Typical Teen Trauma. That's the subplot of our lives these past couple of weeks here in GraceLand. The supporting cast members include myself, The Wuzband–Grace's father–and the personnel who assist Grace in school. The role of the antagonist is portrayed by incoming wisdom teeth. The dramatic twist is my daughter with autism's limited language-ability to tell us what in the hell is going on in her 17-year-old obviously tormented body when she awakened at 3 a.m. at her father's a couple of weekends ago and tantrummed subsequently. The rare tantrums flared again in a public restroom that weekend at an interstate McDonald's, her father outside the Ladies' Room feeling agonizingly helpless to intervene. Thankfully some kind female patrons assisted Grace's dad in swapping shirts, one he dashed to the car for in exchange of the tee-shirt she'd ripped in a fit of protest as the restroom's high-powered hand dryers roared voraciously in succession. The fits continued when she arrived home. Opposite of me I saw a wild-eyed, much larger version of my once-small child, now much more capable of unintentionally hurting me in her raging inability to communicate the cause of her upset.
Finally, it was the experience of her veteran special education teacher that helped us deduce that her sporadic requests for a "bondaid mouth" might mean her wisdom teeth are emerging. After the mid-day call from her sweet teacher, I hung up the phone…(except no one "hangs up the phone" anymore but wouldn't you agree that does sound more dramatic than, "I punched 'END?'") And then I called Grace's dentist and made an appointment for that afternoon. After she arrived home on the bus, I stuck my finger into the back of her mouth and sure nuff, there was a little pointy peak erupting from the smooth bare spot of gum tissue behind one of her molars.
We are in the process of selecting an oral surgeon now to have all four wisdom teeth removed. The dentist's x-ray showed that the teeth were going to overcrowd her other pearlies and wreak havoc by partially breaking through. We agreed, end everyone's misery and remove all four.
Fast forward to Labor Day weekend. I mentally cursed the neighbors who decided to converse near our condo at 3 a.m., waking me from a deep sleep. Drowsily paging the Nashville Scene, I began forming plans to visit the Bard at Nashville's annual outdoor Shakespeare Festival when I heard Grace stir. She was up and sick at her stomach. You know the mother drill, whether you're a mother or had one: I rushed to the scene with towels, a small glass of cool water, a wet wash cloth for her sweaty forehead, and made a dash with a smelly stash to the washing machine.
My charge was quickly falling back into slumber as I adjusted towels around her and a fresh sheet atop her long body. I saw she had chosen cotton peddle pusher pajama bottoms the night before and I asked if she wanted to change into pajama shorts. "Keeb bem on!" She replied quickly. And with that, my core was zapped with a sense of gratitude. First, I missed my sleep but was awake when my sweet needed me. Secondly and more so, I was grateful that she could so immediately express her wishes for her comfort/choice of pajamas/need to return to slumber. And "bondaid mouth?" I think that pretty dang clever.
And, that's just it. She and others like her with autism and other developmental disAbilities that impact verbal communications are often quite bright (even if the numbers we assign them from our "in-the-box" cutlure reflect otherwise). Their thinking just manifests differently. It's the job of the rest of us to get-with-the- program and figure it out! There was a time in GraceLand when tantrums ensued more frequently during all the wrong and most inconvenient times, such when I merged onto a zooming interstate enroute to my daughter's special preschool. There were too many times past when solving the mystery of her distress took much longer than the two weeks required to solve the wisdom teeth puzzle. There was a time when she would have tantrummed to communicate that she was too hot in her pjs or remained silent if I inquired about her comfort. And too many times, there has been no answer to perplexing situations where she was/is visibly upset. Those around her are left dumbfounded.
Progress comes in small steps. Yet again, I'm reminded that those miniscule movements are milestones to a special needs parent like myself. And becaue of them them my heart clutches a special Joy that parents of typically developing children will never know because their children flew jet speed far and above these painful little passages of progress.
For that–for how far I've come–I'm Grateful….
What about You? Is there some miraculous moment in Your Life for which you are giving thanks? It doesn't have to be disAbility related. Please share it in the comments section, below. I'd love to celebrate with you….
