encounters

yesterday, on calvin's second to last day of being mostly home with me for all but two of seventeen days, it rained like hell. i loved every minute of it.

after my shower, i crawled back into bed for part of an hour to read my novel, ann patchett's, "tom lake." since calvin's birth twenty-one years ago, i can't remember a morning ever crawling back into bed with a book—always some task to get done or somewhere to go. but the dark sky and driving rain on our red metal roof beckoned me to bed, and, calvin safe and serene in his own, i let myself succumb.

in her novel, "tom lake," patchett describes her relationship with her three grown daughters, all in their early twenties, who have come home to their childhood cherry farm during the pandemic. it's a gorgeous and absorbing read, and was nice to take a decent bite out of it instead of my usual page or two before falling asleep at night.

once the rain began to ease some, i loaded calvin into the car for our daily back roads car ride. we went to the point, parked facing the bay, and listened for fifteen minutes to rock and roll as the rain washed over the car. we were warm and dry with a fantastic view, at least for a spell. backing out, we passed a couple of parked cars in the turnaround. i glanced into one and flashed a broad smile at the pretty, young driver, a college student probably, who returned my grin with a sweet one of her own.

as i drove down the lane toward town, my eyes began to sting and brim thinking about how i might have had a daughter just a couple of years older than her if i hadn't miscarried. i was pretty sure i was carrying a girl the year before i became pregnant with calvin. i continued to lament the loss of what ann patchett describes with such beauty in her novel: the connection between a mother and her healthy, intelligent, thoughtful, curious, loving children, in this case daughters.

at the grocery store, calvin and i met again with kind friends and strangers, and i cashed in on copious, long, and sweet embraces from my son.

later in the day, calvin and i returned to the point, which is ever-changing in its beauty. on our way down simpson's point road, i pulled aside and put my hazards on to take photographs of the dripping forest flanking the shiny tarmac. a truck and trailer slowly pulled up aside me, and the driver rolled down his window, so i rolled down mine.

"is everything all right?" a white-haired man in a carhart-style jacket asked.
"yes, thank you! i am just taking photos of the trees."

the man, seated next to an attractive similarly-aged woman with a german shorthaired pointer puppy in her lap, seemed confused.

"of what?"

and so i held out my phone for him to see my most recent capture.

i explained that i drive to pennellville and the point every day with my disabled son, calvin, who can't do anything by himself. i rolled down the back seat window so he could see my son, and the man said, "hello calvin!"

i went on the describe how i first began taking drives out to pennellville during the pandemic when calvin didn't go to school or the grocery store for fifteen months, and so the only thing we could really do was go for car rides. i told him about all the locals i had seen often on those drives—lynn and john, john the dog walker, brenda and ruby, ashby the marathoner—and how i eventually introduced myself and calvin to each of them once it felt safe to do so. i joked to the man about how my husband calls me the mayor of brunswick because i know so many people. the couple chuckled, just as i became aware of how the pandemic strangely enriched my time with calvin, not unlike the characters in pachett's novel.

"would calvin like to see a puppy?" the woman asked, and i told her he probably couldn't see it since his vision is so bad, and that i wasn't so sure he'd be interested.

"oh, you're the kennel owners!" i exclaimed, having seen their roadside sign for years. "i've seen you and your dogs in the field!" gesturing in the direction of the grassy expanse on pennell way and mentioning how i often run out here in training for races, including half marathons.

"yep, that's me!" the man replied, perhaps with some healthy pride of his prize hunting dogs.

before we parted, i introduced myself and gave the man my card with an old photo of me and calvin on the front and my blog and email addresses on the back. the man's wife reached into her purse and fished out a card to give me.

"thanks for stopping," i said, "you probably got more than you bargained for!" and the couple chuckled again.

"next time you see me, please say hello," i asked.

"oh, we will!" then they said goodbye to calvin, who seemed oblivious, albeit very content, in the back seat as he gnawed a shiny blue rubber chew toy.

and as i drove off after having had such a positive, relaxing day, full of beauty, love, and cameraderie, i had a feeling of great satisfaction, happiness, and hope for this crazy world.

rock stars

the grocery store employee, whom i recognize but have never spoken to, waved at me and calvin from afar as he made his way toward us in the deli section.

 

he greeted us warmly, perhaps with the very slightest slur, "i see you guys every so often, but i don't really know you."

 

"that's because we are here every day!" i replied with a smile.

 

he had been on his way to grab lunch from the deli after having already punched out. i asked what he was hoping for.

 

"chicken tenders," he replied with the excitement of a child.

