Last week B. had his first major meltdown in about five
months. We had actually started thinking that the phase had perhaps passed. We
had almost forgotten that sometimes it doesn’t seem to take much, a setback that
most people would consider minor, a problem that most people would easily and quickly be able to solve, but we
know better. B.’s not ‘most people’. It had in fact been so long, that we had also
almost forgotten that it’s often just a symptom of something much more wicked
brewing beneath his complicated surface.
This time it was the inability to get his game apps to work properly
on the hand-me-down cell phone I gave him when I got my new one. A cell phone
he had SO been looking forward to getting, and started asking me months ago
when I was getting my new phone and he could have this one.
It started with screaming, cursing and a lot of noise coming
from his room on the top floor, not all of it identifiable, though we’ve gotten
pretty good at discerning between the sounds chairs make when they’re thrown
across the room, and when a trash can has been hurled at the wall, even two
floors lower. At first, I thought it might have just been him in a gaming
frenzy; these kids tend to make a lot of noise when they play with each other
online and are wearing headphones, unaware how loud they are being.
But then came the familiar stomp-march down the stairs, B. whizzing
past my office, slamming doors and running outside to the back of the garden
(in his socks, in the rain, over the wet grass), back to his ‘safe place’. The
log he sits on that serves as his perch in front of the rabbit hutch where he
still sometimes goes when things upset him, or he just needs some peace and
quiet. As it was already dark, I couldn’t tell what exactly was flying into the
yard from the back, but it sounded like heavy branches and rocks. A few landed
on the roof of my office, making loud clattering noises. We have learned not to
try to interfere with or stop these rages; it is a necessary part of the
process, he needs to get it out of his system, and intervention only makes it
worse. We do monitor the situation to make sure he’s not doing anything that
would result in an injury to himself; dismembered household items, rearranged
furniture, shredded books and papers, and a messy garden we can handle, fix and
tidy up.
I heard a pounding noise and strange rattling coming from
the kitchen, followed by the obligatory stomping ascent up the two flights of stairs,
doors being slammed all the way up. His older brother casually informed me,
also used to these episodes, that B. had punched the refrigerator door so hard,
he left a dent in it (thus explaining the pounding and rattling sounds). I went
up to his room to see if he was okay, as a dent that size in a stainless steel
refrigerator must have surely required a good deal of force and I was worried
he had injured his hand. No, he hadn’t, I was forced to deduce from the silent
yet angry shaking of his head, his giant headphones on, furious eyes focused on
the computer screen.
‘Go AWAY,’ he repeated, as he always does when I come to see
what happened this time to set him off. I offered a few suggestions, offered to
try to help him with the phone, but he just continued to play his game, swatting
my arm away more violently each time I tried to comfort him. After all these
years, I should know better, but it had been so long since the last meltdown, I
seemed to have forgotten what works and what doesn’t.
This of course meant no school the next day. This much I
already knew, at 5:30 in the afternoon the day before. Getting him out of bed
is a big enough challenge, but getting him to agree to go to school is even
harder, on a normal day, let alone during a ‘rough patch’, or period that he’s
particularly defiant about everything, and vocal about how much he hates
school, hates his teachers, hates the subjects - hates it all. Hates his life.
The downward spiral as we call it, where he talks himself into a deeper and
darker depression. He comes out of it, and these days, faster than he used to,
but still, it’s hard to watch, and even harder to know that you are powerless
to help.
Even knowing that the odds of him going to school after an
incident like that were slim, I still tried it the next morning. This daily
ritual involves first going up to his room at 7:40, then 7:45, then 7:50 (my
husband says I’m worse than a snooze button), then taking my shower, stepping
out and listening carefully as I do every morning, in the hopes that I will hear
him fumbling around up there now, getting dressed and getting his books
together, precluding the need for yet another trip up the stairs. Silence. I
got dressed, and crept up the stairs. ‘B., you really need to get up now, we’re
going to be late.’ Silence. I walked over to his bed, sat down on the edge and
rubbed his back the way I do to gently wake him up. ‘B., will you get up now?’
No answer, no movement though I know he’s awake. Glancing at his alarm clock, I
see it’s already 8:10; we have to be in the car at 8:25 at the latest. I sigh
and say, ‘Should I just call you in sick then?’ The slightest, nearly
imperceptible nod of his head, turned away from me towards the wall indicates
that yes, I should, because he’s not going to school today.
I trudge back downstairs, half relieved, half frustrated as
usual when I have to make these calls. The receptionist at his school practically
knows my ring; he definitely knows my voice, that’s how often I call.
‘Hi, it’s B.’s mom. He’s not going to make it today.’
