Croup, Hot Paramedics, and Me

So my ASD non-verbal four year old woke up gasping for breath in a croupy kind of way about two hours after going to bed last night. Then he started the croup cough with the gasping, then he started ASD screaming because that's what he does. Within five minutes of this beginning, I had him outside in the cold night air, and I was on the phone with 911. I am pleased to say the firefighters and paramedics were there within 5 minutes. (I am embarrassed to say that when talking to the 911 operator my first comment was "My baby is having trouble breathing". "How old is your baby?" "Four."  I am imagining my embarrassment when I open with the same line in 15 years).

 

 

The paramedics could easily hear my son's croup, and the lead paramedic, (who I couldn't help notice was kind of hot... not the hottest guy I've ever seen, but hot enough that I noticed he was hot in the midst of crisis. Obviously a body builder with bulging biceps and a clear V-shape... I digress) immediately determined that my son needed to be taken in to the hospital to get the croup treated. Then he lifted my lil tantruming, gasping, coughing, punkin pie out of my arms to carry into the ambulance, almost dropping him at first because he is really hard to hold if he doesn't want to be held. When the paramedic figured out how to carry my son, he walked away with more confidence, and, being a single mom, it twigged something in me, seeing my son easily carried away by strong compassionate skilled arms. It also felt like a huge relief knowing at the moment he was in caring capable hands. I got a rare, brief, sense of relief (for about 60 seconds) absorbing that for even a few minutes, I am not the sole human responsible for my little human's life. The relief struck me so hard because I'm not normally cognisant of that extra, relentless weight that single parenting brings.

They took the car seat out of my car and transported my son to the hospital in the ambulance, in his car seat. When we got to the ER (I followed in the car), and had him assigned to a bed, the hot paramedic couldn't figure out how to get my son out of his car seat (on the stretcher) and into the bed... because if my son doesn't want to get out of his car seat, you'd almost have to break his bones to get him out. The paramedic tried the fun approach, the quick distraction approach, and finally got my son out, only because my son allowed it. But then my son unleashed his full wrath on the paramedic who glanced at me for some guidance. "Carry him like a log," I coached him. He did, and we got my son transferred into a crib (which he liked... always been attracted to fences and firm boundaries).

As they were departing for their next call the hot paramedic looked at me and shook his head saying, "Man, that kid is strong for a 4 year old! You must be incredibly strong if you have to do that all the time." And then they were off before I had a chance to register his comment

In the end, my son is fine. We were released 3 hours later with some good doctor coaching on the complexities of determining emergency with a non-verbal child with little self regulation ability. And affirmation that I had done the right thing, and because he is non-verbal, its always better to be safe than sorry.

Then I had to figure out how to carry out my son, his car seat, his backpack, and my purse, across the street to where our car was parked. I did it by carrying my son on my shoulders, the backpack on my back, my purse slung across me, and the car seat in one hand. I felt proud and competent that I was able to do that.

And that's really what I got from the whole experience... a sense of pride in myself, that I asked for help when I needed it, even with the potential embarrassment of being one of "those people" who call an ambulance for a runny nose. (And I am really, really bad at asking for help) I am learning to trust my gut feelings more and more and just drop what I think other people might be thinking of me.

I bought this inspirational wall hanging when I moved into my current home last year.

 I think I bought it with hope in mind. I look at it and read it over all the time. And last night I realized that I have become everything on that sign.

The Bench (I Survived)

It was a rare morning.(Autism Mommy was starting to lose it because while she was on vacation, autism doesn't take vacations, and things had been drifting towards worse instead of better. So I hired a teenager to help take the edge off for 48 hours. Her job was to watch my ASD 3 year old in all the  in between time, (side, side note unrelated to the rest of this post: she was as exhausted, possibly more exhausted than I, just keeping tabs on him.))

But yes, a rare morning. Mid summer. Decided to spend the morning in one of my favorite staycation spots: the fishing village of Steveston. I dropped my son and the sitter off at Steveston's FABULOUS playground/waterpark, and then made my way up to Starbucks to get a coffee before strolling along one of many wharfs, walkways, and docks in the village. I happily sipped on my iced soy latte, felt the salty ocean breeze lift my freshly cropped locks, and stood at an intersection that offered three different directions I could take my peaceful walk. My heart bubbled with delight at my opportunity to walk/ drink coffee/ ponder on my own, and the summer morning was picture-book perfect.

Then suddenly I found myself THERE.

Confronted with that place.

 

That bench.

Where I sat with my husband on our last anniversary together.

 

 

I was 8 months pregnant.

And desperately trying. So hard. To enjoy our anniversary.

And it was hell.

Barely able to touch each other.

His disdain for me palpable, though he tried too.

Conversation was strained and sparse. There was nothing left to say.

 

 

I am gripped by the memories that go with the view from the bench, remembering the angle of the sun that day, glistening amongst the reeds, being absorbed in the horrible beauty... horrible because that was the first time I looked straight into the eyes of Divorce. I was paralyzed by fear. Paralyzed by the unthinkable. That bench was where I sat the first time I honestly considered that our 5th wedding anniversary could be our last.

