Entombed

I entered the dusty guest room and moved the heavy nightstand blocking the attic storeroom door. I pulled the door open and flipped the light switch, scanning the room for fall decorations and items I might use to decorate for Erik's birthday party. To my right stood the bulky, frosting-pink box in which my wedding dress was sentenced to spend the remainder of its existence with the air professionally vacuumed out of each fiber of fluffy lace and meringue-like veil. Musty, tightly-coiled sleeping bags surrounded it like dusty snakes on guard. As I stepped deeper into the room, taking care not to hit my head on the sloping ceiling, my brain went absolutely blank. I suddenly and inexplicably could not recall why I was in the room. I smiled at my forgetfulness. As I scanned the room, I felt my smile fade. I had been in this room thousands of times but could suddenly visualize things I had never noticed before. My neat, serial killer style block print in black Sharpie marker very concisely announced the contents of an army of old diaper boxes sealed shut with glossy packing tape. Most contained preemie-sized baby clothing, swaddling blankets, and tiny caps. The large box my toe nestled against contained what remained of my collection of maternity clothing, including the flowing blouses and pin-striped, button-up shirts I wore over my swelling stomach to my old job. Sitting on top of all of this was a collection of things too bulky to fit in boxes or simply tossed there to wait for one of my manic cleaning episodes.

I inhaled a large amount of attic air and attempted to concentrate again on the stack of folding chairs to my left and birthday party planning. My eyes wandered against all neurological orders issued by my brain. I could only stare at the baby bathtub sitting atop a pile of boxes like an adorable shipwreck. I peeked inside and spotted a bag full of plastic baby bottles. I turned away and straightened my collection of boxes, thankful I couldn't see inside them. I stacked them along the wall out of the way. Amazingly, I caught myself stalling for time. I felt as if there was a monster behind me. How pathetic could I be? I just could not seem to control what was happening here.

Just what was happening here, anyway?

These items did not bring me joy or trigger anything remotely maternal. They reminded me of death. The death that occurred years ago now that not many could feel or even knew occurred. I only felt memories of dark nights and horrible pain. Even the Huggies boxes suddenly seemed like brightly-colored coffins. I felt a spurt of adrenaline issue from deep within my torso. As it dispersed, my heart and lungs began to labor as if I was walking uphill. Nausea twisted my stomach.

I automatically grabbed the blue plastic bathtub and began to fill it with loose items. The Baby Bjorn carrier. The Boppy covered with the word "baby" and cheerful cartoon bees. The diaper wipe warmer. I carried the tub out of the room and set it on the carpet. Going back into the storage space, I glanced around the room and felt relief. I looked at Erik's saucer toy and items he had recently outgrown. I felt nothing. I picked up the boxes containing the baby swing and the baby bouncer, but a wall of guilt kept me from carrying them out of the room. I stacked them with the other boxes, extinguished the light coming from the two bare light bulbs inside, and shut the door behind me. I moved the nightstand back into place, entombing the dusty items inside once again.

I carried everything outside into the dewy, fall morning to my Jeep and placed them in the back, ready to drop off when I passed a Goodwill donation station sometime in the next week. My pain, someone else's gain. The panic faded as I shoved the heavy hatch closed and heard it slam shut. My lungs filled with fresh air. I could breathe again.

I want to move on. I need to let go. I am going to bury this pain, little by little.

First Day

Okay, I admit I have been a little more stressed than usual regarding Erik's first day of preschool at the tender age of 2 (he's 3 soon). I worried about the fact he isn't toilet trained, can barely hold a crayon, and doesn't always express his needs, especially in a setting with other children, in which he often sits expressionless and motionless for hours at a time. After I was through worrying about those things, I then went on to worry about the fun things, such as getting his birthday photo session scheduled. I purchased new clothing and ordered new shoes in the next size to go over his orthotics for the first day of school. I then stopped worrying altogether, as I recognized I would be dropping him off at the very same building as before for early intervention and have been doing this weekly for a year and a half without much thought at all at the end of this time frame. It would be no different. No worries.

Oh, Nancy. You poor, naive girl.

