Every weekend feels much like the previous one, like in that movie Groundhog Day, only things don’t seem to get better, we don’t learn what we can do differently to improve our lives or figure out this little enigma of ours that we call Calvin. For years it’s been the same old same old monotonous weekends during which the most exciting thing we do is to get lattes at the coffee shop up the road and go for a scenic drive. Calvin is nearly impossible to take anywhere without running into his stubborn refusal to walk where we want to take him.
“Let’s do something fun this weekend,” Michael says to me over scrambled eggs and toasted bagels.
“Like what?” I reply, sipping my lukewarm coffee.
“I don’t know.” He adds.
“I don’t know either,” I say, resigned, noting Calvin’s crazy behavior that makes already difficult outings even harder.
Calvin had enough energy this morning to power a rocket to the moon or, in my case, send me to hell and back. What I mean to say is that he was beyond hyper, like some three-and-a-half foot crack addict. His manic behavior has continued throughout the morning and into the afternoon, with bouts of hysterical laughing, coughing and hyperventilation followed by odd space-outs and catatonic staring at his hands.
I wonder if my son is becoming schizophrenic, wonder too if he is haunted by his behavior as much as I am. I feel a seizure coming on even though it is only day five since his last one, only 1/16th as long as he went between seizures in late summer.
He’s in his johnny-jump-up right now, spinning, laughing, screeching and cracked like a nut. He’s getting stronger, he’s getting bigger and I am beginning to wonder how I am going to manage this kid in a few more years, after a he puts on a few more pounds and few more inches. As it is right now, when he is in what I think might be distress, he yanks my hair so hard he twists my head. Sometimes he grabs my throat and I fear he’ll choke me. He clutches my head and drags his teeth hard and painful across my face, though so far I have escaped serious injury. I figure he’s just trying to tell me something—perhaps that he feels a seizure coming on—but, alas, there is nothing that I can do beyond trying to remain calm, which much of the time I find difficult to say the least. That's when Michael comes to the rescue like some superhero.
The kid is a tangled mess of nerves, a puzzle missing most of its pieces, a little brain and body awash in seizures and drugs. Calvin: my humpty dumpty kid. All I wish for is to be able to put him back together again, this little enigma of mine.
“Let’s do something fun this weekend,” Michael says to me over scrambled eggs and toasted bagels.
“Like what?” I reply, sipping my lukewarm coffee.
“I don’t know.” He adds.
“I don’t know either,” I say, resigned, noting Calvin’s crazy behavior that makes already difficult outings even harder.
Calvin had enough energy this morning to power a rocket to the moon or, in my case, send me to hell and back. What I mean to say is that he was beyond hyper, like some three-and-a-half foot crack addict. His manic behavior has continued throughout the morning and into the afternoon, with bouts of hysterical laughing, coughing and hyperventilation followed by odd space-outs and catatonic staring at his hands.
I wonder if my son is becoming schizophrenic, wonder too if he is haunted by his behavior as much as I am. I feel a seizure coming on even though it is only day five since his last one, only 1/16th as long as he went between seizures in late summer.
He’s in his johnny-jump-up right now, spinning, laughing, screeching and cracked like a nut. He’s getting stronger, he’s getting bigger and I am beginning to wonder how I am going to manage this kid in a few more years, after a he puts on a few more pounds and few more inches. As it is right now, when he is in what I think might be distress, he yanks my hair so hard he twists my head. Sometimes he grabs my throat and I fear he’ll choke me. He clutches my head and drags his teeth hard and painful across my face, though so far I have escaped serious injury. I figure he’s just trying to tell me something—perhaps that he feels a seizure coming on—but, alas, there is nothing that I can do beyond trying to remain calm, which much of the time I find difficult to say the least. That's when Michael comes to the rescue like some superhero.
The kid is a tangled mess of nerves, a puzzle missing most of its pieces, a little brain and body awash in seizures and drugs. Calvin: my humpty dumpty kid. All I wish for is to be able to put him back together again, this little enigma of mine.
Sometimes, like in Groundhog Day, I could just write the exact same comment:
ReplyDelete"I hear you barking, big dog."
In any case, I have a post going up in about an hour that's about the sameness thing - I make light of it -- but the repetition, the endlessness of our kids' plight -- well -- I hear you barking.