Aunt Becky’s daughter, Amelia, is the sole reason that The Band exists. Amelia, like so many of our children, was born with a birth defect called an encephalocele. She’s gone on to vigorously beat neurosurgery and the odds stacked firmly against her.
So it’s time to Band Back Together for Birth Defects. Share your stories. Tell your tales. We need to learn about the birth defects that have touched YOUR life. Let’s rock out and tell the world OUR stories.
It’s YOUR turn, The Band!
She was born in September. It was hot. And in 12 weeks, we would be speaking a new language.
My baby was just 2 days old when we learned that our “perfect” world was not to be. My whole life I dreamed of motherhood. It’s what I wanted to do, more than anything. Be a good mom. Raise a family. Teach a little person about my faith.
Rewind to my college days – I was one of those students that changed majors more than once. First I was going to be a teacher; I majored in elementary education. Then after two summers directing a summer camp, I learned that wasn’t really for me. I wasn’t a fan of the parental drama.
Then I was an accounting major. I was going to be a CPA. Then I realized I needed more and ended up an accounting minor with a business administration major in both finance and marketing.
But none of that told me what I wanted to do with my life.
All I cared about was that someday I was going to get to be a mom.
I married my high school sweetheart. We’ve been together since 1992. We got married. Got jobs and got ready to have the “perfectly perfect normal life” that we’d always planned. God has a funny sense of humor sometimes.
And then almost 3 years after we got married, 11 years after we first met, we had Natalie.
And then in 2 days, our world was rocked.
Her bilirubin level of 22 just would not go down.
Our family doctor made the decision to send her to a bigger hospital in a bigger city. He told us that his ego was small enough that he knew that she could get better care and more answers there. The ambulance drove away, and we felt terribly alone. She was whisked away to a NICU and our baptism into a world of medicine was begun.
Our baptism was truly begun with a Baptism.
Natalie was taken to a NICU in a town an hour away from where she was born.
My baby sister Bridget was taken from the same hospital to an ICU just 21 years before, after she was born. She never returned home.
I know that was on my dad’s mind.
My baby sister was born with Transposition of the Great Vessels. She lived 7 days. She was operated on by a fantastic surgeon, who just happened to be the very same surgeon who would perform our daughter Natalie’s very first surgery, a cholangiogram.
The surgeon did his fellowship at Children’s Memorial in Chicago. This same place where Natalie would someday have her liver transplant.
So many coincidences…
Our NICU surgeon made the comment to us that is the title of this entry, “We think it’s Biliary Atresia, but that’s really bad so hopefully that’s not it…”
I don’t hold a single ounce of ill will toward the man. Natalie’s case confused everyone.
She was born with a gallbladder. Albeit a shriveled, ugly, non-working gallbladder. But a gallbladder, nonetheless. And that’s just not common in Biliary Atresia.
In “classic” biliary atresia, by the time most kids are born, their bile duct structure (gallbladder included) has shriveled up and is not working. But Natalie was born 5 weeks early, and it’s a progressive disease – meaning it gets worse as time goes by.
Back to my dad. He’d seen things end badly for his child. I know he had his grandbaby’s soul in mind when he told me that we needed to baptize her.
I am a Catholic.
New babies = Baptism is second nature for me. But the reality of this was too much to bear. I’d had the story of Bridget’s birth and death memorized. I was 4 when she died. Her death is my very first memory. Her death prepared me for my future role, of that I am now certain. But in that moment, I could not face it.
Here I was 2 days after the birth of my child.
I’d had pre-eclampsia. I was induced just two days before following 35 weeks of pregnancy. I was a swollen, puffy blob, having gained 30 pounds in the last month of my pregnancy alone. My husband said that the moment I gave birth to our daughter, my blood pressure had skyrocketed to 250/204. No joke. I was given magnesium to prevent a stroke or a seizure.
My mind was so fuzzy.
I was still in shock.
I wanted my “normal” life back!
I was in denial.
