playground.  His bedroom window overlooks it, the play area…his favorite swing… the pool beyond it.  We followed him in to say goodbye.  I know now how to put my brain and heart on NEUTRAL or I couldn’t do this thing again and again and again.

A small scratch Jonah had made just under my right eye stung every time I cried yesterday.  My wrists look mysteriously pocked, almost pecked – The Birds style.

But mostly it’s exhausting emotionally for us all.  Sometimes I don’t think Andy is doing well, I know my mother isn’t doing well, and as for me, writing is my resurrection.    Still, there is doubt in everything I do — in every motive.  Am I too self-conscious or merely self-aware?  Am I hyper-sensitive or is everyone else desensitized?

And how the heck does the Easter Bunny get from house to house?  I do not believe this has ever been explained to me.

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god help jonah

Posted in Anderson School, autism, behavior, Uncategorized, tagged , , on March 26, 2012| 5 Comments »

This past Saturday was okay for a while and then it really wasn’t okay at all.  Part of it was my mental state, which went all to hell on Friday.  But here are a bunch of cool pictures.

Knockout Ned came along.

Jonah put his harness on to get into the car…

Swinging at the park

Looking at “whiteduck.”

…but then in the car he pulled my hair hard, grabbed and bent my glasses, and kicked me in the head.  My mother kept saying “let me get in the back with him.”

I’m not sure if she thought (A) He wouldn’t attack her or (B) She wouldn’t mind it if he did and (C) She certainly wouldn’t be the melodramatic weakling her daughter turns into, crying and sad because she sees her son for 2 hours a week and wants it to be a good 2 hours, a happy 2 hours…

She actually was extremely angry at me for this and not a word was spoken between us on the ride back.

“All I can say,” she declared disgustedly, once we’d arrived home, “is God help Jonah.”

I was pissed at her implication, but I can get behind what she said.  I have never done right by her beloved grandson and I never will.  This I must accept as her perception, one she has a right to, one I mustn’t do much more with than acknowledge.  Thank God I am not so young anymore.  I am learning.  Slowly…but I am learning when silence, forgiveness, and self-examination are best.

Off to another doctor appointment tomorrow, to the rheumatologist again.  Andy’s bringing him up this time.

God help Jonah.

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this gets gross

Posted in autism, behavior, doctor, hospital, Uncategorized, tagged , , , on March 20, 2012| 4 Comments »

Monday morning, and it was so early.  6am, which meant E & J  & Jonah had been on the road since 4, up since, what, 2:30am?  3?  J stayed with Jonah, cat-napping in the van.  E & I signed paperwork and I gulped coffee.  When they brought Boo in we went over to the toys in the children’s area.

He played a little…

… but was mostly very tired.  Yawning...

I suited up and held his hand as they wheeled him into the operating room for his exploratory procedure.  His eyes grew big and frightened.  “Just like when you were born,” I whispered, looking around at all the metal instruments, tables, and lights everywhere.  “It’s okay angel.  Mommy’s here,” I said.  The part where they put the gas mask on your child is the hardest.  Jonah struggled, scared, then a little bit of spittle appeared at his lips and he went to sleep.  It’s hard not to panic.  A nurse kindly ushered me out and I joined E in the cafeteria while J napped in the surgical waiting room.

When Jonah was brought into post-op, they called me in first.  Jonah tossed back and forth and I kept repeating “mama’s here, angel.  mama’s here,”  until his eyes focused on me.    I gave him kisses, brushed his damp hair back.  Then I saw he was gonna puke so I got one of those puke dishes, guided him up, and held it under his mouth, not a moment too soon.  He puked and puked and puked again, before laying back, exhausted.  A kind nurse brought him a popsicle, which I assumed was really some flavored electrolyte-replacer, and Jonah ate a few nibbles.  I put balm on his chapped lips.  After a few minutes he asked for J, then repeatedly, so J and E both came in to see us.  J lay right down with Jonah, almost, cradling him.  This big, muscular, scarred, toothpick-chewing boxer turns softie with my little broken boy.

Then Jonah pukes all over himself.  We replace the robe.  I catch the puke in another basin.  The room is full of puke trays and washcloths and tissues.   Suddenly Jonah says “go baffroom?” and tries to get up, quickly.  “K, homie, let’s go,” J said, expertly guiding both Jonah and his IV pole into the  restroom.  Here I am, all proud that Jonah asked when he needed to go to the bathroom,  reveling in that pride, and as I stare at the restroom door I see a red light flash above it, accompanied by an alarm. “They need help,” I called out automatically.  Someone opened the bathroom door and went in, and I caught a quick glimpse of the chaos within.  Puke and pee and poop, all over the place.

When they finally came out and Jonah came back to the room, dressed in a hospital gown, J excused himself to go wash up.  He’d been, um, spray-splattered.  He was exhausted, nearly gagging, and went off to clean and go outside to get some air and Jonah’s change of clothes.

This man is probably paid twelve dollars an hour.   I might be shooting high on that guess.

When he came back in, he was himself again. “Me and homie on a whole new level now,” he joked, putting his arms around my boy as E figured out all the appointments, coordinating it all.

When we loaded Jonah back in the van, a comfy pillow and blanket set up for him, I watched my boy settle into the soft nest, put his thumb in his mouth, and sigh.

I started crying in gratitude and frustration.  It’s not fair that Jonah has to have autism and have operations and other things wrong with him he can’t even understand, and it’s not fair that people like J and E, and all the caregivers — these amazing, wonderful, patient people who literally care for and watch over our children — are paid so little.  Why? I am not pointing a finger at my son’s school.   It’s like this everywhere.  They don’t have the funding?  Who decides who makes what kind of money?

For that matter, why can’t they institute a sliding-scale tuition based on the parents’ income, and put that money toward salary hikes?  I’d gladly get on board and pay my share.  Not all disabled kids are from poor families.  So the rich disabled kid gets exactly the same free services as the poor one?  It doesn’t seem right.  When the kids become adults I can see the equality, but until then I say the parents who are able to should work together to raise the salaries of people we are counting on and grateful for.

Somehow I got on a rant.  I really didn’t mean to.   Basically his eyes looked good.  Jonah’s left eye had high pressure, but that could have been because he didn’t have his eye drops that morning… so they’ll take a measure in the regular office next week, then see what’s what.

They called me today to tell me Jonah had a one-person takedown (a wrap) to keep him under control.  I was at my doctor’s office when my cell-phone rang, which was weird.  And it’s always a strange conversation, because it’s almost always bad news and so I find myself hoping for news which isn’t that bad.  And there isn’t anything to say – they’re required to call a parent when there is a takedown. Okay then, thanks for calling.  I’m really sorry.  I hope nobody is hurt.  (I know someone is hurt, of course).  Sometimes I don’t even want to know these things.

Sometimes I want to know nothing at all.

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