When Intrepid was little, he used to throw some epic fits. It was so bad that we would need to sequester him to his room, or hold his arms and legs until he stopped flailing. They happened daily, and I often wondered if we'd survive it.
We almost didn't make it, to be honest, but a hearing loss diagnosis and the joy of a new baby brother helped immensely. Within months, Intrepid was a new boy - full of the wonder of his new found hearing and a sense of responsibility over having a little person modeling him. The tantrums stopped, a type of peace we hadn't known before came to our house, and we figured we were over the worst of it.
And then there's Gutsy.
By two, we knew Gutsy was hearing impaired. By three, he had his hearing aids and was getting intensive speech therapy. If he could hear and express himself properly, we thought, there would be less frustration in his world and therefore fewer outbursts. Unlike Intrepid, he wouldn't have extreme sensory issues, meaning he wouldn't be experiencing the world with his four "good" senses on full-throttle to compensate for his lack of hearing, and therefore not be on overload all the time with things being too bright, too flashy, too scratchy, too spongy, too abrasive. He would grow up with a little more normality, we thought.
We thought.
We really thought we had done everything we could to make his life easier. We were wrong, and I wish we had figured that out sooner.
I would describe our home life as chaotic, but not in the typical 'we have three kids' way. There are good pockets; times when Gutsy is relaxed and content and where Spawnling isn't doing typical Spawnling things like throwing a boot at someone's head or yelling 'GET ME SOME CANTALOUPE RIGHT NOW!' at the top of his lungs like this will somehow work even though it never has before. I cherish the quiet moments more and more these days, because there seem to be fewer and fewer of them.
When Spawnling was younger and not throwing typical three-year-old tantrums of his own, Gutsy's were more manageable. And when Spawnling didn't egg his brother on to get a reaction out of him, the frequency of outbursts was far less frequent. But right now, a typical day has not only typical brotherly fights, but puts Gutsy in such a mood that every little thing becomes a big thing.
Yesterday, a PD day at school and therefore a day off for all three gremlins, we asked Gutsy to get out from behind the flat screen TV. You know, so that it doesn't tip over and crack and take most of mommy and daddy's at-home 'date nights' with it. He didn't mean anything by it - he was simply trying to find a new hiding spot and that corner looked perfect to a seven-year-old boy.
But what would normally be a simple request of 'please get out from behind there before the TV tips over and breaks' in most households, turned into a 10 minute exchange and subsequent fit in ours. Furthermore, it unleashed a monster that took over the house for an entire day, resulting in multiple tantrums, frustrated siblings and overwhelmed parents. By the end of the day, I went into the bedroom and sobbed. By the end of the day, Geekster locked himself in the office (upon my request, for the record) and played guitar until his fingers hurt, as his entire work-from-home day having been bombarded by loud screaming, things being thrown, and crying, and he really needed some personal time before he exploded.
And this overwhelmed, exhausted feeling happens nearly every day, definitely every weekend, during every holiday, and a heartbreaking number of times throughout the summer. We dread the days when Gutsy is not in school. For whatever reason, home is not a place where he is calm and happy. And therefore, none of us are calm or happy, either. He loves school and does well there, but once he gets home all hell breaks loose.
If this doesn't change soon, our family will not survive this. And I'm not saying that lightly. Geekster and I have been together almost 17 years, but I don't think we'll see 18 if things don't change. Not because we don't love each other, but because we are too emotionally exhausted to put a lot of effort into "us.". We try and we usually succeed - good communication helps - but it's an uphill battle. When Intrepid was throwing huge, scary tantrums, we only had him to contend with. It was still stressful, but more manageable. With Gutsy, we have an older child and a younger who are as overwhelmed as we are. This isn't a normal situation. It needs to change so that we can stay an intact family of five and enjoy what should be a special time in our lives with three beautiful children.
We have tried being soft, firm, removing privileges, making award charts, having lots of heart to hearts, reading books, asking friends, attending seminars, scouring the internet... Nothing has worked yet.
And then, the mother of all fearful tantrums that happened two weekends ago: After about an hour of escalating, solid rage over his Dad not doing a specific project with him (there were many offers to do other projects, mind you) I put him in his room with the door closed, holding the handle because he kept trying to open it, all the while he raging and throwing things at the door, at the walls. I told him I wasn't leaving and that I just needed him to calm down in a safe place so we could talk. He raged more, cried more, begged me to open the door in between outbursts. It was terrifying.