 

"what's the difference between chicken tenders and chicken nuggests?" i wondered.

 

"chicken tenders are way better. they're crispier!"

 

he asked for calvin's name, and seemed surprised when i told him. i asked him his in return, and he recited his full name, including middle initial. i wondered aloud what the middle initial stood for. he said, "allen," then went on to tell me that his mother named him after alan alda from the t.v. show M.A.S.H, because she wanted her son to stand out.

 

"you do stand out!" i exclaimed, adding, "grocery store employees are kind of like rock stars—everyone knows you!" and i was thinking, too, about how calvin is a rock star.

 

he agreed, relaying to me that, outside of work, strangers come up and talk to him all the time because they recognize him from the store. i jokingly asked if they ever want his autograph, and he laughed.

 

i told him my first and last name, adding that a friend of mine teasingly gave me the middle name of "sure can." then, in unison, we both said my full name, including my made-up middle name. i'm not sure he got the joke, but i had to chuckle anyway.

 

the nice man went on to tell me about some of his medical conditions and the meds he takes to treat them, at one point whispering the name of one of them. sadly, i'm familiar with all of the meds he mentioned. then he told me what would happen if he didn't take them.

 

he asked if calvin could ever have a job, adding that he may not be able to because calvin is nonverbal. i informed him that calvin has other limitations which prevent him from working.

 

the man marveled to me about his own openness and sharing, saying something to the effect, "i've never told anyone so much stuff about myself before."

 

i mentioned that, over the years, many people have told me that very same thing.

 

"maybe it's because you're so easy going," he said, which, unbeknownst to him, is one the best compliments anyone could give me considering the shit-show of a life i sometimes feel like i live, what with a man-boy as complicated, enigmatic, worrisome and difficult to take care of as calvin.

 

i beamed.

 

as we neared the meat case, the man mentioned he had been to spain and had seen a bullfight in barcelona. i told him that i had traveled to spain, too, many years ago, and had seen a bullfight in toledo. he told me his last name is german. i said calvin's last name might be german, also. he told me his age, and i told him mine.

 

"i never thought you were sixty-one," he said. i think (and hope) he meant i seem younger. haha!

 

we visited for a good ten or fifteen minutes as the man followed us along toward the dairy section, getting to know each other, and agreed finally that we have a lot in common.

 

at one point, calvin, who was being pretty patient (partly because i had my hand clasped over his on the cart) turned to the man as if to hug him.

 

"he looks like he wants to hug you. would that be okay?"

 

"i don't mind," he said, and he embraced calvin in a full-on hug as calvin wrapped his arms around the man's neck and tucked his face into the man's shoulder.

 

"i appreciate you asking me if it was okay for him to hug me," he said. but i don't mind, it doesn't bother me."

 

before we parted, the man asked me not to tell his mother that the two of them sometimes get in arguments, then saying, "but that's probably normal for most people with their moms." i nodded with a smile.

 

"no worries, i won't tell her. i don't even know what she looks like."

 

and then he put his hand out to shake mine, and we did, and it was a strong, warm, confident shake, the kind i like. and then i said, as i do to all of my favorite employees as i leave the grocer, "hope i see you tomorrow!"

 

and, no, calvin is not taller than i am!

 

eclipses

this morning i had a little, pitiful cry in the shower. i was lamenting the fact that, in 2017 and/or 2019, i did not travel cross-country from maine to central washington state to attend my swim team's induction into our university's athletic hall of fame, particularly as its 1986 team captain the year that we won the national championship.

to be fair, any travel is difficult because of leaving michael alone to take care of calvin, which is no easy job even for two people. i struggled with the decision to attend the festivities and, in the end, decided to forego.

 

my sadness this morning was triggered by seeing photos of my female teammates at a recent, casual, mini reunion. i had not been included. maybe it was a last-minute get-together for the locals. perhaps they figured i couldn't/wouldn't attend because of calvin and distance. maybe, since i didn't join the team until my junior year and always felt like a bit of an intruder (i fault myself, not them), i may be an afterthought. but i don't think that is the case; a handful of these women, including two who were also my childhood friends, have shown me great attention and affection over the years. in any event, had i been included, i don't know if i would have pulled the trigger and gone.

 

as my tears mingled with shower water, i realized i was grieving something bigger than missing reunions. i was grieving my inability to experience so many of life's offerings, or to feel an integral part of anything much since calvin's birth, with the exception of taking care of him. he has acted as a kind of eclipse of pretty much everything else.