This wasn’t happening.
Why was my dad suggesting that we baptize my baby? Did he think she was going to die? I dug my heels in. (At least I tried to. I could only fit my fat feet into a chewed up pair of black sandals – that my German Shepherd had gotten ahold of.)
So my dad did the good dad thing. He did the responsible thing. He overruled me.
He called our dear friend, the priest. He had been the priest at our church when Jason and I met (we met at church, have I mentioned that?). In walked my dad and the priest, through the sliding NICU doors and over to Natalie’s bassinet. I watched it in slow motion. I remember it in slow motion. I don’t even think I have any pictures of the moment that is forever etched in my mind.
At the time of Natalie’s first surgeries, we had not created a website for our kid, Facebook was not around, and MySpace was a name I called my bedroom. What I am saying is that I did not document my thoughts and feelings at that time, the way that I do now. Not that you would have wanted me to. You see, for the first 3 weeks of Natalie’s life, we lived in our home and visited our baby in the NICU.
We did not know in the beginning that Biliary Atresia would be Natalie’s final diagnosis. She began her stay in the NICU under the UV lights, like any other jaundice case. We’d work on “normal” things, like trying to get her to eat. The first day it was 15 ml every 3 hours, then 20ml, then we finally worked up to a whopping 30 ml. I was encouraged, cheered on even, to keep breastfeeding. And so I did. It gave me a purpose. A sense of control.
And when you can’t control anything, you’ll control that one thing with everything you’ve got.
I took to it like a champ. Strike that. I took to pumping like a champion dairy cow. I focused on finding ways to increase my milk production levels. I found special teas marketed themselves as “Mother’s Milk” tea. My loving husband was my biggest advocate. We’d walk down a long hall, into some section of the hospital that was no longer in use, except for the rare nursing mother pumping session. There was a room with 3 old chairs, a sink, paper towels and soap (for keeping supplies clean) and outlet. Not much more, except for some posters donated by a La Leche League USA. I’d plug my Medela Pump into the wall, take a seat on the old metal chair that was missing chunks of vinyl on the seat, and watch the milk rise in the bottles, feeling victorious as the ounces would climb higher and higher, knowing this was for my girl. The aches I felt, sitting hunched over, were worth it. This was for Natalie. This was making her stronger, this I could do.
After a few days, they did a full blood work-up. Her GGT level was around 1700 (normal is 5 – 55), letting the doctors know that something else was wrong.
They’d take her for an ultrasound. “Inconclusive.” She was born with a gallbladder, after all, and was stumping them.
After this happened 3 times, she had a HIDA scan, and then an open cholangiogram and also a biopsy, all on the day that she turned 2 weeks old.
That’s when our surgeon met with us and drew on a paper towel what we were looking at.
He had opened Natalie up, injected dye, and then tilted the table to watch the flow of the dye. And that’s when he said that he hoped that this wasn’t Biliary Atresia. He and the Pediatric GI attending to us in the NICU, both referred us to a wonderful team of doctors at Children’s Memorial in Chicago. And in the meantime, the biopsy slides were sent to Mayo clinic.
Mayo’s answer came back “Biliary Atresia.” But all other local doctors disagreed. So we got the slides back and took them with us to Children’s Memorial.
When we arrived in Chicago, it was like no place we’d ever been. There were bright colors everywhere. There were multiple waiting rooms with lively fish swimming in tanks. We were escorted to an examination room on the first floor. We thought that we must have been in the wrong place. There were no plaques or diplomas oh the wall. We met two doctors and told them we’d hear the term “breastfeeding jaundice.” The awesome doc, the head of the pediatric gastroenterology at the hospital, gave me a look like I’d just crawled out of a cave. “That is a myth. We’ve disproved it.” OK, I thought. Not going down THAT road with him. I had just had my first lecture by a genius, and I wasn’t a fan of lectures. But it let me know that we were in the right place. They knew their stuff. And above all else, they forbid me to feel guilty.