And even more terrifying, he doesn't remember any of it. Not a stitch. He recalls being outside asking his dad to do a project, then coming out of his room after I had gone in and talked to him; nothing in between. We've suspected a couple of other times that he hasn't remembered a tantrum, but weren't sure. He definitely recalls most of them and doesn't seem to disconnect at any other time, but we're confused and very worried.
That moment two weeks ago is when Geekster and I knew this was way beyond what we can do alone. We needed to call in the reinforcements and find out what is going on with our otherwise sweet boy. Because, underneath those Mr. Hyde moments, Gutsy is a wonderful kid. He does well in school with no fits, has many friends, loves his parents and brothers tremendously, cracks jokes, invents the coolest forts and gadgets I've ever seen, is by far one of the smartest people I've ever met, and is overall one of those well-rounded children a mother is proud to call her son. We want to fully appreciate that side of him.
More importantly, he needs to feel more comfortable in his own skin. He's told us many times that he hates how he behaves and doesn't know how to stop when he gets that angry - this is beyond his control, too. And the casualties extend to his brothers, who don't get as much attention as a result and have to deal with their family home - what should be a sanctuary from the world - being up in arms every day.
So far, Geekster and I have been on the phone with his teacher and the school's behavior tech. I had a meeting with the principal as well. All are taking this seriously and willing to work with us to see if we can figure out what's going on. I have an appointment lined up with our family doctor in which I will ask for a brain scan and blood work and anything else we need to rule out a physiological issue (like food sensitivities, which have been brought up many times by my wonderful readers and friends). We spoke with our liason at the Montreal Oral School for the Deaf, who has put us in contact with specialized teachers and psychologists who work closely with hearing impaired children (kids who are, incidentally, far more likely to have behaviour issues due to sensory overload and academic/social frustrations). And finally, I put a call into our local public health department and left a message with the intake social worker. When she called back, she spoke with Geekster. She initially scheduled an appointment for the middle of May, but once she got more details, she said she could see him Tuesday on an urgent basis. The help is there and response has been excellent.
We're getting closer to an answer and hopefully closer to figuring out how we can help our son. Yesterday, I spoke with a good friend who's twin sons have autism, and a lot of the behavioral issues are similar to Gutsy's. That makes sense, considering, like many on the autism spectrum, he likely has some heavy sensory issues due to his hearing loss. She gave me some amazing coping strategies and ways to deal with him, which we're going to implement into our arsenal of new tactics. Things like:
- giving him written steps to do a chore so that he doesn't get overwhelmed (like he usually does) with the immensity of it. Getting Gutsy to clean up is like pulling teeth, so I'm looking forward to trying this out
- counting down from 5 instead of up from 1 when we're giving him a warning, so that he can better anticipate the end of the counting (this worked well yesterday when we tried it)
- using different words to say the same thing - words that trigger his outbursts less but still get the point across. Time for this writer to pull out the thesaurus
And I realized something even more important when I spoke to her: I've been forgetting that he does, indeed, have special needs. The effects of his hearing loss may not be apparent in his school work or his speech (anymore), but his behavior - whether it be due to sensory overload, anxiety, or something else - is likely a direct result from being a deaf child in a hearing world. Even with his hearing aids, he doesn't hear like we do; his brain doesn't process sounds like ours. Some are louder, some are quieter, and some don't come in at all. He just does so well in every other way that we're quick to forget, and I treat his outbursts like a discipline issue instead of like a special needs issue. That means I use less compassion and get more frustrated with him. I blame him and I blame me for not being able to help him. It's not a good scene.
When I was pregnant with Intrepid, someone once told me how powerful motherhood is, and how I would find myself willing to do anything to save my child. Right now I feel like he's drowning, and my other two children are slipping under the water with him. And their dad and I keep diving into the waves-- but as much as we try, we can't pull them up. We're treading water and we're so very tired, but we keep trying.
No, this is not something we can do alone anymore. Help is on the way and we're going to receive it with open arms. There's a boat on the horizon, and it has five life preservers on board.
We're ready.