 

calvin's conditions have overshadowed his and our lives, left us excluded, marginalized, isolated in myriad ways. his severe disabilities have blocked him from forging any friendships. he is incapable of participating in clubs, sports, bands, choir, or theater. as a result, i have not been the "soccer mom" on the sidelines. i have not hosted sleep overs. i have not been in the audience making bonds with his peers' parents over the fifteen years he has attended public school. don't get me wrong, i am friends and am friendly with many parents in our town but, with a few exceptions, mostly just in passing at the grocery store.

 

i also grieve how difficult, even impossible, it has been to engage in various activities with calvin. this morning, the bus driver asked me how my weekend was. well, it was the same mundane weekend as usual—spent driving around the back roads to our favorite vistas, and going to the grocery store with calvin (thankfully, i have grown to appreciate the mundane in many ways.)

 

most regrettably, calvin isn't interested in or cannot tolerate any number of pretty basic activities. he isn't interested in or capable of watching videos or movies, can't sit still for a restaurant meal, can't/won't go for even short walks in the woods or on the beach, immerse himself in a book, play with toys, sit still at a friend's house, or lounge in a park. he is difficult to travel with because of various limitations, including finding him a safe way/place to sleep.

 

over the last three years, calvin has thankfully had a gradual reduction in seizures (from over 100 per year to the low double-digits), which has helped me feel less paralyzed and more at ease about traveling (solo), as long as calvin is in school and when michael is not teaching. i have used this newfound "freedom" to go on a few short trips, to explore running, and to enter races a handful of times each year. i am grateful to have felt embraced by the running community and its members who are warm, kind, fun, funny, inspirational, supportive, and who share my love of the sport. 

 

but every once in a while i get caught feeling a gloom cast over me thinking about lost opportunities—the event i didn't attend, the vacation i forwent. i pine for the day when i can feel more of a sense of freedom besides just on my daily runs, infrequent races and less-frequent trips.

 

but the future is uncertain for calvin after his last day of high school next february. it is unclear whether he will be able to attend an adult day program without adequate funding for a one-on-one aide which he requires. it appears i may be taking care of calvin more instead of less as i age. i grieve the fact that michael and i may never enjoy the freedoms of being empty nesters (not that there aren't downsides of that for many parents), may never again be able to travel as a couple (the only time we have taken a trip without calvin was in 2012 when we spent 24 hours in manhattan), and we will never reap the benefits of being grandparents.

 

as i write this, with dry eyes, i understand that hindsight is 20/20, and i made what i thought were the best decisions that i was capable of making, under certain self-imposed duress, when i opted out of so many fun events. for now, all i can do is forgive myself and remember the circumstances. i will continue to try to reclaim my time, to participate when i can, to leave my comfort zone when possible, and to know that my little ball and chain will be okay without me for awhile when i feel the need to flee to brighter climes.

 

more so, i will continue to appreciate my husband for being such an amazing provider and support (especially in the kitchen and around the house!) and my close friends and family who are so attentive and loving, and who know i am doing my damnedest at the world's most important and impossible job of taking care of a beloved who can't take care of themselves.

 

moreover, at this time of political chaos, strife and uncertainty for too many people, i will be grateful for my husband's uber-stable job, for our cozy home, for having enough money for food and heat, for health insurance, our community, our friendships, and this beautiful, safe place called maine.

 

photo of me and calvin (trapped behind me for a spell) at last year's total solar eclipse.

reminders

daily, i am reminded of a life that could have been—for me and for michael and for calvin. daily, i must resist the urge to think, "what if" about a million and one circumstances: the lost conversations about life, love, the mysteries of the universe, that i might have had with my child. the lost moments of a proud parent watching their child excel at sports, theater, music, drawing, writing, art, science. the loss of seeing my handsome boy make friends and perhaps bring home a sweetheart. the loss of him going places on his own, whether just down the street to a friend's house, out to the point, or to another city or country. the loss of going for walks with my child on the beach or in the woods or up a mountain to linger perched on an outcropping or in the shade of a tree, just being still as the wind sweeps back our hair.

 

but none of this will ever be, nor will the particular joys that come from being a grandparent.

 

but, calvin has brought so many profoundly deep feelings, so much richness and love and heartache and meaning to our lives. and, when i least expect it, something simple he does—the way he looks at me or the smile on his face—or something we do together, like a pleasant trip to the grocery store, reminds me that what i am doing—loving and taking care of someone like him—is the most important, meaningful thing in the world.

 

autumn update

It has been far too long since I last posted, so I thought it was time to give you a quick update.

