I Gave Myself a Day

Last Monday, my husband and I got the results of K's latest neuropsych testing. It was an hour of listening to someone highlight all of K's struggles, and realizing that things are worse than we thought. She's our kid, we aren't blind to her issues, but we also see her through a different lens than a stranger. We've adapted ourselves so much to her needs, we didn't realize just how affected she is by the autism-induced anxiety she deals with each day. Especially away from home.

Unlike most people, I usually go into these meetings thinking we'll hear really positive things. Don't ask me why. I am not in any sort of denial, I just always think that maybe my parenting skills are lacking, making things seem more difficult than they actually are. So, in reality, K is OK, I just suck at what I do. I guess it should be a relief to hear things are even worse than I thought, but I wouldn't mind being told otherwise, just once.

Every time we have some sort of testing done, the doctor confirms the autism, and each one seems to think it affects K more than the last. Yes, she's made tons of progress over the years, but with age comes new challenges. At 10 she is much more affected  by them than when she was a toddler, or in early elementary.

Everything is overwhelming for her. Everything. That is what the doctor told us. Her anxiety is so bad, she can't access anything. It will most likely always be that way because the anxiety is tied to the autism, and though medication might take the edge off, we'll never see a big change.

She's falling behind more and more academically. Nothing motivates her, because even the prize at the end isn't worth the hardships to get there. We need 15 hours of home ABA, a new school, but what any of that will look like? No one can say.

She's not at the point where she can understand social pragmatics (can I get a refund for all the years of social groups we've done?) She has no coping skills, just maladaptive behaviors. Though she has a good vocabulary, she's a "reporter", and cannot hold conversations. Not the type of conversations she should be holding at this age, which was driven home at a birthday party we attended this weekend, where I was surrounded by typical 11 year olds. Heck, it was even driven home by the other girls on the spectrum at the party who are just leaps and bounds ahead of K in a lot of ways.

I used to ask each doctor what they predicted for her future, but I've stopped doing that. I'm too afraid of what they'll say now.

There's more. So much more, but we don't have a paper report yet, and I can't remember everything. My head was swimming when we left. I just wasn't prepared.

It is truly sad to hear all of your child's weaknesses pointed out at one time. It's sad to know how affected she is by her diagnosis. It's sad to sit at a table and know that no one has any idea what kind of school she needs, or how to really help.

So I gave myself a day. A whole day where I wallowed in everything I heard at that meeting. A whole day where I cried over K's future, and the fact that, at 10, no one knows how to best help my child. A day to lament the fact that all the therapies we've done have been far beyond her, hence why we never saw progress (we just didn't know.) A day to curse the gods for making life so difficult for my beautiful girl. A day to be angry at the public school that let her fail because they just didn't see how bad things were. They made assumptions about what she was capable of doing, and those assumptions were just so, so wrong.

One day, and that was it.

I don't think feeling sad is a bad thing. I don't think I'm a bad mom for taking a day to cry over everything the doctor told us. Yes, K is still K, and that is something I don't need to be told. I don't need to be told it's OK, or that it's just a piece of paper (or someone sitting across a desk, ripping your heart out.) I don't need to be told anything by anyone. I just needed a day.

Now things are back to normal. We do what we need to do for our daughter, without getting bogged down by what "it" all means. I continue to enjoy the girl I know, and see the best parts of her, because there are oh-so-many best parts. I continue to let K lead me through her life, because it is her life after all, while figuring out how to make that life as happy and fulfilling as possible.

You can choose to be consumed by information and test results, or you can choose to just enjoy your kid. Take the time to be sad. To cry. To vent your frustrations. But don't live in that place. Never, ever life in that place.

When a Pet Dies

This week we lost one of our cats, and by lost I mean he died. I almost told the kids we lost Finn, but didn't want them thinking he ran away. Saying "lost" just feels easier than saying "dead" or "died". Those words seem so cutting. So hurtful. So in-your-face final.

But, then, that's what death is.