The fellow (also a doctor, so many levels of hierarchy at the hospital) took the slides and reviewed them. He asked the genius doctor to review them. Their first review said that she may have Cystic Fibrosis. They said it just did not present like “typical biliary atresia.” And so, sweat tests were done = “negative” was the answer. Genetic tests were sent away, and those took 6 weeks to get back. 6 long weeks of desperate waiting. The results came back negative.
After we had left the NICU, we waited for the other shoe to drop. We were still waiting. We waited for the bad news that we knew would come. Every inconclusive answer left me feeling more and more frantic. Genius doctor had told us that for a Kasai Procedure, the procedure to treat Biliary Atresia, to be most successful it must be done by the time the child is 12 weeks old.
The clock kept ticking.
Just a few days later we returned to Children’s and during a follow-up exam, Natalie happened to have a dirty diaper. Genius doctor took one look at it and re-diagnosed her with Biliary Atresia.
Who knew the answer was in the poop?
She was admitted and had another biopsy; it was again inconclusive. The kid is consistent. She then had another cholangiogram, this time a percutaneous type, which was then followed by a Kasai Operation on December 19 of that year. She was 11 weeks old. We’d gotten her surgery in by the time she turned 12 weeks.
Her new surgeon (also a genius), called hers a case of “correctable Biliary Atresia.” We’d learn later that things are not always what they seem and rarely are they as simple sounding as something called “correctable.” But, for the moment, we had an answer.
She got to come home on Christmas Eve.
Little would we know that within a year she would be listed for a liver transplant. I could not have guessed at this point that when she turned 17 months old that I would be giving part of my life to her.
His brain stem is deteriorating, a side effect of the chromosome abnormality he has. Twenty-nine surgeries haven’t been enough to save him, though they have bought him more time with us.
We are told that he’s the only child in the world who has his conglomeration of medical conditions (the chromosome abnormality, spina bifida, a connective tissue disorder, chiari malformation, intracranial hypertension, and another half-dozen minor diagnoses).
The amount of pain medication he receives every day is a drug-addict’s dream, is administered around the clock to keep him from experiencing pain. It is so beyond awful that I don’t have words to express my feelings. Watching him decline is the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life and that is saying something.
As if that isn’t enough, the two children my family adopted from Ukraine eighteen months ago have a lot more “going on” than we were told about.
My two-and-a-half-year old has Down syndrome, autism, and reactive attachment disorder. She functions at the level of a ten month old.
My four-and-a-half year old has Down syndrome, a heart defect that wasn’t repaired properly, systemic juvenile idiopathic arthritis, atlanto-axial instability, autism, tethered cord, syringomyelia, mild hearing loss, and is considered both medically complex and medically fragile.
We’ve been told repeatedly by numerous specialists, that she isn’t going to have a long life. She functions at the level of an eight month old.
Neither of the girls walks, talks, signs, eats (they’re g-tube dependent, just like my six-year old) or interacts well with people (they interact, but only on their terms).
When we adopted the girls, we knew they had Down syndrome and that the four-year old had a heart defect.
Everything else has been a big ‘ol surprise since we brought them home. Honestly, it feels like discovering new problems with our kids never ends.
We didn’t know our son had this chromosome abnormality and would die soon. If I’d known this, I wouldn’t have adopted him, or at least not when I did.
To top it all off, my marriage is falling apart. I know I should care, but I don’t have the emotional capacity to handle it. I just want him to leave me alone. I don’t want to have to deal with him on top of everything else.
I’m struggling in every sense of the word. I don’t know anyone that understand how this feels.
Yes, lots of people have a medically-fragile child.
Yes, lots of people have large families.
Yes, lots of people have multiple children with special needs.
But I don’t know any other people who have a large family with lots of kids with special needs, some who are medically fragile, with one who is terminally ill?
If there are, would someone please point me toward those people? I REALLY could use a friend, someone who’ll say, “This totally sucks!” along with me. I know people don’t know what to say to someone like me, but I still want them to say something – the silence is deafening.
