Why I Do This

Recently, my son Freddy read one of my blog posts and didn't like it.  He felt one line in particular wasn't good, when I spoke of how Janey is one in a thousand in terms of her level of needs and disability.  I based that number on statistics I've read of kids at her IQ level and functioning level.  However, Freddy said I was trying to make people feel sorry for me.  That isn't what I was consciously aiming for, and I hope that isn't how it came across.  It kind of horrifies me to think of people feeling sorry for me.  I would hate to think people did.  This is partly just because I grew up in a time and place where you just didn't do that, and partly because I don't feel like I have a life people should feel sorry for.  I have enough to eat, a roof over my head, a husband I love, amazing sons, a daughter I longed for for years, hobbies and friends and interests and books and my garden and so many great things.  Like anyone, I have moments of self-pity, moments I do maybe want people to feel sorry for me, but that isn't why I write here.

But I was left thinking---why DO I write about how hard things can be with Janey and how little support there is out there, if not to make people feel sorry for me?  I had to search my soul a lot on that one.  The answer is---I write about it because it's an experience, a life, that I don't see written about elsewhere.  I don't see the media writing about kids like Janey, kids with the non-glamorous kind of low functioning autism.  Because of this, I also don't think there is a lot of awareness outside of the families with kids like Janey of how hard things can be and how little support there is out there.

There is a debate I've had with myself, and talked to others about---are those with the power to do something to help families like ours just ignoring our needs, or are they truly not aware of them?  I have to believe they aren't aware of them.  They could be excused in this.  Let me give  you an example.  Over and over, I've had people tell me about two different programs.  One is a program at the Boston Conservatory that provides music lessons for children with autism.  They hear about it and think "Wow!  That would be perfect for Janey!  She loves music and is very musical!"  Well, yes.  It would be perfect, except that the program requires that the child already be able to play an instrument and read music.  Janey certainly can't do either of those things.  The second example is a respite care house near here, a wonderful place we did take Janey to and get her accepted into it.  It would be wonderful, with Saturday respite and overnights and all.  However, when we took her there, we realized that the ratio of caregivers to children was no-where near what would be safe for Janey.  She requires a 1:1 ratio, for sure, sometimes even 2 adults to her if you really want to be safe, and they were more like 5 to 1 or 10 to 1.  Not possible.  So---to the outsider, it might seem there are programs and help that would work for Janey.  I want to explain to them that although these programs might be well-meant, and extremely helpful to some kids, they do us no good.

I talk about Janey's difficult behavior here for similar reasons.  I had no idea, no idea in the world, before having Janey, what it is like to have a child like her.  It's a bit of a hidden world.  There are several reasons for that.  One is that most of us living this life are too busy caring for our kids to really get out there and tell our stories.  Another is that we don't want to be negative about our kids.  We love our kids.  We love them so much it's hard to ever explain.  In a way, we love them so much we want to shelter them.  We don't want to let people know how hard it is to raise them.  And so, the stories that do come out are often horrible stories of mothers who just could no longer continue.  Or they are feel-good stories, stories of "cures".  Or they are tragic stories of children who wander away and drown, the stories that are far too common, especially in the summer.  I want to tell the story of a regular, ordinary family raising a child with low functioning autism, an intellectual disability and severe behavioral and self-injury issues.  I want to show that we aren't the others.  We are any family out there, who by the luck of the draw were dealt a tough hand in this one way.

I write because that is what I can do.  Others can do other things.  I am no good at going to rallies, at being a fierce advocate, at raising money, at starting foundations.  I can write fairly well, and I can do so in-between Janey's tantrums (I wrote this interrupted by at least 10 fits of fury from Janey, as she watched videos and became upset by them).  I write to tell our story, and the story of so many wonderful families I've met with children like Janey.  I write to tell people we exist, and to hope somehow to plant a seed in the mind of someone with the power to help us.

New school show and my self-pity moment

Today was a year-end show at Janey's new school.  I've been to many, many shows at her old school, but this was the first one at her new school.  I was nervous, which is crazy, as not a lot is demanded of a parent at a school show but to sit there and clap.  Still, I was.  I wasn't sure exactly where in the building the show was (it's a BIG school), I kept worrying I had the date or time wrong and I kept thinking how I didn't know anyone there.  However, I knew those were fairly silly things to think about, and of course I made myself go, and I found the auditorium just fine, and got there at the right time and date, and sat down to watch.

The show was like most elementary school shows---lots of cute kids dancing and singing along to catchy songs.  Janey's old school was exceptional for shows---amazing, really, but I know that isn't the norm.  This show was sweet, and that wasn't why I spent half of it trying not to cry.

The reason for the crying?  I think it was when it really hit me.  Janey doesn't go to the Henderson School any more. She really doesn't.  And that made me sad.  And that was self-pity.  I was feeling self-pity because I liked going to the old school, seeing old friends, knowing most everyone, feeling like a part of it.  For someone like me, with what I'd have to admit is a dose of social anxiety at times, leaving a place I've come to feel at home at is not at all easy.

But for Janey?  The new school is great.  I was able to watch her teachers interact with her, and saw how much loving and caring attention she got.  I saw how adorably they dressed her up for the princess song she was in.  I talked to her teacher after the show, and she was wonderful.  Janey got upset near the end of the show, and her ABA therapist, another wonderful person, took her out. Janey looks happy at the school.  She is doing well.  She is still among the lower-functioning kids, even in a class with all autistic kids.  I could see that she needed much more supervision than the other children, and that on stage, she had someone right next to her, which was not the case with the other kids.  In many ways, it's like at her old school in terms of the level of support she needs, and I guess that shouldn't surprise me.  But now she is in an environment designed for kids with autism, and that is good.

On the way out, I saw Janey's old ABA therapist, Ken.  It was so great to see him, and to hear him say how very much he thinks we made the right decision about schools.  He knows both schools, and he said there is no doubt in his mind that Janey is in the right place.  That meant the world to me.  I know he would be honest to me if he didn't think so.  Seeing him also made me realize that I DO know a few people at the new school, and I will know more as times goes by.

I've been so lucky with Janey to have had so many people work with her that love her, that take good care of her, that understand her.  Seeing her today, even during my self-pity moments, sitting with her new teacher, smiling and happy and cared for, was a very good feeling.  I'll close with a picture of her in her adorable costume!