Trick or Treat or Not?

Halloween was my favorite day of the year growing up.  It seemed just plain magical.  You dressed up, went to people's houses, knocked on the door and they gave you candy.  What holiday in the world could be better than that?  Since we lived in the country, people got around to trick or treat by having parents drive them.  I used to think that the only thing in the world that could make Halloween better is to live in a place with LOTS of houses close by, so you could by walking get to TONS of houses and get tons of candy.  Bringing up my boys in a suburb-like part of Boston, that came true.  I loved every Halloween when they were little enough to go out----here's a picture of them looking extra scary one year!

However, with Janey, it was never as straightforward.  She went out with the boys once she was old enough, and I think I can remember her enjoying it when she was 2---excitedly saying "Treat or treat!" to people but not getting the candy part, which was cute.  But then she regressed, and although we still took her out with the boys for a few years, she was not really interested.  She often wound up in the stroller just observing.  Once the boys were big enough to go out with friends instead of us, I would try taking her to a few houses, and usually, she would pretty quickly balk and cry.  Last year, I took her to just one house, and she was not at all happy with that.  And so, this year, I'm not going to try.

I have to admit that it's hard for me to give up on Halloween with her.  It's hard to admit that she really has no idea what it's all about, that she doesn't enjoy it, that trying to get her to participate is much more for me than her.  She doesn't like to dress up, she is scared walking around in the dark, she isn't hugely motivated by candy unless it's just the kind she wants, and she hasn't got the ability to anticipate the fun, which I think is what makes holidays the most exciting as a child.  I remember counting down the days till Halloween every day of October, and when the day actually arrived, it would just seem incredible that it was there.  I'd daydream and daydream about the candy, about trading with my sister, about the way that bag full of treats smelled.  Janey isn't able to do that, I don't think.  She isn't going to feel left out not going out.  So why is it so hard for me?

I think as parents, we feel somehow like we should be completely altruistic.  We like to think we do things like helping Santa or buying birthday presents or making up Easter baskets to make our kids happy.  And we are right, but we also do it because it's fun, because it's a way to step outside everyday life, because we want to relive our childhood a little.  I don't think we are wrong to do things for our own joy some.  Not at all wrong.  That is part of what makes parenting a child with autism a challenge.  Some of the built-in joys of parenting aren't automatically there.  There are other joys, to be sure.  There are alternate joys, and they are real and wonderful.  But I will admit---I wish tonight I was dressing up Janey in a costume.  I wish she had woken up thrilled that the day was finally here.  I wish she was going to be fighting to keep on going to another street, even when she could barely hold all her candy.  I wish we were going to be negotiating over how much she could eat before bed.  I wish all that, and I will admit it.  I wish it for me, selfishly.  I wish it for Janey, as it's a joy she won't get to have.  I am struggling now to think of a way to close that is upbeat, and at the same time saying to myself "Get over it!  It's a minor issue in the larger scheme of things!"  So I'll let that voice of reason close for me.  Happy Halloween.

Should I even be writing about Janey?

Lately, I've read a few blog posts and articles that question the whole idea of sharing thoughts and stories about parenting an autistic child.  The gist of them is that it's not our story to tell as a parent---that someday, Janey may want to tell her own story and that she might not appreciate what I've written about her childhood being out there in internet-land.  It's a very valid thought to consider, and I have been thinking about it for a few weeks.  I've concluded that I think it IS valid for me to write about her, and I'll give my thoughts and reasons.

The first thought I had, to be honest, was that Janey will never be able to tell her own story.  I hope I am wrong there.  I hope that Janey does learn to read, to write, to be able to tell me her take on her life.  I hope that extremely much.  But I don't think she will.  I know there are non-verbal people with autism who do communicate very well, through writing.  But I don't think Janey will be one of them.  It's not that I don't think she would ever be capable of that, although I do have my doubts about that.  It's more that she is not very focused on written or visual communication.  She's an auditory person.  She talks probably more than would be expected for someone at her level of functioning in other areas.  She listens pretty well.  She seems to have vast, vast stores of auditory memory---songs, lines of conversation, full movies.  But she has resisted most any attempts to convert this knowledge into written form, or to use a visual communication method.  So maybe she'll dictate her story?  I don't think so.  I haven't ever really heard of an autistic person who was minimally verbal in a truly communicative way at Janey's age who then became verbal in a way that could tell stories of the past, or give perspective into what is inside her head.  I hope I am wrong there, but I honestly don't see Janey being able to tell the world her own story.