Fourteen and a half years ago, our lives changed forever.
We had already suspected that something was not quite right with Anna. She had stopped nursing after a few days. I assumed that it was my fault, and since I was afraid that she was hungry, switched to formula and bottle feeding. She did well with that for a few days, but then it seemed like a challenge just to get her to drink an ounce. We called the nurses on the maternity floor where she was born and were reassured that she probably just had gas and an upset stomach because of the switch and not to worry.
I was still worried, but we had our first postnatal pediatrician appointment the next day (July 25), so I knew we would get answers then.
In the meantime, I received a phone call from someone from the state of Michigan. I’m not sure – my memories of that are vague. I remember that she told me that Anna had potentially tested positive for one of the disorders in the newborn screening test, and we should go to the hospital to get blood drawn to confirm it.
I was concerned, but still focused on our doctor’s visit.
When we went to see Dr. Simms, her pediatrician at the time, as soon as we were called back to the exam room, she greeted me, looked Anna over, then excused herself to get one of the other doctors.
I guess she wasn’t sure how I would react to what she would tell me next.
he only specialist in the state who saw patients was located at University of Michigan: we were expected down there and we needed to leave as soon as possible. I remember that her southern accent was soothing and the other doctor gently held my shoulders and guided me to a chair, but my mind was in a fog. I didn’t understand… Anna was born healthy. Both of her Apgar scores were 9. That meant we were supposed to live happily ever after.
At the time, Lance was working at Hafer Hardware, and it was lunch time. Dr. Simms allowed me to use the phone in her office to call him. I called the store, but he had just left for lunch. And of course, this was before we had cell phones. I’m sure it was only a few minutes before he finally called back, but it seemed like an eternity.
After reaching him, Anna and I headed home to pack before we headed to Ann Arbor.
On the drive to U of M I poured over my “What to Expect” book. MSUD wasn’t in there. I had heard of it, but only as an ailment of a serial killer in a crime novel I had read, not as a real disease.
When we got to the ER at U of M, Dr. Allen, a neurologist who treated patients with MSUD, and a gaggle of med students crowded into the small room. I remember that he removed Anna’s diaper and passed it around for the students to smell. He then took a swab of her earwax for them to smell. We were completely flabbergasted… what did he think he was doing?
We didn’t realize he was doing it to show the students that both smelled like they had been smothered in Aunt Jemima’s.
You see, there were signs that Anna had MSUD, but we never picked up on them.
She had a very high-pitched, shrill cry, but we joked that she’d sing opera someday. By the time she was 3 days old, she tensed her muscles so tightly she rolled herself over. We bragged that we had a wonder baby who was months ahead developmentally. Her diaper smelled sweet and syrupy.
We chalked it up to being new parents, and being so in love we thought her dirty diapers smelled good.And what we thought was fussiness with the bottle and me not being confident in nursing was actually because her brain had swelled so much that she lost the suck and swallow reflex.
By the time we were in PICU, she had an IV in her scalp because she was so dehydrated that it was the only blood vessel they could use. She had an NG tube giving her nutrition. She was hooked up to heart monitors and pulse-ox monitors. She looked so tiny and helpless there in the bed. We’d never felt so helpless as parents as we did then.
That day is one of the few times I’ve seen my husband break down and sob.
What information we were given about MSUD over the past few days was overwhelming. Most of the official definitions included two very frightening likely outcomes: mental retardation and death.
The prospect of having a child with a restricted low-protein diet was daunting as well. Would we need to become vegetarians, too? If we wanted to eat meat, would we need to hide it from her, making late night drive-thru runs to satisfy our cravings? Those fears seem so trivial now, but they were so real to us then.
Over the next two weeks, Anna got stronger.
After she got out of the PICU, she was moved to a regular room. After she regained some weight and was able to take feedings by bottle, we were able to come home.
