Tag Archives: special needs

Posted on by

Pissed off-ism

Election season is in high gear, and I hear a lot of political candidates yapping about the middle class squeeze or the middle class crush. As a member of the middle class, I’d like to reframe that worn-out image. I don’t feel squeezed, or crushed. What I have is pissed off-ism.

Note I didn’t say pessimism. Pissed off-ism ups the ante. Mere pessimists just expect the

Always on offense

worst. Those of us in the pissed-off ranks get there by trying to make a lousy or unjust situation better. In a way, we’re actually a strain of optimists, because we think our actions stand a chance of improving the situation. Thus we play perpetual offense.

The problem is, bringing about the improvement in the 21st century U.SA. often takes so long and becomes so draining that it just leaves you feeling pissed off.

Case in point: Being an advocate for a special needs child. Last month we requested a new classroom assignment for our son on the autism spectrum after the first one proved a poor fit, manifesting in unprecedented aggressive behavior, anxiety and resistance to going to school in the first place.

We were fortunate. The school staff was extremely accommodating and the new classroom has made a night and day difference to our son. But getting to that point required intensive energy and effort for three solid weeks. That has real consequences for mental health.

Now, just as that’s squared away, comes implementation of Michigan’s new autism insurance law. This Detroit News article headline sums it up: New law offers little help. I’ve already made multiple calls to our insurance company, e-mailed our clinical providers and attended three meetings in the last month, and I still have no guarantee that I won’t have to pay out-of-pocket for benefits the law says my child’s entitled to today.

Pissed off? You bet I am.

In between there’s all the so-called small stuff. Take the car in to the shop complaining of a squeak. Spend $1,000 to fix, take the car home, only to hear it still squeak. Intermittent furnace problems only three years after installation (read: still warrantied) and indifferent service from the company who happily sold you the thing.

Thing is, that line about it all being small stuff is baloney. It may be small relatively speaking, but it’s not like you can blithely release the need for reliable transportation or a warm house for your family of four. And the parent stuff? That’s big stuff. Way worthwhile stuff. Stuff I’ll see through no matter how bloody bureaucratic it gets.

Which brings us back full circle, to walking around in a perpetually pissed-off state. Besides the mental stress, I worry about blood pressure, ulcers, migraines. That’s not small stuff, either.

So, then, what is one to do? Truly. Candidates, my fellow members of the middle class, anyone? How do I get off offense and back to enjoying this thing we call life?

- The letter e brought to you by Daily Drop Cap.

Posted on by

Open water – life without lanes *

Saturday morning, and I’m plunging my arms against the chopping water of West Grand Traverse Bay. Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, on the right, because the waves are rolling in from the left. Trying to progress toward the orange buoy ahead, the one being buffeted about by these same waves, cresting just shy of a whitecap.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke breathe, on the right again. The orange buoy marks the midway point, when I turn and this relentless current becomes my friend, pushing me back to the beach now almost half a mile behind me.

Almost. Maybe 100, 200 yards to the buoy? Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, lifting my head up this time, switching to breast stroke, to get a better visual of my floating target.

No progress. At least is doesn’t feel like it. Treading water, I lift my goggles, fogged because the water’s warmer than the 67-degree air. I’ve drifted, no surprise, off to the right. I’ll have to alternate to stay in a straight line.

So. Stroke, stroke, stroke, left. Stroke, stroke, stroke, right. OK. I’m doing all right. I’m encouraged to see another swimmer now, someone else stabbing their arms and legs into the gray water in perpetual motion, because, after all, that’s what you do in an open water swim. Stroke stroke, stroke, lef–

The wave smacks my face, filling my mouth with water. Instinctively I close it, rolling over to the relative shelter of the right. Gagging, I try to breathe air through my nose while water sloshes in my lungs. Coughing, I swing my legs vertical, treading water. My legs churn below, but I’m now a bobber in these waves, vulnerable to going under. Still coughing. I abandon treading and float on my back. Just keep swimming, Dory said. But first you’ve got to just keep breathing.

It works. Thirty seconds of floating and I’m breathing evenly again. But rolling over to swim again, I’m tired. I’ve lost the comforting sight of my comrade in the waves. Still, I just keep swimming.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, right. Stroke, stroke, stroke, THIS.

A timely appearance/cropped from Jan-Michael Stump original in Record-Eagle

Off to, yes, the left, over Leelanau County. And there in the water, I feel like Noah. It’s not just been a rough half-mile. It’s been a rough week, this first week of school, with e-mails and phone calls over my son’s behavior, as turbulent as the bay right now. It’s been a rough summer, as I wrote below.

But I also recall re-reading an entry from my journal dated March 5, almost exactly six months ago, when the waters of life were glassy-smooth. “Doing great. A+ school conference,” I wrote about my son.”It’s a good place now.”

I look at the rainbow again. Two hundred yards til the good place, I coach myself. Almost there.

I just have to keep swimming. And I do.

Bay, slain.

* Thanks to Carol South for the “life without lanes” analogy.
* Slick “S” courtesy of Daily Drop Cap.

Posted on by

Anticipation

Starting the car’s engine at 3 o’clock today, heading to pick up my newly-minted first

Sending forth

grader, I felt something I haven’t since last May.

Anticipation.

It happened again a little after 5, waiting for my husband to return with our daughter from her preschool-daycare combo day. I glanced out the kitchen window, watching for the garage door to open, listening for the “Mommy, mommy!” shriek. When it came, I burst through the screen door and pulled her into a bear hug, so glad — no, make that thrilled, not to mention relieved —to feel glad.

This summer’s been rough hellish. My son relies on school and its comforting routines to belay him through the day. Cut off, he spent  June, July and August teetering on the edge of the emotional/anxious/sensory abyss that is autism spectrum disorder. His behavior rubbed off on his sister. It rubbed off on all of us, to be honest. Those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer? They got that last one right. Stir crazy, I was going, trying to cope with it.

And after just six hours of the miracle tonic that is school day separation, my mental health soared. Anger, resentment, guilt, feeling stuck in this world of special needs that I never, ever imagined all receded as anticipation surged forth.

That may make me sound horribly selfish. All I know is, I picked up my first grader with a smile on my face. And I’ve got 179 more to look forward to.

Hit it, Carly.