Suddenly

I know. You want to sing it, don’t you? It’s ok. You can.

This morning started out as a typical Sunday morning. I slept a little late, watched a bit of tv with my boy, baked breakfast cookies for the week and started laundry. After a while, I decided I didn’t want to go out and walk on this dreary day, so I started to move furniture in the living room so I could work out there. I had to move my body but nothing too strenuous. As I was moving the hassock, my  husband asked me a question. I started to answer, then stopped. I tried to take a breath then apologized to my husband and started to sob.  He ran over to me and hugged me and just let me cry.

I had this sudden feeling of powerlessness and loss and sorrow. My mom is about to go through a pretty intense operation on Tuesday to help her circulation in her left leg. It’s a tough thing for anyone to go through, but a 71-year-old woman with a frail body and mind? It’s even tougher. I’m scared for her. I’m scared for us. I think she’ll make it through the surgery, but her mind might not. Will she know my sister and I when she wakes up? Will she know her son is gone? I don’t know.

I was missing my brother this morning, too. In the fall and winter, nearly every other Sunday my brother stopped by my house to have tea while I baked something. He would tease my son or chat with him while I washed dishes. I’d lean on one side of the counter while he sat on the other and we’d munch on goodies and talk about our week. Eventually we’d head into the living room and continue our conversation. It was a part of my week I always looked forward to.

I miss him so fucking much.

I wish he’d be at the hospital with us while we wait for Mom’s surgery to be over. He’d make us laugh and just be there. His presence just made me feel better. He’s part of my home.

After crying in my husband’s arms for a few minutes, I walked about the house and realized I just needed to be outside. So I slipped my headphones on, told my family I was going for a run and left. This is only the third run I’ve been on in the past month, but it felt ok. It was really difficult and I trudged more than I ran, but I refused to walk. I needed to sweat out some of this anxiety and sadness and just plant one foot in front of the other. So I did. And it was ok. I felt better than I had when I left my house. So that’s something.

On a side note, if you read my last post, you know I’m trying to get a counselor/therapist/someone to talk to. It hasn’t happened yet. I did make a few calls, finally got an appointment, but then cancelled it. Our electricity (like many in Maine) had been out for a few days last week and I couldn’t deal with doing one more thing. And no, I didn’t reschedule yet. I need to get Mom through her surgery and then we need to take life day by day after that. Am I making excuses? Probably. But the thought of adding one more thing to my life at this moment makes me want to pull my hair out. And I like my hair. So this will have to wait. For now.

If you’re feeling particularly generous or positive or hopeful on Tuesday morning, try to send a little of that my mom’s way, ok? I know she’s a tough ol’ bird, but a little extra optimism wouldn’t hurt.

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Seeing is believing

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”–Henry David Thoreau

We received a note from the school nurse last week, letting us know our boy was having trouble seeing in the classroom. Both my husband and I were waiting for this to happen. I was 6 years old when I got my first pair of glasses, whereas my husband was in high school. Nearly every adult family member has glasses or had eye surgery, yet apparently our boy was still hoping he was immune.

When I made the appointment to see his optometrist, I warned my son that he would probably have to start wearing glasses. I wanted him to prepare himself if that was indeed the outcome. The kid flat out refused to even think about it. He told me to “Stop saying that!” in a freaked out and “oh my god the world is ending” kind of tone. So I didn’t mention it again.

I picked him up today for his appointment and he was in a great mood. It’s always nice to be picked up early from school, even if it is for a doctor’s appointment. We got to the doctor’s office, waited for less than two minutes and then the various testing began. My boy was polite, funny, and just all around wonderful. I was with him when the doc had him read some of the eye chart, and since he could only read the 2nd line without help, I knew what was coming.

The doctor told my boy that yes, he needed glasses. His vision was not horrible by any means, but with glasses, everything would be that much clearer. He let my son know that he didn’t have to wear glasses when playing sports, but at some point he might find that it could improve his performance. We thanked the doctor, but as soon as he left the room, my boy’s face fell. He was absolutely devastated. He quickly became angry and I just hugged him to me and told him it was ok.

He disagreed. Vehemently.

We walked to a different part of the building to pick up some paperwork and I hugged my boy again. He was fuming but let me hug him. “Honey, this doesn’t change anything. You’re fine. You’re still you.” But between tight lips he spat, “This. Changes. Everything.”

I sighed, but didn’t argue. For just a second I put myself in his place and tried to remember what it was like to put on glasses for the first time. To know that this would be part of my life forever, and everyone would be able to see the change. It wasn’t something you could hide from. “You’re right, Bri. You’re right. This does change things, but it doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing and it’s not a big deal. Honest.”

He didn’t talk to me again until we got into the car. He always sits just behind me and as I started the car, I looked in my review mirror. His head was down so I couldn’t see his face. As I started to turn around in my seat, I could hear my boy gasping for breath as he sobbed. I rubbed his leg and started to cry, too. I asked him if I could get out and give him a hug and he agreed. I got out, opened his car door, and crushed him to me as he cried and cried into my shoulder. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him that I loved him.