She was sent home with the NG tube, as she was still taking about a quarter of her formula that way. Shortly after we got home from the hospital, she grabbed the NG tube and pulled it out, flinging stomach acid all over me. I should have known then that it would serve as foreshadowing for how the next thirteen years would go!
Thankfully, we were able to remove the tube after a week.
As I think back to those days, I also look ahead to what faces us.
When it comes time for her liver transplant, I know that we will face long days in the hospital full of tears, hope, fear, and prayers. The big difference will be that this time, we will be filled with hope.
Hope that although we will be entering a new chapter full of uncertainty, we will be free of the fear that MSUD has caused over the past 14 years.
She was a freaking PRO at latching-on, and breastfeeding went spectacularly. My recently-born third child is also proving himself to be quite the little breastfeeding champ.
My second child? Not so much. He couldn’t get the hang of latching-on, even with special equipment, like those freaky-looking nipple shields.
The stress of a cross-country move three weeks postpartum, moving in with my in-laws, while my husband had to take an extended job out-of-state (he spent eight months of my son’s first year out-of-state), my supply of breastmilk steadily decreased.
I was too poor to get a decent breast pump, we were in-between insurance, which meant that pumping my breasts to keep up my breastmilk supply was not an option.
Multiple lactation consultants and doctors were seen – no success. We began supplementing with formula, and while he was still a colicky baby, he was a little happier as he wasn’t hungry anymore.
I went on medication for postpartum depression when he was a few months old. That officially brought an end to our breastfeeding journey.
I spent several years working through the guilt of being unable to continue with breastfeeding. Every asthma attack he had triggered that guilt. When he developed speech problems, I worried that his difficulty speaking was related to not bonding through breastfeeding, or because I had postpartum depression.
Fast-forward to this past February as my four-year old climbed into the dentist’s chair for his first visit to the dentist.
As she was checking out his teeth, the dentist asked, “Does he ever have trouble with his speech?”
Startled, I told her, “Not really. He had a little trouble when he first started, but his last evaluation was good.”
While poking around in his mouth, she said, “Oh, good. I see that he’s tongue-tied. Not badly, borderline even, but sometimes makes it hard for children to learn to speak.”
I’m not sure what I said in return, because my mind was already jumping – tongue-tied. His frenulum is short, so his tongue’s movement is restricted. Not only can it cause problems with speech, having a tongue-tie can make breastfeeding and latching on difficult.
And just like that, all those feelings of guilt rushed back.
All the doctors and consultants that we had seen – not one had caught that he’d been tongue-tied. A tongue-tie is easily correctable. The frenulum is clipped and, tada, the tongue can move more freely.
Logically, I know that we’d still have had other hurdles to overcome to be able to breastfeed successfully. I know that he’s a smart, (more-or-less) healthy little boy, who wasn’t negatively impacted by being formula fed. I know that, given all the circumstances, formula was the best option for ALL of us. I know that he and I are no less bonded together because his food came from a silicone nipple instead of my own.
But my heart is less practical.
My heart is grieving that loss; that missed opportunity all over again.
This year, it’s time to take action. It’s time to pull our heads out of our asses and make some plans for world domination.
How? By telling the world, not what we want to do this year, but what we will.
So what will YOU do this year?
It’s already been a rough year for me. Just seven days in, my five-year old son was diagnosed with Leukemia. It has floored me. I am still in shock. Daily I struggle with the WHY WHY WHY of it all.
Still, I can make this year my bitch. I cannot – and WILL NOT – let the whole year be a sinking ship.
I will take care of myself. This means giving myself a break, letting myself off the hook, taking days off work when I need to, continuing my healing through therapy, taking naps… It also means getting dressed every day, showering, and not letting myself slip into a depression. I will continue to do things that bring me joy – like travel – and try to let go of the worry.
I will be there for my son. I will advocate for him and help him create good memories to balance out the less palatable ones. I will continue to give him a stable home life with structure despite the bomb that has gone off in our life.
