The only thing we have to fear

When I found out I was pregnant with Kai, I was terrified I would miscarry, and I ticked down the weeks until I was in my second trimester, and out of the woods. Ten to go, and then I don’t have to worry. Eight. Four.

Then I read about kick counts, and if you don’t feel the baby move enough, you have to count their kicks in a given time span. And, of course, just like with an actual kid, when you want them to do something, forget it. I would sit in my office and will him to kick me. Come on, Baby. Come on. What’s wrong? Are you okay? Baby? Oh! Good job! *looks up at passing boss* What? Have I completed any of the tasks you assigned me? Um, no. Can’t you see I’m busy? *slams office door* Come on, Baby.

I counted down the weeks. Twenty to go. Sixteen. Twelve.

I remember thinking, six more weeks, and then I don’t have to worry because then he’ll be born and…wait. OMG. What have I done? What. Have. I. Done? I’m never going to have another moment of peace.

There was a day when he was a few weeks old that I sat on the couch nursing him and watching America’s Wildest Spring Breaks or whatever. Oh, my God, I thought. He’s going to go on spring break. He’s going to drink too much. Will he fall off of a balcony? Get alcohol poisoning? What if he joins a fraternity, and they make him drink two gallons of water and he gets hyponatremia? Forget the fact that Kai was still a weeks-old marshmallow, incapable of holding his head up, let alone doing a keg stand. I broke into a cold sweat that lasted several months and landed me on a therapists couch.

“What are you worried about?” she asked.

“I’m worried that he’s going to drink too much and do a header from a balcony. Or get ahold of some bad ecstasy or drown in a pool.”

“Do you have a pool?” she asked.

“No.” I replied.

She regarded me with her fingers tented under her chin, and looked at the baby sleeping in my arms, drooling gently down the front of his terrycloth sleeper. “When are you thinking these things might happen?”

“I don’t know. Like in twenty years.”

“I see.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “What if,” she said, “you shortened the duration of your worry? Maybe you could worry about just today or maybe the next month, and shelve the whole spring break thing for the next twenty years?”

Well, done and done.

And then Jenny McCarthy went on Oprah, and all Hell broke loose.

Forget about the ecstasy. OMFG what if he’s autistic?

Of all the hypothetical worries like miscarriage or strangling on the umbilical cord, his organs somehow developing outside his body, a sitter selling him into slavery, and the actual worries, like when he was in the NICU because he was having trouble breathing or the day my parents drove off and left me to care for a helpless baby who relied solely on me (Sweet Mother of God) to keep him alive. This one. This one was terrifying. And immediate.

And I wonder if somehow, somewhere deep down, I knew.

What I was afraid of, was that this child, whom I’d fallen in love with, would just…disappear the way some autistic kids do. One day, they’re talking and playing with you, and the next day, bam! They can’t talk anymore, they won’t look at you. They don’t smile.

Back on the therapists couch. “It’s a crapshoot,” she said. “You never know what’s going to happen.” That cost me $150.

But he was hitting his milestones for the most part. He was happy, smiley, laughing. He sat up and crawled and walked and (eventually) talked. I dismissed a lot of things as being coincidence. His giant head, his love of those blasted Thomas trains. I began to relax my grip a little. And then he started pre-school and the teachers sounded the alarm. Speech delay. Sensory Processing Disorder.

The diagnosis, when it came, was a relief. Not because I didn’t have to worry whether he was on the Spectrum or not, but because it would enable us to get him more help. That’s how far I’ve come in the last year and a half. The first time someone suggested Autism to me, I spent all day in my pajamas, crying. This time, I wore mascara to my meeting with the doctor and left his office dry-eyed.

My son has PDD, which is part of the Autism Spectrum of Disorders. I believe that he will eventually outgrow a lot of the problems that dog him—the speech delay, the problems with social interaction, the ubiquitous need to be upside down. It’s a massive effort, with speech therapy and group therapy and occupational therapy and ABA therapy. And it’s interesting, but with all of that to focus on, there’s no time left to be afraid. I’ll tell you, though, that with all this effort we’re putting into the boy so that he can hopefully have a normal life and do the things that other kids do like Karate and t-ball and swimming lessons and go to college and have a girlfriend and be an astronaut and go on spring break, if he falls off a balcony in South Padre after drinking a case of Keystone Light, I’ll kill him myself.

 

Comments

[dave]

You rock.

[Tamia]

Coming from the same long line of professional worriers, all I can say is...winning!

[www.momintwocultures.com]

This all sounds very familiar. Older son has PDD (recently diagnosed) and little sister is "normal" (except for the food allergies). Thanks for writing. I'm also attempting a newly-started blog(momintwocultures.com). It may be the only way through this sanely (then again, sanity may be a lost cause at this point).

[Megan]

I will look forward to reading your blog! Good luck :)

[mobile spy]

What you did and write here is really worth being praised. You are a wonderful mom, and i'm sure you are told this not a single time a day. I wish you and your boy to be happy. Really happy.