Calvin recently went nearly five months without having any seizures. A low-grade fever on October 1st triggered a breakthrough seizure, and then he had another seizure twenty-five days later. My hope is he will go back to having longer seizure-free stints, which I attribute to his use of the drug Xcopri (cenobamate).

In the past twelve months, Calvin has had only four seizures, which is down from fourteen last year, forty-plus in 2022, and over 100 in 2021 when he started taking Xcopri. So I have no doubt that the medicine is working to limit his seizures.

What has not changed is Calvin's impossible restlessness. I believe he suffers from a condition called Akathisia, which people can acquire from the use of, and withdrawal from, certain drugs. My understanding is that benzodiazepines can cause this condition, but we will be taking Calvin to a behavioral health specialist to see what they have to say. In the meantime, we struggle daily with Calvin's inability to sit still for minutes if not seconds at a time.

All in all, however, Calvin seems to be better understanding us and is more cooperative when we take him places to walk for short distances in less familiar places, which is a huge improvement over the stubborn boy who often insisted on trying to drop to the ground every few steps. I can only conclude that this improvement is due to having fewer seizures.

Another upside of Calvin having fewer seizures is that he misses less school, and when he goes to school I have the freedom to go for long runs between ten and fifteen miles, which I love for the mental and physical health benefits those runs offer me.

That's all for now. Thank you for you continued concern, love and patience. I'll try not to be such a stranger.

after the bath

after fifteen and a half weeks of seizure freedom, calvin suffered a grand mal having just stepped out of a warm bath. he was standing at the sink as i dried him off and he went quiet. i watched his eyes become vacant, the blood drain from his face, and his lips become dusky. even though he can't speak, i kept asking him what was wrong. i felt for a rapid heartbeat, noted his slowing respiration, and then i knew what was coming. he let out the telltale blood-curdling howl, went stiff and began convulsing. i grabbed him around the trunk so he wouldn't fall, and i lowered him as he seized onto the small bath mat on the floor. i bunched the mat up under his head, cupped one of my hands under his bony knees, and wedged one of my legs under his ankles so he wouldn't bang his head and bones on the hard tile floor.

when it was over i was able to get a pull-up on him and some sweat pants and a long-sleeve t-shirt. he was limp as if he were drunken or unconscious. i had to hold him under his armpits and drag him down the hallway to his bedroom. there, i was able to get him into a floppy standing position so that i could pick him up under his shoulders and knees to carry him a few feet to his bed to drop him in.

i'm grateful i have a have a strong body, and that i have continued to practice lifting his shy 100 pounds just in case something like this were to happen. he's sleeping now.

yesterday, calvin spent most of the day with his fingers in his mouth—not a good omen. he's been out of sorts more often these past few weeks. he didn't seem to want to take a bath, but he needed one badly. i wish i had "listened" to him.

i fear my sweet boy will have another seizure today or tonight; they often come in clusters. i fear he will not regain the long stretches between seizures that he has enjoyed this past year. he has been doing well lately. i am feeling despondent.

send us some good mojo, will you?

little celebration

Today marks eleven weeks of seizure freedom for my sweet son Calvin. It isn't his longest stint ever; that record was nineteen weeks long—or nearly four and a half months—in the late summer of 2022. But I think this is one of his top three or four longest stretches without any seizures since he first began having them when he was just eighteen months old, shortly after he said "mama" for the first and only time in his life.

Long seizure-free stints usually mean Calvin misses very little school, which means I have more time for myself to do what I want and need to do. Moreover, I'm not racked with anxiety and tension looking over my shoulder all day long just waiting for the next frightening seizure to strike. To be mostly rid of that feeling is liberating to say the least.

It's also notable that Calvin has seemed very content and happy for several months. He is still uber restless due to the akathisia he suffers because of other epilepsy drugs, namely benzodiazepines, which I believe permanently harmed his developing brain.

But that Calvin smiles—when he gets on and off of his school bus, when he enters, makes his way through, and exits the grocery store, when we put him to bed and smother him with kisses—is not something that I take for granted. I remember years when I rarely saw Calvin smile, back when he was reduced to a little zombie, his brain awash with heavily-sedating drugs. I feared he might never smile again.

Calvin is also sleeping better these past several months, sometimes as long as twelve hours. He does still sometimes wake in the middle of the night and might have trouble getting back to sleep, but more often than not it is my impression that his sleep is fairly sound compared with in the past.

So, with all this in mind, I am having my own little celebration today—of Calvin's seizure-free stint, of spring, more daylight, and Calvin being easier and more enjoyable to take care of in a myriad of ways.

Calvin wearing his cool hand-me-downs