I will keep working toward my goals – personal and family goals. My husband and I have plans for this year and next – plans we’ve been working toward since we met – and I will not let them get derailed. It would be easy to push everything aside, but the RIGHT thing is to show our son how to live in the face of adversity.
I will nurture my primary relationship. I’ve been stressed and overwrought and altogether tapped out emotionally lately. It’s okay to have low points, I know, and my husband and I are helping each other as best we can. Our relationship is important and provides a foundation for our life as a whole. If we take care of our marriage, the rest of our life will benefit.
I will allow myself to stumble. I will give myself permission to be less than perfect. I will celebrate my victories. And I will make it through this year.
Me: Sam, would you like to have beef stew for dinner again, like Daddy and me?
Me: Great. Dinner is in ten minutes.
I am pleased that Sam says yes. I am pleased that he tried the stew at dinner last night. Trying new foods is a sign of health in our son, while rejecting foods is a clue that he is doing poorly.
We sit down to dinner. Sam looks at the bowl of stew in front of him.
Sam: I won’t eat this.
Sam: I didn’t ask for it.
I’d sorted all the vegetables in the pot and put the best-looking ones in Sam’s bowl, because he won’t eat them if they are mushy or misshapen. Ian, Ruby, and I can live with less-pretty vegetables.
Me: Yes, you did.
Sam: No, I didn’t!
I’d poured Sam’s serving of broth out of the steaming pot five minutes before dinner so that it would be just the right temperature for him. I’d taken out four chunks of meat, cut them each into smaller pieces so their size didn’t freak him out, and then tasted a small piece from every chunk to make sure that none of them had that gamey flavor that stew meat sometimes gets, which would also freak him out and end dinner with tears. There had been three volcanoes already today, many more this week, countless more over the years we have been navigating life with Sam.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
Me: I would like you to eat your stew.
Feeding Sam is a delicate experiment, not only because a particular meal might fail if something is not right, but because a single bite of something he finds unpleasant will eliminate that food in his diet. It happened with a spicy bite of chicken when he was five, and now, two years later, he gags at the sight of chicken.
Sam, his voice rising: You didn’t ask me if I wanted this.
Me, my voice rising: I did ask you, Sam. Daddy and Ruby heard me ask you if you wanted stew.
Feeding Sam’s four-year-old sister Ruby is easy. She likes most of what we put in front of her and is eager to try new foods. As I argue with Sam about his dinner, Ruby quietly gets to work on her bowl of stew, the bowl of stew which I did not check over, taste or otherwise de-fuse before serving to her.
Sam, whining: I want to eat noodles.
Me, stony: You can have noodles if you eat your stew.
Sam stares hard at me, then lifts his spoon to his mouth. His small pink tongue darts out to lick the spoon, then disappears. He squinches up his face and says: The broth tastes bad to me.
The words pour out of my mouth hot and mean: You liked it yesterday.
Sam starts to cry. He beats the table with his fists. Ian warns Sam not to let his volcano explode. The developmental pediatrician had given us this metaphor for Sam’s angry meltdowns. There had been three volcanoes already today, many more this week, countless more over the years we have been navigating life with Sam.
Sam yells tearfully that it isn’t fair, that he didn’t ask for the stew, that it tastes bad to him. Ian gives him a second warning. Something shuts down inside of me, as though my anger abruptly recedes, and I gaze toward the stewpot, thinking placidly about throwing my bowl of stew against the purple tile backsplash behind the stove. About how the stew would splatter, how the shards of the blue Heath bowl would fly. Sam lets out a howl and my anger floods back into the foreground. I excuse myself and go to the living room.
I sit on the couch, sadness and fatigue eating at the edges of my anger. Most days, Sam’s issues threaten to overwhelm me. Now seven, he has had a sleep disorder since birth, and gets up for the day, every day, hyperactive, between 4 and 5 am. He is anxious, depressed, irritable, hypersensitive and over-reactive, and has been all of these things — in some way or another —his whole life. We recently found out that he also has celiac disease and cannot eat the gluten in wheat, barley or rye, and so now is on a strict gluten-free diet.
