I'm not sorry (#392)

"I am sorry you have to go through this."

Said my father-in-law's live-in nurse to me. It is the kind of statement that I, after nine years with Charlie, often respond to with something like "we go through a lot for Charlie, more than we could ever have imagined, and not only do we know that it---he---is always worth it; we know that we are better for it."

But I couldn't say that because Charlie was in the midst of the first "Autism Every Day" sort of tantrum---kicking, flailing, screaming, throwing, banging, etc.---that has happened since we moved into my in-laws' house in June. Charlie had gotten smiling off the bus after school, asked for a hamburger, started to break it into bits, and suddenly sent plate and burger flying.

I have certainly been through more than a few of these tantrums (and not always at home; sometimes in a moving vehicle) with Charlie. When Charlie is raging, we have learned to keep language minimal, to try to apply deep pressure, to keep him from hurting himself. Like thunderstorms and ocean waves, Charlie's tantrums build and build to a peak---a crest---and climax and then crash down in loads of water, rain, or ocean spray, or tears.

What was new was the audience, Charlie's Grandpa and the nurse, sitting quietly, watching, saying "What can I do to help?"

(No hard feelings, but nothing, really. Except, next time, please don't watch, I thought, fleetingly.)

Charlie calmed down slowly and so sadly: I am more than sure that he knows that that is not something he is supposed to do, and his remorse came out in tears and a dejected, but resigned, look when I told him I thought it best that he not have another burger. I think the heat wave here on the east coast was getting to Charlie, and that his stomach might have been bothering him and that he really did not want to eat a greasy hamburger, but did not know how to say that when said item was on his plate.

Charlie did speech with his long-time speech therapist; he swam and did a complete flip in the water. He picked out a glistening, cool pack of sushi. He got the sillies again at bedtime as a real thunder and lightning storm sent down the rain.

I remembered how this morning I had said "You dropped it" (it being a green squishy football) as Charlie covered himself head to toe in Daddy's blue blanket, and how Charlie responded, "I dropped it!". And then burst into an energetic rendition of "Home on the Range."

And I thought about how not-sorry I am, each and every day, to be the mother to my boy named Charlie.

Autism Asperger's Children Science Health Parenting Education Food Mothering Psychology

Comments

[Alexander's Daddy]

Kristina,

We too have learned to sort of "roll" with it and try to help Alexander during a meltdown by holding him and gently humming a song to him to help him become his self again. One time, inbetween the sobs, Alexander says "I'm sorry", "I'm sorry". I was just floored. I never knew that he felt that way. I believe he was telling me "I'm sorry, I don't mean to have these and thank you for helping me". Ever since that incident, we no longer look at the meltdowns the same way as we did before.

[Lisa]

{{{{{Charlie}}}}} Hugs--the deep pressure sort of hugs that just soak right into your skin and make the world feel better.

[mom-nos]

The heatwave was hard on Bud, too, and we saw several "squalls" that are not typical of him. I'm glad it has finally broken.

People often tell me "He is so lucky to have you."

My response is always, "We are lucky to have each other."

[Sharon]

I'm reading this with my boy squirming round on my lap and humming to himself. It just makes me happy to know there are people like you and your family out there, talking about these things in a different manner.

Your description of the tantrum storm is just like what happens here sometimes. I also hate to have anyone watch and judge, so I try (if possible) to take Duncan off to a room so we can weather it together alone.
I read someone say that when this happens, we parents provide the conrol our children have yet to develop.

[Kristina Chew]

Charlie has sometimes said "sorry" (not so often, with his limited language)----I sense it in his eyes which get very, very sad and the long periods of crying that tend to follow these sorts of tantrum storms. Charlie himself asked for "ugg" and did his famous backwards hug to me after the whole mess was more or less over.

Sharon, would that I could hold Charlie in my lap while typing again! He won't sit in my lap at all anymore..... I'm afraid I wasn't feeling much in control myself yesterday. Always learning!

Today as I guess I'll be posting shortly was better, got cooler.

[Ennis]

Question - why look away? I don't get the feeling that you're either ashamed or embarassed of Charlie's behaviors, and I don't get the feeling that either Grandpa or his nurse regard him as a curiousity.

I don't mean that as a challenge - I'm curious, what's behind the impulse to ask people not to see?

[Kristina Chew]

It's a good question----I'm not sure I have a good answer. I do know that I feel so emotionally raw at those times that I want to keep it private. I sense that it is the same for Charlie (I can't verify that entirely, of course).

And, too, in the heat of a moment, while one could use sympathy, feeling pitied somehow does not help. Those are my rather raw thoughts!

[Sharon]

I don't like to have people watch us either, especially when it's a big storm (much better word than tantrum, don't you think?). I sometimes feel almost overwhelmed at these times and need the privacy for my own sake. I also don't want the pity, and worry that those who might observe us won't understand and blame 'the awful autism'. I don't want any 'ah, poor Sharon, look what she has to go through with that boy'.
We can both cope better when we're not being observed.
Thankfully, this happens very rarely.