"How do you feel about this, Mrs. Leavitt?"
It was a fair question, since the tears streaming down my face could have meant anything. She handed me a tissue, and smiled at my daughter - with the practiced skill of somebody who has lived this scenario countless times. My girl smiled back, oblivious to my tears and the fact that our lives had just changed forever. She went back to playing with the Fisher Price Sesame Street Clubhouse. That had been my favorite toy as a child too. I smiled at my girl and touched her soft blond hair.
"Mrs. Leavitt?"
"I think...I think I'm relieved." I knew that must have sounded strange, but it was an honest answer. At least there was an explanation for some of my daughter's quirky behavior.
"I hear that a lot," she said.
The doctor gave me all sorts of information, where I could go to get further assessments, a whole list of books I could read, websites, county resources, a virtual care package of what to do and who to talk to when your daughter is autistic. When we were still in the doctor's office, I felt safe, like I could handle this.
It felt like when I was in the hospital when my daughter was first born. The nurses came in, changed diapers, helped feed the baby. They were so calm, everything seemed so easy, until I got home with this baby and realized my husband and I had to do all of this ourselves.
It wasn't until I stood in the street with my daughter - the same beautiful tree lined street we'd walked up not an hour ago - that I realized I wasn't ready for this. I had no idea how to handle it. My daughter let go of my hand and picked up some more leaves, delighting in the different colors and textures. I saw dead leaves. Ugly, rotting, dead leaves. How had the picture perfect street change into such a cold and unfeeling scene so quickly?
I thought to call my husband, but I didn't. I don't know why. I just picked up my girl and carried her to the car. She smiled at me and pointed to more leaves and trees, still blissfully ignorant. I was happy for her. When we reached the main road, cars zoomed by, just like before, people went about their day, and the world hadn't stopped for my daughter nor I. When events like this happen, it feels like the world should stop, but it never does. The earth keeps spinning and we keep going, it's the only choice.
My mom called when we were on our way home to say she was watching my nieces kids and why don't we stop by. I knew that she knew about the doctor appointment and I knew she'd want to know what the doctor said. If the earth would have opened up and swallowed the car whole, I would have been more than ok with it. You see, I love my mom, but she's of an age where any kind of 'disability' is looked upon with shame, not compassion. She adored my girl, but in an instant, it could all go south. In the end, it didn't matter what my mom thought, I loved my daughter, now more than ever, and that would never change, but I didn't want to have to deal with having to defend my daughter against her own family - I was sure I'd have to fight for her plenty, autism or not, that's what parents do, but it's different when the enemy is related to you.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Been a while...
...but life is getting to be 'normal' - whatever that is. :-)
The appointments with the developmental pediatrician were interesting. The first appointment was an interview with my husband and I. She asked us countless questions, some of which made sense, some of which didn't, but we answered them all.
How's her attention span? What kinds of words does she say? Does she have 'pretend' play? What's her favorite toy? Does she sleep well? Does she ever have a conversation with you? How do other kids respond to her?
We were there for about an hour and a half. When we walked back down the row of town houses, I felt like I'd just done an hour and a half of Tae-Bo. I'd asked the doctor about Sensory Processing Disorder, but she dismissed it as something people say when they don't want to say 'Autism.' I didn't really know what to think. The doctor did harp on her attention span a great deal. I wagered to myself that we'd be told that Kaia had Attention Deficit Disorder and I fantasized about that moment and what I would say.
"She's two. Of course she has ADD!" At that point I'd stomp out of the room with my quirky daughter and seek a second opinion.
The next appointment was an observation of my daughter. She was told to play with certain toys and perform certain tasks like kicking a ball, and hopping down from a stair step. The doctor was amazed at how well she knew certain things like her colors and letters, also how adept she was at doing puzzles, but still she focused on my daughter's short attention span. The chances of winning my bet with myself looked better and better.