This is the son we have, the person we have to work with every day. Most of the time we do not feel equipped to do this, do not feel confident in handling what comes our way from minute to minute. I am, however, a competent researcher, and so I seek answers. This is one thing I can do.
Instead of working at my actual job, I’d spent my morning emailing with doctors at Stanford University, the University of California at San Francisco and the University of California at Davis, trying to find a physician who understands the relationship between Sam’s anxiety, depression and morning insomnia. We have seen psychologists, psychiatrists, a developmental pediatrician, a holistic pediatrician, a sleep disorders clinic, an occupational therapist, an osteopath, a chiropractor, and a speech therapist — the latter for the oral-motor disorder he developed because parts of his mouth were so sensitive he could not let his tongue go there. No one, except for the speech therapist —who assured us that correcting Sam’s speech should only take three or four years of twice-weekly therapy — has an answer for us, for our child.
When Sam was four, he picked obsessively at his head until it bled, and chewed his fingernails to nubs. When he gnawed off an entire toenail, we took him to a psychologist for help with the anxiety that drove him to tear off parts of himself. The psychiatrist heard his story and said that Sam didn’t need therapy: he had sensory processing disorder, difficulty taking in and figuring out what to do with everyday sensory information: sound, sight, taste, smell, touch, awareness of his body in space. That explained why Sam gagged at certain smells, could not dress himself, had fine and gross motor delays. Why, as an infant, he had cried at loud noises, at sunlight, at the feel of wind on his face. But why?
We are cautious in the way I imagine an abused wife is around her husband when he’s been drinking, certain he will explode, wondering only when. No one could tell us this. I’ve asked them all.
One psychiatrist told me, when I asked him why: We must have a certain epistemological modesty about what it is possible to know. In other words, suck it up and live with it. But I can’t— I need to know why my son is this way, so that I can help him live a less disordered life. I can’t see where modesty about my quest to help my child serves any purpose. Except, perhaps, that it might preserve my own sanity.
I feel so often that I am failing with him. Trying so hard and still failing.
At home we do what the occupational therapist calls a sensory diet to manage his sensory integration dysfunction, and what the developmental pediatrician calls cognitive behavioral therapy to redirect anxiety and rage. We are trying to control his behavior, mood and sleep disorders with nutrition — he takes fourteen different vitamins and supplements twice a day, and sits in front of a 10,000 lux light box every evening. We have adopted strict timetables and firm boundaries and clear expectations because Sam thrives on structure. In these ways, we prevent as many meltdowns as we can.
Still, we are cautious in the way I imagine an abused wife is around her husband when he’s been drinking — certain he will explode, wondering only when.
Ruby finishes her dinner and comes in to see me on the couch. I lie down with her delicate body on top of me, her back to my front. Cuddling. Snugging, as she calls it. Loving. We giggle and I start to feel a little better. She is my love, my light. I feel fortunate to have her, my normal child, my sweet girl.
Me: I feel lucky to have you.
Ruby: I feel lucky to have you too, Mommy.
Sam comes in. I ask if I can talk to him. I send Ruby to the kitchen in search of a gluten-free pumpkin muffin (Omnivorous Ruby has more-or-less happily gone gluten-free because of Sam’s illness). I tell Sam that I feel sad because I’d asked him if he wanted stew for dinner, and I gave him the best vegetables, and I cut up the meat and tasted each piece to make sure it was okay for him, and he still wouldn’t eat it.
His face crumples.
He starts to cry.
I pull him onto my lap and lie back down, hold him on my body the way I’d held Ruby. He is larger and more full of sharp elbows and wiggle. He starts to sob. I stroke his arms.
Sam digs an elbow into my ribs and wails: I hate you, you never do the right thing, I wish you weren’t my mother.