After we left the optometrist’s office, I stopped to get gas while my boy ran across the street to get a donut. (I don’t care what anyone says. Anytime we have a doctor’s appointment, we treat ourselves afterwards. Not always to food, but sometimes that’s the easiest and cheapest thing to do. It seemed appropriate today.) As I was pumping gas, I had an “A-ha” moment. Although getting glasses is a little scary and new, my son’s reaction still surprised me. He was really, really upset. And had been since the first mention of glasses last week. It’s not like he doesn’t know anyone who has glasses, but he knows very few kids that do. There are a few, though, including a girl in his class who he’s friends with. BUT, my “a-ha” moment was when I really put myself in my boy’s shoes. My kid–who has tics, who is over five feet tall at the age of eight, who wears shoes bigger than some adults–will now have one more thing to make him different, one more thing to make him stand out in a crowd, one more target on his back for the asshole on the bus to shoot at. THAT was why my kid was crying in the back seat of my car, and I don’t blame him.

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This was taken two years ago when he liked wearing fake glasses.

Being a kid is so damned hard. Do you remember? You want to grow up so fast so you can feel like you have control, feel like you have some power in your life. Of course, once you get there you realize that you really don’t have as much control or power as you thought you would, but we don’t want to hear about that part. I want my boy to feel good about being different, about being unique, and that it’s ok, damn it! I don’t want him to feel like the “special snowflake,” as in feeling entitled. That shit just pisses me off. But I want him to feel good about being who he is. Or what he is. Currently he’s a Star Wars-loving giant who blows on his hands when he’s anxious, is a video game-playing rock star, and will soon be wearing glasses.

I know in another year or two (hopefully sooner), my boy won’t think twice about putting on his glasses. It’ll be just another part of him. It really won’t be a big deal. Until then, I’m hoping he’ll find his way to acceptance without too much anxiety. I want to guide him on this journey by showing him how awesome I know he is and how being exceptional can be wonderful. But I don’t want to beat him over the head with it, you know? I need to be patient and just let him find his way. I know he’ll be ok. I just need to sit back and watch it happen.

And that’s the hardest thing to do.

 

 

A gift

A few weeks ago as we sat at the dinner table, my son picked up his napkin and put it to his forehead. “Well,” he sighed, “I’ve got a new tic.” He removed the  napkin to show us his eyebrows raised on his forehead. Then he waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx…except my boy didn’t do it on purpose. This might have seemed amusing if it wasn’t a tic. If he just wiggled his eyebrows to be funny, then we’d probablygroucho2 find him a hat and fake glasses and show him YouTube videos of the Marx brothers to explain who he looked like and why it was funny. But as my son continued to sigh throughout dinner and kept his napkin covering his face, it was no laughing matter.

 

This past summer, Bri’s body (or rather his body’s reaction to anxiety) created a tic that physically hurt him. He started to nod his head in a very quick, jerky movement. Sometimes the nodding is up and down as in “yes,” and sometimes it’s a shaking of the head as in “no,” although typically it’s the former. There are times when the nodding is so frequent, that I’ve had to ask him to answer me verbally when I ask a question. On at least one occasion, I asked him something and didn’t hear him answer “no” but he was nodding his head as in “yes.” He got upset because of the confusion, but hopefully the verbal responses will help in the future. What’s even more upsetting is that sometimes after a particularly bad day, he’ll try to settle down at bedtime but will cry out to me, “Mom, my neck really hurts!” I always respond with a visit to his room and many whisperings of “I know, sweetie, I know” and light massages of his neck.

Although my son has had transient tic disorder for a few years, it seems to be getting more difficult for him to handle. Or rather he is more aware that the tics are happening. I am grateful for at least the rotation of the tics, the fact that one particular movement will go away for at least a little while. For instance, he doesn’t blow on his hands like he used to. He might start again tomorrow, but right now that’s not what his body feels is necessary. I just keep hoping the nodding of the neck will disappear soon. The fact that this tic is hurting his body scares me. I’ve read about folks with Tourette’s Syndrome and how the various jerky movements negatively affects their bodies. How could it not?

The most disturbing aspect of all this though, was watching my little boy’s body create a tic while we had what we thought was a relaxing dinner. It had not been a bad day and it had been a good evening. I keep asking myself, “Why does his body do this? Why does it react to stress and anxiety this way, even when it’s not a particularly stressful day or moment?” I don’t have specific answers and yet I know from observation that he tends to tic more at night, no matter what his day has been like. I do think he tries to resist the tics while at school. (I’ve seen him at a birthday party try to hold his face still and open his eyes wide so he won’t squint and scrunch his eyes.) Once he gets home, he knows he can be himself and I think his body just lets it all out and it tics like mad–eye scrunching, eyebrow raising, head nodding, blowing on the hands–the whole kit and caboodle.

But this morning? This morning I wasn’t thinking about anxiety or body tics or deep breathing exercises or any other kind of stress reliever.  I was only thinking about getting our four cats outside so they’d stop bugging me. And as I let them out, I heard my son waking up. I didn’t know it, but I was about to receive a very special gift.

Typically my husband, the early riser, is already awake but this morning he slept in. I whispered to my son that he could get up if he wanted to, but we had to be quiet. So we went into the kitchen and quietly talked about what we dreamt the night before while we made tea and coffee for ourselves. (Don’t worry, decaf tea for him!) Then we tiptoed into the living room, sipped our drinks in front of the lit Christmas tree (yes, you read that correctly) and talked about video games, my sister’s 50th birthday, our freaky cat we secretly think is Batman, and ghosts. And near the end of this lovely conversation? I realized that my sweet boy hadn’t tic’ed once.

Not once.

I love my son more than anything that has ever existed in this world. I’ll love him if he dyes his hair purple or turns into a yeti. I love him and all his eccentricities and goofiness and bad jokes. And I love him with his tics. But I also love him without his tics and can appreciate those few moments when his body and mind are calm and happy and in sync.