Annual physical and a surprise sentence

Janey had her annual physical yesterday.  She's had a fairly healthy year, so we hadn't seen her pediatrician since last January.

The tough part of the visit was the wait.  We were in the waiting room for about 45 minutes.  That's quite unusual, but I guess they were very busy. In the past, this would have been a recipe for extreme disaster.  As it was, it was hard but not impossible.  Several times, Tony took Janey for a little walk, staying near enough so I could call him right back if we were called.  As the room cleared out, and we kept thinking surely we would be called any second, we stayed in the room and entertained Janey as best we could.  It struck me that although part of what's different than the past is that Janey has matured, part of it is that Tony and I just do what we have to do now, without caring how it looks.  For a long time, we sang and danced with her.  I sang Christmas songs, quietly but not silently, and I didn't care if people stared.  And people did stare---especially kids.  I don't like the stares, but they don't stop me any more.  I know Janey confuses kids sometimes. It's hard for them to figure her out.  I less like the stares of the parents.  I want to say to them "Have you never seen a child with disabilities before?  Is is really that shocking to you?  You know, she's a lot more interesting than your little snobby brats!"  Not nice thoughts, but when you've been trying to hold it all together for as long as that wait seemed, you get nasty sometimes in your mind.

Once we got into a room, it was much easier.  We really like our pediatrician a lot.  I'm glad we made the change about a year ago.  The pediatrician that saw the boys was right for them, but I don't think he ever felt comfortable with Janey.  I am pretty sure he saw her as a tragedy.  That is not the attitude I want in someone treating her.  The new pediatrician seems to delight in her, while still understanding the challenges she presents.  She listens well, and she talks directly to Janey.  She did a good exam, and Janey looks healthy.  At the end of the appointment, Janey got a flu shot, which we were not sure how she'd take, but she took it extremely well---not a single protest or scream.  You never know with her.  Hopefully, she won't get the flu this winter as she did last winter.

After the shot, as we were putting on Janey's coat, she said, plain as day, "Can we go home now?"  Tony and I looked at each other in amazement.  That might not seem like a remarkable sentence, but it's the type that is extremely rare with Janey.  Her speech is rarely that direct.  The usual thing she'd say in that situation would be "Want to take the big girl for a car ride?"  or "Listen to music in the car?" or "Do you want salami?" or something else that means basically the same thing, but doesn't come out and say it.  A sentence like the one we heard, direct and grammatical and appropriate and succinct, is very, very unusual for her.  It was wonderful to hear.

As the years go by, we measure success with Janey on a scale that isn't the same as most parents might use.  It's her own scale.  We headed home feeling that we are indeed making progress.  And by we, I do include Tony and me.  We are making progress in being Janey's parents.  And she is making progress in being herself.  And that is a good feeling, something to be thankful for.

Waited a day

I waited a day to write about something that happened yesterday, until I'd had a chance to calm down. I have now, and it's not as fresh and hurtful, but still very much so.

Janey had an appointment to see the psychiatrist that prescribed the medication for her a few months ago, to check on her. We went in by train, which is a whole story in itself for another time. The appointment was in the Internal Medicine department, as the psychiatrist is not at that office all the time. So we went in there to wait after checking in at the main desk. Janey was crying. She is scared of doctor's offices or anything that looks like one. I was holding her and trying to comfort her. She was a little loud, but in my eyes, no terribly so. It had probably been only 3 to 4 minutes when one of the three receptionist there came over to me and said (I'm trying to recall the exact words) "You'll have to wait in a different place. We have patients here and they can't have that kind of noise---she's too loud. She can't be here" It was one of the very, very rare instances I was so upset that I didn't use my internal censor that usually keeps me from saying close to what I think. I said "SHE is a patient here. She is here to see a psychiatrist BECAUSE of her anxiety and crying. There is no other place for me to wait. She is severely autistic, and I can't totally control her crying". Or mine either---by that point I was crying hard. The woman and the other two receptions jumped all over themselves to say they were sorry. I am assuming they thought that I was the patient, and I had just brought along my bratty kids for fun. I really hope they didn't know JANEY was there to see a psychiatrist. And even if they did, I can't possibly imagine how her crying would disturb patients, who were behind heavy doors and in their own rooms. And even if they did want her gone, they could have handled it a million better ways, like saying "Poor thing, she's having a hard time. Can I find you a place to wait where she would be happier?" What they did do is take us to a couple chairs far, far into the bowels of Internal Medicine, like a tiny waiting room for the psychiatrist. I sat there and cried and cried. I couldn't stop. I am sure I looked crazy, but I've always felt like a doctor's office was one place where I would be exempt from the stares, the angry looks, the judgements that keep parents of autistic kids from leaving the house much. I guess I was wrong.

I am trying to figure out if I should write a letter or make a call about this. Everyone says I should, but honestly, I don't think it would make much of a difference. It's how life is. What made me cry, I think, is realizing this is my life from now on, and worse, Janey's life. She is going to live her whole life in a world that has little understanding of people with mental illness or retardation. Maybe some parents would see that as an incentive to take on that world, but that's not me, at least not directly. I will protect her, keep her as happy as I can, but I'm not going to fix the world.