 |
| That's me. With a beard. And no pants. And what looks like a highly ineffective parachute. Oh, and I'm in Italy in the 1400's. (Yes, I was OBVIOUSLY a Doctor Who companion. Duh.) |
"Gutsy has issues with processing information," said the
psychologist this morning.
I knew that
already because I was scanning the results on the table and noticed the huge
dip in the graph when it came to the processing component. But I pretended to
act surprised, like if I was on the Maury show and finding out the 7th guy
tested is not the father. That kind of surprised.
Because, really,
if you're a psychologist and you sit in an office all day, what's the
thrill?
Rare diagnoses and
shocked looks from people, that's what.
I provided one of
these today, which I'm happy to have done. Merry Christmas, Doctor.
"So he has a
processing disorder," I said.
"That's what
the preliminary findings seem to indicate, yes."
"But they're
in line with the tests we did with another psychologist a couple of years ago
and it totally fits on so many levels, so I'm going to say he absolutely has a processing disorder." I
said, taking it upon myself to make the call. My PhD in Awesomeness was clearly
paying off by this point.
And then we talked
about further testing to pinpoint the exact ways his processing is affected,
potential modifications at the school level, in the home, long-term prognosis,
and all that other stuff I've become increasingly accustomed to with each
diagnosis.
Intrepid has
hearing loss. Gutsy has hearing loss, anxiety and now a learning disability.
Some days I would very much like to kick special needs in the balls. Today is
one of those days.
Nothing can
prepare you for parenting. It's like jumping out of a plane for the first time;
you don't know what to expect. And if your child has special needs? It's a
whole new ballgame - or terrifying extreme sport, whatever. While there are
varying types and degrees of special needs, they're all challenging in their
own way - especially at first.
We all want our
kids to be typical. Or, if not typical, only atypical in the exciting ways,
like excelling at sports or reading or piano. We want them to shine. And hearing your child
has a disability or twelve seems to put a cap on all that brightness. It says,
"Your child is not who you envisioned them to be. They're different, and
therefore the path their life will take is going to be different. Be prepared
to take a detour."
It can be
heartbreaking to hear there's something "wrong." It can feel
overwhelming and sad, and overwhelmingly sad.
(See what I did
just there? That's because I'm a writer.)
And I feel that
way every single time we get a new diagnosis. It's like someone just kicked me
out of the plane blindfolded - but not before handing me an anvil. I'm hurtling
towards the scary unknown and I can't find the damn ripcord.
How do you parent
a child who doesn't fit the descriptions in the parenting books? How do you
help him reach his potential when you have to go about it in a way that isn't
instinctive? How do you find the energy and the time to give him without taking
too much away from his siblings, your marriage, your friendships, your career, and
your passions?
And all the while
you're falling fast, and things need to get done now, and you have to think,
and make decisions, and advocate, and act like you know what you're doing when
really you have no fucking idea at all.
That's when I
usually panic a little, then cry and feel sorry for him, then sorry for us,
then beat myself up a little for being kind of a shitty drama queen mom. And
once that's all over - which only took a couple of hours this time. Progress! -
I work at gaining perspective.
First, I remember
that Gutsy is still Gutsy. He's still the same boy he was before we knew he had
hearing loss, before we knew how anxious he was, before we knew for certain
that he had a processing disorder. He's creative and kind, soft and so sweet.
He laughs at nearly all my jokes (yes, I pay him), and gives a hug that's hard to beat. This diagnosis changes none of that. All it does it give us new
insight into how to help him. That's a good thing.
(Good job, Team Maven!)
Next, I remind
myself that there were never any guarantees when we decided to have children.
Those ideas I had about what my kids would be like were just that: ideas. Dreams. And the boys who have
graced our lives are so much better than the dreams*. One of the best things I ever read about parenting is this: Let go of the child you thought you
would have and accept the one you do have. Very important. And he's not that hard to accept,
honestly. He's an amazing little human just the way he is. Our job is not to
change him, it's to help him be the best person he can be. That part of
parenting remains the same, special needs or not.
(OMG, Maven. Seriously. Would you like
some fries with your awesome? Keep going.)
And I remember
that it is my pleasure to raise Gutsy and Intrepid and Spawnling. It's a
privilege to help them grow up. It's an honour to be their mom.
(Beautiful. See? You can pull off this mom
stuff sometimes. You can! Now just finish up with an insightful analogy or
something.)
Then I drop the
anvil and let it fall to the ground. That's the weight of guilt and worry and
stress. It was always my choice to hold on to that extra weight. Nobody said I
had to carry it all the way down.
Then I can take
off my blindfold - my fear - and let that go, too.
Finally, I open my
parachute and, just like every other parent, try and enjoy the ride. It's quite
a nice ride, really. I forget that. Every now and then, I have to give myself
permission to appreciate it - while it lasts.
*Exceptions:
public tantrums, launched ottomans, the time they used my purse to mix mud,
drawings of me with stink lines, barf. My
imaginary children never barfed.
PS: If you have a child with a processing disorder I would love to hear from you. I might even jump up and down a little. You can find my email to the right and up top. I promise I'm not this creepy in email - I'm significantly more creepy. Thank you!