Next, I had to consider WHY I write about Janey.  There are two major reasons.  One is to keep myself sane.  Writing is my release, my way to getting through the days, of working through my own thoughts, of being able to face the future.  Quite selfishly, I need to write.  Less selfishly, I need to write to be able to be strong for Janey, and for the rest of my family.  I need to know I can sit down here at the computer and write about my life and Janey's life.  Without that, I think I might give up.  That's the ugly truth.  The other reason I write is to provide support to others with children like Janey.  I think over the years, I've done that some.  I've had people tell me they feel far less alone after reading my blog.  I've had a few people tell me that I helped them go on after tough times.  That means the world to me.  I don't advertise my blog much, and I'm not part of the larger blogging world.  I am not good at that kind of networking.  But somehow, over the years, people have found this blog and have told me it's been helpful to them, and that is absolutely one of the things I'm proudest of in my life.

And so here we get a bit of a vicious circle.  I write about Janey so I can continue to parent her---so I can have the strength I need to be the best parent I have to her.  I write also to hopefully, in some small way, give strength to other parents.  Raising a child with autism is not easy.  I don't think even the most positive parents would say it is.  And raising a child to reach their maximum potential, to maybe someday be ABLE to tell their own stories, is even harder.  We need all the help we can get.  We need support from others that truly understand.  We need to know there's an outlet for all the feelings that this tough parenting gig brings up---sadness, frustration, sometimes anger, sometimes despair and sometimes, yes, extreme pride and happiness.  We need that connection.  Without, I know I couldn't go on.  So in order to give Janey the best chance at a full life, and the little bit of a chance she might someday be able to tell her side of the story, I NEED to tell mine.

We all make mistakes as parents.  If anyone thinks they don't, they are probably making more mistakes than most.  So, if writing this blog is a mistake I'm making, I'll take that chance.  I'll take the chance that Janey will come back some day and hate me for writing it.  If that happens, I will accept that, because writing it would have helped me help her get to the point where she could express that.  I'll keep writing in the hopes one day Janey can tell me if I did the right thing or not.

Perfect

For those of you who might not know, the Red Sox are in the World Series right now.  Living in Boston, it's hard to believe there are those of you in parts of the US or the world who might not be aware of that.  We are a Red Sox Nation family.  With the Sox, it's not even so much being fans.  Loving the Sox is more than that.  It's part of you.  And our family by fate keeps getting intertwined with the Sox.  Freddy worked this past summer for NESN, the station that broadcasts most of the regular season games, and he met a lot of players.  Tony used to work for the ticket office of the Sox when I first met him, and we got to go to the Red Sox Christmas party, an amazing event.  We used to work with a relative of Mo Vaughn, and got to go to quite a few games and sit with the players' families.  And of course, I grew up in Maine, solid Sox country.  Every summer, the game was on everyplace.  It was always there, in the background. It meant the most when my grandfather was watching.  He was old enough to remember the World Series win in 1918, and I wish more than anything he could have been alive in 2004.  But that's enough Sox talk.  I'm setting a background here for last night, as Tony, Freddy, Janey and I watched Game 4.

We had to turn off Kipper to put on the Sox on the "big TV" in the living room.  It's a sign of Janey's progress that we were able to do so feeling fairly sure that if she was upset by that, she'd get over it pretty quickly, and she did.  She likes it when we all are together, having fun and being loud, so she was enjoying the game for that reason.  She doesn't get baseball, much, but lately she's been very interested in a plastic wiffle ball and bat, and asks Tony all the time to "play baseball", which means he has to hit the ball and she watches.  We did that a little during the game, and got her to scream "Go, Sox!" and in general just were enjoying ourselves.

Then something prompted me to sing the beginning of "Away in a Manger".  I'm not sure why, because I try to save Christmas songs for at least after October.  Janey loves Christmas music, more than almost anything, and me singing the first line was enough for her to start singing the rest.  She sang the second line, and then the song switched to "America the Beautiful"  She sang a line or two, and then Freddy jumped in when she stopped, singing another line. They went back and forth like that for the whole song.  Both of them have amazing voices---Freddy's is deep and rich, and Janey's high and pure.  As I listened, the tears came, rolling down my face uncontrollably.  And I thought "This is perfect.  This moment right now, with the game on and my kids singing together---it's a moment from a dream. It's a moment from the dream we all have of being a parent, the moment where absolutely nothing could be better"  And thinking back, what strikes me is what was absent.  I wasn't thinking "This is perfect when considering Janey's autism".  At that moment, her autism wasn't a factor in any way.  It wasn't perfect with a footnote, or perfect with a "considering..."  It was just perfect. No matter what the future brings, no matter what the past has held, autism has no dominion over moments like that.

The Scream

The Scream.  How do I describe The Scream?  It's hard to capture in words.  Picture someone who has just been told the worst news possible, or something who is undergoing the most severe pain of their life.  Then picture it suddenly, unexpectedly, coming from a sweet looking nine year old blond girl.  That is Janey's Scream.