Monday was Erik's IFSP meeting. Brian dropped Erik off at day care and met me at Erik's school. They neglected to tell us they would be completely retesting Erik and that he needed to be present. In the past, we had simply filled out paperwork. We were instructed to sit in that horrible little room with the two-way glass where our lives began changing almost two years ago. If I hadn't been so annoyed, it would have bothered me more, but I still was acutely aware of that little piece of me that I lost that day still floating in the air like a piece of morbid confetti, trapped and haunting that room forever. We rescheduled the second half of testing and filled out paperwork with the two therapists present (speech and OT/PT). Many of the skills they asked us about were just emerging in Erik, as he is quite young for preschool. I don't miss the days when we answered "No, he doesn't do that yet" to every single question asked.

Tuesday I awoke at 2 a.m. with a now rare case of insomnia. I simply couldn't sleep as Brian and the cat roared through the night snoring. The three hours I was able to catch before awakening for the last time were less than high quality hours. I skipped my workout and had a tiny plate of comfort food--a multigrain waffle, berries, and light syrup. I watched video blogs until the rest of the world caught up with me. My body tingled with exhaustion, and my brain felt as if it was full of smoke.

I dressed Erik in his new clothes, and he came out to the kitchen to ask for a glass of water ("Want some water-please-okay."). As he looked up at me, I experienced a strange moment. I saw his syndrome so very clearly in his face for just a second, making him appear like all of the Williams kids I know combined. I actually saw flashes of them all and could name some of them. He smiled at me, and it only became more pronounced. I felt like I had seen a group of friendly ghosts. I knew then that I was being reminded that the parents with kids like mine had gone through the very same motions that very day to prepare for school. I suddenly felt far from alone. It was strange, to say the least. Maybe it was purely due to sleep deprivation.

We loaded into the Jeep and we began to drive into the most perfect fall day. As we turned the corner in front of Erik's school, we saw the bus sitting silently in the loading area. A round man wearing suspenders stood guard in front of it. His face seemed to display a combination of kindness and sharp-edged strength. I was guessing this was Jeff, Erik's new chauffeur who would be taking him home. He greeted us as we passed and guessed Erik's name correctly. Erik stood with eyes as large as saucers, staring at the large man and the even larger vehicle. In fact, Erik said absolutely nothing and could only walk very slowly backwards as I coaxed him away from his new friend, through the double glass doors, and into the dark hallway of the school. Jeff waved the whole way.

Inside, Brenda, the family advocate, oohed and ahed appropriately over my son. She voiced amazement he had grown and graduated from the early intervention program as we turned the opposite way from his old classroom with the stream of older kids and their parents. Monday one of his EI therapists admitted they would be watching out the windows to catch a glimpse of Erik walking into the building. He is missed already.

Erik's classroom was busy. Two parents sat on a couch in the corner supporting a standing boy Erik's size and smiling almostly manically at him, seemingly completely oblivious to the chaos in the classroom. They wondered aloud if he should be put into his walker or wheelchair. I winced as I saw the room was full of wheels on strollers and equipment to help kids ambulate. Jeannie, Erik's new teacher, greeted me easily and accepted the plastic bag with two of Erik's diapers in it. As much as I was put off by her the last time we had met, she instantly put me at ease. I inadvertantly stepped into the path of a little girl with the familiar features of Down syndrome and a new bobbed haircut. I kneeled in front of her at Erik's level, and Jeannie introduced her as Abby. Abby was obviously not very taken with me but seemed slightly curious about who Erik was. Erik said nothing for a minute but then suddenly and confidently repeated her name. I wondered if Abby knew just what she was getting herself into. We continued into the classroom, and I sat on the floor by a very tightly-wound boy with blond hair. At this point, Erik was attempting to melt into my legs and become part of my attire. The anxiety was beginning to manifest in muscle tightness and an almost invisible tremor, and I could feel both of them against my body as he reacted to the other children in the room. I picked up a colorful, plastic block and inserted it into a musical toy but was immediately scolded by the boy who informed me I hadn't done it properly. In fact, he seemed highly annoyed and slightly agitated by the fact I had touched it at all. I suddenly knew this would NOT be Erik's best friend and scanned the room for Abby, who had disappeared into the miniature crowd. I was happy to see some kids with genetic syndromes of different flavors, some of which I was unable to identify, although Erik, of course, seems to be in a completely different group from children of any kind. He doesn't mix well with children in general while the rest of them seem to do it so easily. I reluctantly left him there on the floor in a state of shock next to Mr. Neurotic and informed Jeannie I was sneaking out. The women at the front desk called out, "Enjoy your morning!" and I bit my lip, looked back at them, and said, "I don't know about this!" They laughed, and I escaped into the sunshine, which was exactly what I used to do when I was terrified of the place. This time, however, I didn't want to go.