K understands death. She knows it means your body (or an animal's body) no longer works, and that person (or animal) is not coming back. Religion is too abstract a concept for her at this point (not that we are religious), so "heaven" offers no comfort. If she can't see something, it's hard for her to believe it exists. This week, though, I would have gladly set aside my atheist tendencies if it would have brought her a moment of peace.

It's just so hard to see your kids in pain.

Finn's death was sudden. Very, very sudden. He went from seemingly healthy, to extremely sick within 2 days. I thought maybe he caught a virus, and was just dehydrated. Or, I tried to convince myself of that. I knew in my heart as we left for the vet, Finny wouldn't be coming home.

Feline Leukemia (not actually cancer, but an immune disorder.) Something he's probably had since birth. Something I guess he was never tested for (I didn't realize not all vets consider it a routine test.) There is no treatment, anyway. How long a cat lives with it just depends, but most don't live past 4. Finny made it to 5.

Breaking the news to K was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Finn was our cat-dog. He loved to cuddle, all day, everyday. We have 2 other cats, but he was the one who sought out human companionship. As much as I sometimes found that annoying (sometimes you want to read a book without a cat in your way), K loved it. It was the one animal who would stay with her for as long as she wanted, like a loyal dog (he also drank from the toilet and ate trash, hence "cat-dog".)

K has cried every day since Finn passed. Wednesday night I just laid with her as she cried. I didn't think it possible someone could cry for as long as she did. It's hard to convey how it feels to have your heartbreak over and over, with every sob, every gasp, every heave.

Having a pet die is part of life. An unfortunate part of childhood, sometimes. Something you know will eventually happen when you adopt that fluffy little kitten, or playful little puppy, but which doesn't deter you because of the joy pets bring. But Finny shouldn't have died. Five just isn't a long enough life for a cat. It's just not fair.

Now, you've read a lot about how K is dealing with this, but I haven't mentioned B. He didn't take it as I expected. He wasn't upset. He asked lots of questions (like if Finn can be mummified), but didn't cry. He told me that he just "doesn't have a heart for animals, only humans". He said Finn always ran from him anyway (active little boys and cats don't always mix.) He doesn't get that death is sad just because death is sad. He never bonded with Finn. He never played with him. He is very matter-of-fact, black and white. Finn is gone, but that doesn't change much for B. He wasn't a big part of his life, anyhow, and death just doesn't have a deeper meaning, or greater sadness for him at this point.

It worried me at first, but then I remembered having lunch with K at school a couple years back, and one of the little girls at her table told me how her dog had died. I assumed she meant years ago, but, nope, just that week. There was no look of sadness on her face, no tears. She told me he died, and went back to eating her lunch. All kids are different, I suppose. I should probably be thankful I am only dealing with one upset child, not two. B is young, and I should be happy he's a bit sheltered from the pain death brings.

As for my husband and I, we are dealing with the guilt of not seeing something was wrong. Not that there's anything we could have done, but we could have been prepared (and, yes, we are making sure our other cats are tested.) Maybe noticed subtle hints. Watched Finn closer. In reality, I'm sure there isn't anything we could have done, but the guilt is still there. We have indoor cats because we want to make sure nothing happens to them. An illness like this was something we barely knew existed, let alone something we thought we'd ever experience.

And of course we are heartbroken. We thought the cats would live forever, something we joked about often while sweeping the floors for the umpteenth time. The finality of death is always hard, too. Especially when it's so sudden. Too sudden.

Sure, it's just a cat, and no, we are not people who equate pets with children. But, he was here, a part of our family, and now that's he gone I realize just how big a part. I miss my snuggle buddy more than I expected. So much more. AND, I can't promise there isn't a new cat in our future (especially because our other male cat, Max, was very attached to Finn.)

Yes, we still have a lot of other pets, and I am probably crazy for even entertaining the idea of a new kitty down the line (hey, I even surprised myself), but I guess you really don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

So, that has been our week. A terrible, no good, awful, very bad, week. I know it will get better, but for now, we're just sad.

We're really going to miss you, buddy...
I hope we gave you an awesome 5 years.