Last night was a scream-fest.  Tony picked up Janey at afterschool, and she started the scream on the way home in the car.  By the time Tony got home, he was shaken.  He looked like someone who had just witnessed something horrible.  I took over.  About every 3 minutes, Janey screamed.  She screamed like she was in pain beyond imagining.  Her whole body stiffened, she turned red, she put every ounce of energy into the scream.  It was bloodcurdling.  Between the screams, she was fairly normal---a little upset, demanding, but not too bad.  But then---the scream.

Of course we tried to figure it out.  Was she hungry?  Was she hurting?  Did something scary happen?  We ask the useless questions that never get answered.  We try to comfort her, but the screams seem to put her in some world beyond our reach.

Finally, I took her into the bathroom.  I latched the latch that is up high, that she can't reach.  I told her we would stay there until she stopped screaming.  I didn't try to stop the screaming beyond that.  Between screams, she reached for the latch, and I repeated we were going to stay where we were until the screaming stopped.  The latch seemed to give her a focus, and although she screamed a few times more, she calmed down.  I told her we could leave if she was done screaming, and she echoed "ARE YOU DONE SCREAMING?"  We left, and a minute later, the scream returned, so we went back into the bathroom.  She didn't fight me about going there.  She screamed a few more times, and then again asked to leave, and we did.  No more screaming.  She was fine.  She woke in the night a lot, as she so often does, but it was cheerful waking.

What does this scream mean?  What causes it?  I have no idea.  In some ways, it seems to have replaced the crying.  Maybe it's some strange kind of step forward.  Maybe it's an expression of frustration, as Janey starts to realize that she is not able to do what other kids can.  Maybe it's something she does just because she can, a way of saying "I'm here!"  I just don't know.  Like so much else with Janey, I just don't know.

Including those who will never catch up

I got to Janey's school a little early today.  I try to do that now and then, although morning sluggishness and traffic often prevent it, but Janey loves the extra time to run around outside a bit.  Today was beautiful, a lovely fall day.  The morning play area was covered with leaves and sticks and acorns and all the things kids love like that.  Some boys were playing football.  Most everyone had on something Red Sox, in support of the home team playing in the Series tonight.  It was one of those great Boston mornings.  Janey was very happy running around.  Every now and then she'd stop to pick up a leaf, or hold a stick, but mostly she ran, ran among the other kids, never quite interacting but still, I think, very aware of what was around her.

It made me think about inclusion, and how as kids get older, support for it seems to melt away among professionals advising parents.  I've heard quite a few times now from professionals saying that inclusion isn't right for Janey, that she would be better served in a classroom specifically for autistic kids.  I get the feeling that most people think inclusion is fine for little kids, but that when the kids are older, it doesn't benefit either the disabled child or their classmates.

I think this reflects society as a whole.  We embrace, often, disabled children, but disabled teens or adults make us uneasy.  There's probably a couple reasons for that.  One is that we like to think we can "fix" kids.  Sure, let them take a while to catch up.  Let them be around other kids, and have it "cure" them.   In time, they will be just like everyone else!  They just need lots of love and patience!  The other reason is kind of a vicious circle.  Very few "normal" teens or adults spend much time with disabled people their own age, and that leads to fear and maybe even sometimes disgust.  "Look, that big girl can't talk!  She's making strange noises and waving her arms around!  We better steer clear of her!"  We're more tolerant of a range of odd behaviors in the young.

But as I watched Janey today, I thought about how important it is for inclusion to continue to be her life as she gets older, if at all possible.  The reasons for this might be different than when she was younger.  She's not going to catch up.  She is probably understanding less and less of the mainstream curriculum.  She's not going to suddenly be able to make meaningful friendships with the kids in her class.  But in a way, that's all the more reason to have her around them.  I want her to sense the Red Sox excitement, to watch the boys toss a football, to hear the excited chatter of early morning kids.  I want her to have the fullest life she can, and because it's harder for her to access life's everyday joys than most, she needs to be around them MORE, not less.  And it works both ways.  As the kids she goes to school with get older, they are probably noticing her differences a lot more, and working out in their own minds what is going on with her.  By seeing her every day, by being familiar with how she acts and what makes her happy and sad, they are learning that we don't just include people when they are little and cute.  We include them for life, because they are human beings just like us, deserving of a full and interesting and meaningful life.