Once I reached my Jeep, I hurried inside and sat for a few seconds in the warmth of the sun. My heart was pounding, and I was shaking worse than Erik was. I did a quick inventory. Physiologically, something was happening to me that I was not comprehending. Was I sad? Not really. Happy? Sort of. Anxious? A little. I felt my tear ducts start production, and I grabbed my cell phone without knowing who I would call. My mother? A genetic counselor? Our pastor? Our accountant? Oh, God, Nancy, pull it together. No tears had spilled yet. I resisted the urge to drive to a nearby restaurant and have a Bloody Mary and watch Fox News in an empty bar. I called my business partner, confessed where I was as I began to pull into the street, and informed her I had no desire to fall apart. I told her that I would like to discuss today's work load. That did it. Much better. After our conversation and formulating a plan for the day, I stopped by the grocery store to buy the ingredients to bake a creamy, homemade hamburger casserole and an expensive bouquet of sunshine-yellow lilies, rust-colored mums, and blushing carnations for myself. I also restocked my dwindling supply of diet ice cream bars.

My cell phone rang three times over the course of the morning. My mother called once to ask if it would be okay if they waited with me for Erik to come home, which was a wonderful idea. Erik's teacher called twice--the first time to inform me that Erik was quiet but doing fine and the second time to inform me that he had been placed on the bus and was still quietly doing fine. I couldn't believe the sensitivity of these people! I made a mental note to write them into my will and constructed a shopping list of items I would need to bake them all cookies.

My mother and father arrived after noon with a transparent bag containing Subway sandwiches. We sat on the front porch and waited for Erik's bus to arrive after class. Soon thereafter, the shiny, banana-yellow bus pulled into the gravel drive and began making its way to the house. When it stopped, the door silently opened to accept me. I greeted Jeff and noted the oldies music playing on the surprisingly high-quality sound system. The scent of brand new vehicle met my nostrils. Everything gleamed. I couldn't see my son above the high-backed bench seats, and I took a couple steps down the aisle. There he was, grinning from ear to ear. Erik was the only one of the group left, buckled into his seat and looking even more relaxed than he does atop his favorite horse. Jeff unbuckled him, and I grabbed him to carry him off the bus. No therapeutic stair-walking today. Jeff offered to pick him up for school anytime in addition to bringing him home, and I thanked him.

And that was that.

There He Goes...

Today was Erik's first day of real-life daycare. Brian took him on his way to work and brought him home, so I was free to relax, drink coffee, and watch soaps. NOT! I took this opportunity and ran with it. I worked out, showered, and hit the house with vigorous scrubbing and straightening. The place is gleaming! I was free to leave cleansers on the very edges of counters and toilet bowls open without fear of Erik sampling handfuls of Ajax or administering self-inflicted swirlies in the commodes. I accomplished much without setting foot out of the house today at all. My afternoon, of course, was consumed by work, and I transcribed upstairs while enjoying a warm summer cross breeze through my office until the boys arrived home for dinner. When they arrived, Erik placed Stinky Puppy, his favorite decomposing stuffed animal that never dries out, in his toy Jeep Wrangler and gave him a ride without any prompting. I consider this pretty good for a child who is only beginning to understand the concept of pretend play. Brian and I were pleased. I sipped a glass of red wine, watched the news, and cooked skillet lasagna for dinner. I boiled a tiny pot of mini-elbow macaroni with some leftover spaghetti sauce, but Erik turned his nose up at it all and ate homemade bread instead. I was less than satisfied with this but was so happy to see his sweet face that I let it go. He talked about the children he met at daycare, mentioning each of them by name. He also apparently decided not to fill his diaper all day until he returned home and did so with great panache, confirming my suspicion he has a serious case of shy bowel. However, our child seemed happy, and Brian reported he talked about me on the way home. I believe that being around other children seems to have already stimulated him, and I have hope this will work wonders on his body and mind.

Not to mention my bathroom grout!