This morning I literally curled up in my bed, trying to ignore the dread creeping up and over me. There are times like these when the world catches up with me and forces me to be still, to ignore my in-box and absorb all that is happening. I know enough now to know that I simply cannot ignore that feeling. I have to give it time, to honour it and explore it. It’s part of my own resiliency. It’s critical if not always convenient.
Though our son has been doing better, he is not free from danger. He remains vulnerable. Head buried under my pillow, I take stock. I become aware of how fear literally grips my insides. I need to calm it. I need to centre. (A recent camera down my throat proved that silently these worries have indeed been drilling into me deeply when I was not paying enough attention. The pills, they say, will repair the as yet minor damage. I wonder.)
For now, I must digest the fact that yes, we have just had three incidents in two days involving lighters. The knowledge sinks into the pit of my stomach: three years later, lighters are back amongst us again reminding me of some of the darkest days we have had around here. I tell myself not to panic, now that he’s older it’s safer. Am I kidding myself? How safe can anyone be with a lighter hidden under their bedroom pillow? I discovered one there, moments before I officially declared myself in this funk.
I start ticking things off in my head. I guess we are back now to the days of checking all bags and searching the likely hiding spots every night. Back now to warning everyone around us to make lighters inaccessible. Back now to feeling not good enough, not vigilant enough.
This morning while he was in the bath he was asking about shows that he used watch when he was 3 or 4 years old – Sesame Street, High Five, Cartoonito Karaoke. He was clearly viewing them on YouTube last night. Why now?
I feel selfish. I took a night out in London to celebrate a friend’s 50th. This friend, one of my best and longest friends, has had a birthday party every year since we moved here 13 years ago. We have only managed to get to one other of these parties. So often when parenting a child with FASD, we put our social lives on hold. But this time it was important to me to be there. He had a sleep over. Though I doubt this is the root of the issues, I know it didn’t help and so I do the obligatory beating myself up – wondering if my night out somehow has been a part of the ‘why’ of this?
There are other more likely reasons. He was at the doctor this morning for some nasty phlegm and coughing. The doctors say this is due to post-nasal drip not an infection. His sensory system cannot handle anything out of the norm, let alone this.
His long hair (now nearly down to his waist) has been causing angst. It gets knotted and all the detangling conditioner and sprays and special brushes in the world cannot make this easy for a child with sensory issues.
And then there are the ‘normal’ year end insecurities. His school has been moving all the kids up to the next year now before summer break. It makes it easier in the new school year but it fuels anxieties in the short-term. He keeps telling us he is not ready for Year 11, he’s not old enough to be in Year 11. He wants to be in Year 10. We are not sure exactly why.
His anxieties have been so heightened that a couple of weeks ago school took him off timetable altogether. He ‘was distressed’ at school (we are still not sure what they meant by that). There had been some disagreement between him and his classmates. Something to do with relationships and him not wanting to be in that game at all. Some comments about his hair and being misidentified by gender. (Tricky waters, these.) He also had refused to go to a school ball and we are not sure why. Everything has been making him anxious.
Sometimes I wish I could put a surveillance wire on him so I could hear every conversation people are having with him, so I could know where some of this is coming from. He is not able to tell us. Due to his FASD, he cannot connect dots on his own. We have to be detectives, with only half-formed clues and our bedraggled intuition to guide us.
For a few of his happiest days in a while, he was allowed to go to a special part of the school that is a healing space. They even have school dogs there. There’s a lovely specially trained teacher there who worked with him using sensory toys. It always helps him to visit “the Hub,” reminding me how important 1:1 attention is for him. Back now in the main class, he’s struggling again. I become “that parent” and dash off another email to school, trying to keep our lonely guy on their radar even as I am aware they have so much to juggle already with the end of year chaos.
He’s barreling toward 16, only one year away now. The services and the interactions are changing around him, forcing him to ‘mature’ in a way he is not yet able to do. It scares me.
I have been thinking a lot lately about being elderly parents. We are not wealthy. We do better than most but still we have trouble making ends meet. We live in a society that is increasingly ignoring the needs of those with disabilities. Will our youngest son really be okay when we are no longer here to help?
I wanted to burrow my head further under the covers rather than sit up and face this particular day head on. So I do. I give myself permission to step off my own timetable.
There is another reason for these deep thoughts, the day literally started off with a jolt. This morning at 5.30 am our elderly neighbour’s alarm went off. Somehow, they didn’t hear it for the half hour it took for us all to try to figure out if something was wrong. Hard of hearing, they slept peacefully and didn’t hear the alarm the rest of the road did.
I guess I am afraid that I also might not hear the alarm. I fear missing the signals.
Sometimes, I don’t know what to do first, where to focus. We are always trying to change things on big levels (my husband just became a town councillor, on top of everything else). Our lives are multi-faceted and hectic and this puts us perhaps a bit over the line toward disorganised. Sometimes I fall into a kind of tunnel vision just to keep myself on track. I am sure others think this is me being aloof, when really it’s just a survival skill. I try so hard not to let the balls I am juggling fall that sometimes I don’t see what (or who) is right in front of me. Even our kids. Seeing that lighter under that pillow made my blood run cold. What else haven’t I seen?
To those who know us, who know me, please, if it ever seems we are not hearing the alarm in our own home, please bang hard on the door to get past whatever veneer might seem designed to keep you out. Please know that it’s not you we are trying to keep out. It’s the fear, the whatever’s-around-the-corner that we are trying to keep at bay.
Overall, I believe we’re basically ok, mostly under control. Having thought it through and given myself space to calm, I think this all is just an end-of-school-year, nearly-birthday-time blip. He has an awareness and coping strategies that he did not have three years ago.
The thought actually snuck in that maybe there’s a positive spin. Maybe things have become so good lately that we haven’t realised just how tame this year’s last-weeks-of-school tension is compared to what some end-of-the-school-years have been like. Maybe we’ve forgotten what ‘grim’ really looks and feels like?
On the other hand, I dread becoming so inured to it all that I wake up one day when the oh-so-critical transition into adulthood crashes around me, realising I slept through the alarm bells. That I wasted the time available to us. That’s the big fear. I know too many kids who have been crushed under the pressures of these late teenage years. Some are lost to us forever. Some have literally died. So please, someone knock really hard on the door and wake us up if somehow you think we are missing the signals.
Ten years from now, I want to look back on this time with relief and say, oh woman, no worries. You were on top of it. And look! They are in their mid-twenties and you all made it through.
Won’t that be a great day?