It seems like there is a point, an invisible line, where many professionals give up.  They seem to say "We gave it a shot.  It didn't work.  She's never going to be part of real life.  It's time to give up on that and find a place for her away from everyone else"  I'm sure they would never consciously say that, but I've sensed a change of attitude from the medical and psychiatric professions.  Not from her school, not from her teachers or administrators  or aides or even the other students, but from the "experts".  Maybe she represents a failure to them, someone that didn't get fixed.  But watching her today, happy among the rest of the kids, content to be living life on her own terms, I think she deserves a chance to be included for life.

I have to admit...

The last few weeks have been great ones for Janey.  She has been happy almost all the time, fairly talkative, good at school, fun to be with, aware of her toys and books as she has rarely ever been before---she has been a joy.  I wrote about how last weekend was so scary with her brother William, with college anxiety.  Thankfully, SO thankfully, he seems to doing much better now.  It helps us be able to help him that Janey was so happy.

I think I have a poor memory for emotional states.  When Janey is happy for any length of time, I forget how hard the other times are.  And when she's in a tough stretch, it's truly hard for me to picture how the good times feel.  But I do, after this long, always keep in mind that her emotional states seem to change about every two weeks.  I don't think she's ever had a very good stretch longer than two weeks.  She's had a few bad stretches that lasted maybe a month, but the VERY tough parts usually, again, are about two weeks.  The two weeks were up today, and on schedule, Janey broke down.  She barely slept last night, waking over and over to cry.  This morning, she was inconsolable for a few hours, just screaming, the new extra loud scream she's working on.  

However, gradually, almost unnoticably, over time I am realizing that she is able, with our help, to get her moods under control a little better than in the past.  It's not easy, but in the past, a mood like this morning meant the two weeks were starting, and that there was not going to be any letup for a while no matter what we did.  But today, Janey is now at least calm enough to be switching shows around on Netflix, and she actually watched The Care Bears for about half an hour---the longest she's watched a show in a while.  She truly does seem able to try, with help, to control her crying.  I think she's maturing, and we are also learning a little what to say to her and do with her to help her.  For example, this morning I realized she might be confused about whether today was a school day or not.  Tony was home, but he was home for a long time during the shutdown, so that got confusing, and Freddy left the house around the time he'd usually leave for school, for the PSAT.  So Janey might have been thinking "What the heck?  Is it a school day or not?"  I went over it with her, and whether that was it or not, it seemed to calm her down a little.  We also fed her a lot, which is one of the more reliable ways to calm her.  I dressed her---she doesn't care for lounging around in pajamas much, and I've figured out that with trial and error.  Who knows how the rest of the day will be?  But I don't feel desperate, as I have other days that started with crying.

I've heard from people with older girls or with adults with autism that it does get easier, and I think I can see how it works now.  It's not a miracle breakthrough, it's not a real change in the autism or in parenting.  It's little things, like gradually figuring out what sets Janey off and how to respond to her, or her learning, slowly but steadily, what we expect of her and how to control her emotions just a little.  When I say slow, I mean so slow that years can go by and you don't see a change, but one day you realize---"Gee, it's been a while since Janey screamed for two weeks without stopping!" or "Janey was crying this morning, but just now she's not!"  Baby steps.  Things that parents with only typical kids might see as no steps at all.  But I have to admit it's getting better---maybe not better all the time or so much better, so I can't totally quote the Beatles, but it's getting better.

Stress Times Ten

Just a brief entry here.  The past few weeks have been stressful.  Tony, my husband, is a federal employee, and therefore has been not working for the past two weeks, with no end in sight.  I don't generally let money issues stress me, but just having our routine changed and the uncertainty is stress enough, and the lack of pay is not fun.  We had two appointments last week regarding Janey.  I'll write more about them when I can, but they both upset me in different ways.  Janey had an off and on tough week.  This weekend, however, has been great with her, but unfortunately not with her brother William.  William called on Saturday and said he was homesick and wanted to come home for a while from college.  We went to get him, and it was apparent after a short time home that his anxiety level was unbelievably high.  He's having a very tough time adjusting to campus life.  He's made a good amount of friends, but Brandeis is a very different environment that he's been used to in his urban high school or at home with a loud Italian family.  I went back to campus with him yesterday and spent some time, and even I felt like fleeing from the quietness and the intense and focused social interactions.  William is committed to staying in college, and we are going to support him all we can.  But I have a feeling it's going to be a rough ride.  He worked so so hard to get into a very good school, and it's breaking my heart he is feeling so sad and overwhelmed.

And so we go on.  As with all of you out there on this journey of special needs parenting, or indeed parenting at all, we put one foot in front of the other each day and go on, because that's what we have to do.  We go on with hope that tomorrow will be easier, that our children will be happy and thriving and living the best lives they can.  My religion has left me, for the most part, but there are no atheists in foxholes, and I prayed a bit this weekend, to whoever might be listening, to keep my kids safe and happy.  I truly can ask no more in life but that.