‘So I should mark him down as sick then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, well tell him I hope he feels better and thanks for
calling.’ He always says this, exactly the same way, and I mutter my standard
response, ‘Thanks, I will.’
We’re in the process of looking into new schools for him
now, because this is just not where he needs to be, even though it does cater
to children with both his abilities and challenges. He has a 75% attendance
record, meaning he has missed one out of every four days so far this year, and
this is unacceptable to the school board. Our primary goal for this school year
is now to get him to go to school. Grades, test scores, homework - this has all
taken a back seat; the objective is for him to just show up.
I thought back to the last real meltdown, during the summer.
Even though he had begged me to make an appointment for him to get his hair cut,
and in spite of the usual well-spaced reminders/warnings about it the day
before, then again on the morning of the appointment, and about an hour beforehand,
the more he thought about it, the more upset he got. He hates having his hair
cut. Over the course of the day, the very prospect of it had upset him so much,
right before we were to leave, he stormed back to his rabbit hutch, throwing
rocks at me as a warning, if I dared come any closer. I went back inside and
called and cancelled five minutes before the appointment. Not angry, not
surprised, but secretly a little disappointed, having hoped this would be the
time he came willingly and without a fight. Luckily the hairdresser knows B.
and about his issues, and was very nice about it. Still, I bought her a small
gift and brought it by the next day, offering to pay for the unused time slot
at her busy salon. I don’t want to take advantage of people’s kindness and good
nature - I don’t want or need special treatment, at the most, just a little
patience and understanding.
When people ask me about B., and I tell them how he’s doing
now, I get such a rainbow of responses. These range from ‘Are you SURE he’s autistic?
It’s probably just puberty - all teenagers do that,’ to ‘Oh my GOD, I don’t
know how you cope, you poor thing.’ Even my own father, rest his soul, would
say ‘In my day, we called that “shy”’. After 14 years, you develop a skill set
you sometimes wish you never needed, but are happy you have just the same.
Patience is something I never thought I could have, not in this measure, and though
it can be in short supply depending on what I’m dealing with at the time, I
have found ways to muster it when I need to. And although these efforts aren’t
always successful, I’ve also learned when I need to walk away and calm down, as
having a meltdown of my own isn’t going to do him any good.
I’ve also gotten used to planning my work days, building in
buffers, plenty of time in case there’s a ‘disruption’. For me, being a
freelancer has this extra, added bonus; I can be there for him when he needs
me, no boss to have to ask for a few hours off, and I can make up for lost time
in the evening, or on the weekend. I am also careful not to take on too much
work in case I have to spend time with him, or for him. In case I have to drive
to school at the drop of a hat because something has set him off and he has
walked out in a rage, and is now wandering around the neighborhoods near the
school, texting me to come get him. Subconsciously, I feel I always have to be
within a 10 km radius of wherever he is, ‘just in case’, particularly when his
father is away on business or at a meeting somewhere out of range. Although
this hasn’t been necessary recently nearly as frequently as it was a couple of years
ago, still, it has become my modus
operandi, a subconscious default setting in my brain. It wouldn’t ever
occur to me to tell him I might be late, or he might have to wait because I’m
busy doing something else. The rare times I have showed up literally one minute
late (I’m usually at least 5 minutes early) to pick him up at school, I know
when I get home I’ll find a text on my phone that reads, ‘Where are you??’
I remind myself on an almost daily basis to think of the
good times, the small victories, the progress we’ve made, and how far he has
come in the last couple of years. Sometimes, they’re harder to remember, to
conjure up, particularly when he’s going through a bad period. He’s still my
sweet little boy (all 6’3” of him), who can still melt me with that gorgeous
smile (which, though I don’t see as often as I used to, is still brighter than
any ray of sunshine for me). It can bring a tear to my eye to see his long,
thin frame bending and kneeling to lie down with each of our dogs separately to
give them their 10-minute goodnight hug, his eyes closed, a big smile on his
face, this is when he is really at peace, finally blissful. This is when I am
reminded of the wonderful, sensitive person who’s in there beneath all the
struggles, frustration and anger, the incredibly smart person who will be happy someday, who will have accepted his own shortcomings,
but mostly, finally realized how talented and amazing he really is.
I can see the pity on people’s faces and hear it in their
voices when they ask about or respond to something I’ve told them about B. Yes,
it’s hard, and yes, it’s not what I envisioned when I knew I wanted children. But
he’s my B., there’s no one else like
him, and I’ll take all the meltdowns and hard times he has to give because I
know there are just as many fantastic moments to balance those out, even far outnumber
them. These are the moments that melt my heart, bring tears to my eyes, and
make me so grateful to have him in my life.