The third appointment had to be rescheduled due to a work conflict on my part. My husband couldn't make it, and I couldn't get a babysitter, so I had to take my girl with me. At this point, I still expected the ADD diagnosis. I *hoped* for, "No, Mrs. Leavitt, everything is fine! It's good that you are so concerned about her well being, but she's fine." As it turns out, I got neither.
I parked the car and walked with my daughter to the doctor's home office. It was fall and the leaves were turning. Red, gold, orange - stunning - the quiet neighborhood like one you'd see in a movie. My daughter picked up a maple leaf and twirled the stem in her pudgy fingers.
"Maybe when we are done here, we can go to the park." I said. She looked up at me and smiled.
When we got into the doctor's office, I apologized for having my girl with me, but the doctor just smiled and pulled out some toys for her to play with. We reviewed her report, and I nodded and smiled as she outlined what she saw and asked if I agreed. Nothing she said was exaggerated or wrong. This process seemed to go on for a while and I started to feel like she was building me up for something. She complimented how well my daughter did this or that, how cute and social she was. Each weakness was couched in at least two strengths, which made me feel proud, but suspicious.
Maybe it's just me, I thought. She's about to tell me my girl is fine and I'm just an over-worried mother. After all, she is my first and so far, only. I've never done this before. Please, please tell me that everything is ok.
The tears were already welling up when she told me that my daughter, my ten fingers, ten toes, cherubic daughter was on the autism spectrum.
The appointments with the developmental pediatrician were interesting. The first appointment was an interview with my husband and I. She asked us countless questions, some of which made sense, some of which didn't, but we answered them all.
How's her attention span? What kinds of words does she say? Does she have 'pretend' play? What's her favorite toy? Does she sleep well? Does she ever have a conversation with you? How do other kids respond to her?
We were there for about an hour and a half. When we walked back down the row of town houses, I felt like I'd just done an hour and a half of Tae-Bo. I'd asked the doctor about Sensory Processing Disorder, but she dismissed it as something people say when they don't want to say 'Autism.' I didn't really know what to think. The doctor did harp on her attention span a great deal. I wagered to myself that we'd be told that Kaia had Attention Deficit Disorder and I fantasized about that moment and what I would say.
"She's two. Of course she has ADD!" At that point I'd stomp out of the room with my quirky daughter and seek a second opinion.
The next appointment was an observation of my daughter. She was told to play with certain toys and perform certain tasks like kicking a ball, and hopping down from a stair step. The doctor was amazed at how well she knew certain things like her colors and letters, also how adept she was at doing puzzles, but still she focused on my daughter's short attention span. The chances of winning my bet with myself looked better and better.
The third appointment had to be rescheduled due to a work conflict on my part. My husband couldn't make it, and I couldn't get a babysitter, so I had to take my girl with me. At this point, I still expected the ADD diagnosis. I *hoped* for, "No, Mrs. Leavitt, everything is fine! It's good that you are so concerned about her well being, but she's fine." As it turns out, I got neither.
I parked the car and walked with my daughter to the doctor's home office. It was fall and the leaves were turning. Red, gold, orange - stunning - the quiet neighborhood like one you'd see in a movie. My daughter picked up a maple leaf and twirled the stem in her pudgy fingers.
"Maybe when we are done here, we can go to the park." I said. She looked up at me and smiled.
When we got into the doctor's office, I apologized for having my girl with me, but the doctor just smiled and pulled out some toys for her to play with. We reviewed her report, and I nodded and smiled as she outlined what she saw and asked if I agreed. Nothing she said was exaggerated or wrong. This process seemed to go on for a while and I started to feel like she was building me up for something. She complimented how well my daughter did this or that, how cute and social she was. Each weakness was couched in at least two strengths, which made me feel proud, but suspicious.
Maybe it's just me, I thought. She's about to tell me my girl is fine and I'm just an over-worried mother. After all, she is my first and so far, only. I've never done this before. Please, please tell me that everything is ok.
The tears were already welling up when she told me that my daughter, my ten fingers, ten toes, cherubic daughter was on the autism spectrum.
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