I’m going through withdrawals from my blog. My son has been ill this week. With him beside me most of the day, I can’t seem to concentrate. It’s making my eye twitch and my brain hurt. I love him dearly, but I need us back in our routine.
Even now, after I’ve put him to bed and finally found a moment to myself, I’m too tired and can only think about all of the tv shows waiting for me on the dvr.
I feel anxious and uncomfortable, like I’ve forgotten to turn off the stove or I’ve left the car unlocked at the mall or something. (Thank you to Lisa who discovered my open van door yesterday.)
Friday and Monday were two of the worst days I’ve ever had with my son. When my brain is working better, I’ll tell you all about them. For now, I’ll just share with you that he pooped today and I’m elated. I wasn’t sure he ever would again.
Oh, the joys of autism.
He can figure out complex toys, pluck out simple tunes by ear on the piano and navigate through a maze of computer games, but he doesn’t know when to go to the bathroom.
When he figures it out, it’s usually too late or it’s unproductive. And we have to scrub a lot of undies and buy a lot of wet wipes. Fun.
Our son’s sorrows this week were constipation and vomit. Possibly related, possibly coincidental. We’re tired either way.
I wrote a long post to relay a sanitized version of these recent nightmares, but my husband read it and pointed out what I already knew. I was too syrupy and I danced around the details in a repelling sort of way. Nothing for you readers to sink your teeth into. I scrapped it and now you get this.
I have struggled a lot with how to handle delicate, potentially embarrassing information about my son on the internet. I feel compelled to write things, but I am very fearful of leaving some legacy of social damnation for his future.
I asked my husband how it would be for our son, down the road at age 18, to have some girl he likes look him up on Google only to find out he had trouble pooping when he was seven.
I mean, maybe I would take the blog down before then, but how am I to stop the world at large from posting it elsewhere? Once it’s there, it’s there, and probably taken out of this context.
My husband thinks I should write honestly and to further urge that, he assured me that no girl would be looking up our son on Google. I know he meant that in the most encouraging “don’t worry” way, but I cried about it later. I want some girl to Google my son! I want to believe that he will fall in love and find a partner who loves him back.
You’d think with the poop and puke issues so fresh that I’d let this other worry go for a moment, but I assure you it is only heightened. When your kid is autistic, or challenged in any way, mentally or physically, you can’t help but go to very dark places in your mind’s eye when things are rough.
I’m terrified that I will die before my son is safely in the hands of another caring person. I know that every parent thinks about these things and I know that not all parents get to have that terror calmed, but for me, and for most parents of kids on the spectrum, it’s something we can’t rationalize ourselves out of. We’re freaked out. I’m freaked out. I don’t want my son to be alone or afraid. Ever.
So the poop and puke stuff sucks because, in addition to being a practical pain to deal with, it’s a stress inducing reminder of one potential and horrible future. So maybe it makes more sense now when I tell you how happy I am that my kid took a dump today. It takes the edge off my ulcer.