My hands freeze and my heart locks up. I think: I hate you. And I’m going to bite off a chunk of the inside of my cheek with the effort of holding those words in.
I take a deep breath and try something I learned in parenting class. As he howls on top of me, I say, with as much gentleness as I can muster: It sounds like you had a hard time with dinner tonight.
He doesn’t hear me through his sobbing.
I sit up and move his body off mine, position him next to me and look directly into his eyes. Say again, slower: It sounds like you had a hard time with dinner tonight.
He takes a ragged breath and sighs in two parts. Says: Yeah. Dinner was hard for me.
My heart melts a little.
Lock, melt. Lock, melt. This is the tachycardic dance in my chest every day I live with Sam. Sometimes it feels like I just can’t take it anymore, can’t handle the overreactions, the accusations, the sobbing, the vast despair. I don’t sleep enough to withstand it. I ask why he is crying. I think: I hate you. And I’m going to bite off a chunk of the inside of my cheek with the effort of holding those words in.
Sam: Because I feel so bad.
Me: What do you feel so bad about?
Sam: Because you did all that work for me and I didn’t eat it.
I melt the rest of the way. His despair becomes something to feel compassion for, not something hateful, hateworthy. Sam starts sobbing in that way that is not easy to stop. I put my arms around him.
There are things we could, should have done differently with Sam. We should have gotten help with sleep earlier. We should have figured out his sensory issues when he was a baby, not a four-year-old. We should have found a more aggressive pediatrician who helped with referrals and diagnoses. We should have taken special parenting classes sooner.
And there are still questions. Should we medicate him? With what, when his doctors can’t agree on what is wrong? Could we have found his celiac disease earlier? Are we, as our pediatrician once suggested, making too much of this? But here we are, on this couch, in this moment, and we have not done these things or answered those questions, and I have to decide how to respond to the howling boy next to me. My boy.
I murmur: It’s OK. I love you. I even loved you when I felt sad about the stew. I will always love you. I’m not mad. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.
His sobs start again. I hold him.
Me: It’s OK. Everything is going to be OK.
He cannot stop crying.
Ian comes in and says it is time for Sam’s supplements. That Sam already has two warnings. That it’s not OK to let his volcano explode like this.
Me: No, this is different.
Ian stares at Sam for a moment, taking in the ragged breathing, the small face wet with tears and snot. Then he says to me: Earlier when Sam was upset we did some squeezies, and Sam felt better.
Squeezies are the sometimes-ineffective and sometimes-magical joint compressions that the occupational therapist taught us to do on Sam. They are helpful during a meltdown when words don’t work. I often forget to try them.
I sit him in my lap and squeeze him firmly: shoulders, upper arms, elbows, forearms, wrists, hands, each joint of every finger. Press the flat of my hand into his stomach, compress his ribs from the sides, gently press his head down into his neck.
He begins to calm down. Still taking uneven, gulping breaths.
Me: We will get help for you. For this bad feeling inside. We are working on it.
Sam: Okay, Mom.
I squeeze his smallest, last finger. He catches sight of a toy catalog on the floor and asks to look at it, sitting up next to me on the couch. He takes a shuddery breath. Mommy and Daddy both try our best. We don’t always get it right. But we are always trying our best.
Sam, opening the catalog: Is that a bouncy house?
Then, with more enthusiasm: Is that a pirate sandbox?
We look through the catalog together, and then I tell him it is time to go take his supplements. He does not argue. He looks at me.
Sam: I wish you could do my bedtime reading tonight, Mom. Daddy was giving me warnings. He thought my volcano was exploding.
Me, thinking for once it is Ian and not me who has missed a cue: It wasn’t your volcano, Sam. This is something else.
Sam: Daddy thought it was the same thing.
Me: Mommy and Daddy both try our best. We don’t always get it right. But we are always trying our best.
Sam: Okay, Mommy.
Sam goes into the kitchen. I sit on the edge of the couch alone for a moment.
I take a deep breath, and then go back into the kitchen to find my family.