 

And it was.

 

And here I am, 4 years later, almost to the day (and almost equal to the length of my marriage). I am on the other side of the Valley of the Shadow. I have learned to accept love from everywhere around me. I have accomplished far more than I ever thought I could (or wanted to). I have an adorable son who exhausts me beyond exhaustion, but also delights me with his antics and who he is.

 

I walk out on onto the adjacent pier and notice there is a totally different view from there - from beyond the bench. From where I stand today.

 

 

 

I feel the warmth of the sun, breathe the salty air, feel it caress my skin, and I realize that I survived. And life is good. Challenging beyond words, but very, very good. As I stand in the moment, in the presence of the river, I think of the death in me that occurred in that spot. And all the life that has magnificently erupted from that death. I think of the role of the river. There is a lot of death involved with the Fraser River - fish, industry, murders, drownings. And there is a lot of life - fish, water for all forms of life, a means to make a living. The river also moves and changes things, whether we want it to or not. It just does what it was created to do. Slowly. And with tremendous power.

 

Death began here, and life has resulted at a whole new level. The biggest sign of life for me, is that I didn't even think of that danged bench until I was right on top of it. I was just doing what I love. And it was an interesting experience for me to hold the dissonance of grief and joy in the same moment.

 

I practice a Pema Chodron teaching I recently read: breathe in the pain deeply, and exhale joy, love, and peace. Transformation.

 

After the Storm

It all started with a murder back in September... well really it started with a reckless decision I made about a decade ago... so let's say it flared up again with a murder back in September. One that took place about 100 feet from my front door.

Emotional grief and chaos had beaten me up pretty good back in March and April. My divorce became final in the same time period that my son got diagnosed with autism. And shortly thereafter I had to take a stress leave from work because I just couldn't keep up with everything.

I needed some space to breathe.

Some time to figure out which way was up again.

 

The real outcome of my leave, however, was that I discovered that I am comfortably busy

 just being the stay-at-home mom of a 3 year old with autism.

I can keep up with fitness, spirituality, and a social life if I don't also have a full time job
 (but I have to pay the bills).

But September brought my return to work, and it only took a few weeks for a storm to start brewing, and a looooong drawn-out storm it was.

Here is a brief storm summary (in addition to the regular challenges of single parenting a 3 year old with autism).

• September 19 - murder across the street. Didn't sleep well for a few nights.
• First week of October - my son's third birthday, which happens to fall on one of the biggest/busiest days of the year at work. I am beyond exhausted by the weekend. (And his birthday party was still awesome! Camping theme. Here is the cake:)

• Early October - I realize I have some alarming symptoms that could indicate cancer. I am stressed every moment of every day with the possible ramifications. Since it takes weeks to get appointments with my family doctor and get other information, I live with intense fear every day.
• Mid October, my symptoms get serious enough one night, I wonder if they are life threatening and spend the night in the emergency ward. Though my symptoms appear scary, they are not life threatening, and I have just had a panic attack.
• Last week of October:
• I receive some life-altering news about my ex and his life, but the news doesn't come from my ex. I realize I have not been receiving all the information about the activities of my non-verbal 3 year old when he is with his dad. I become extremely concerned about the safety of my son.
• I get the test results back from my concerning symptoms. Turns out its not cancer. Not life-threatening. Relatively easy to remedy I can exhale.
• I get a phonecall from a housing co-operative that I had applied to back in July. They want me to come in for an interview immediately. Within 48 hours I have an interview, am offered a dream 2 bedroom townhouse that will be the family home my son grows up in, in a beautiful, safe neighborhood, close to my work, that I would never be able to otherwise afford. I accept the offer for the townhouse and give my 1 month notice to my landlords. We are moving. To our dream house.
• First week of November:
•  I have to make a very difficult decision and am engulfed by fear about how my ex will respond to my decision. I consult with security experts. I inform my ex and he responds peaceably. Once again, some sleepless nights.
• I also start packing up my home.
• Second week of November:
• My ex's response flares up. We have to arrange an immediate mediation.
• My son's autism worker has to quit. I am expected to advocate for her, and I want to, but I can't with ex issues, moving, recent health issues, and my full time job. Its amazing that I can even make it to work in the morning.
• My ex and I make a holding pattern plan that will stabilize things in the short term.
• Third week of November:
• I receive more jaw dropping / face-slapping / gut kicking news from my ex.
• I get the keys to my new place with the condition that I accept it as is (dirty, and in need of painting and some repairs).
• I drop a huge chunk of change on some new appliances, paint, and labour.
• My son gets new autism workers (Behavioural Interventionists). I feel bad that I don't even know who these people are, but right now I just don't have time.
• I am fearful there is too much change going on for my son. I cry at the thought of him not understanding that we are moving to a new home. His current home (a basement suite) is the only home he's ever known. And he loves his home.
• My son comes down with a cold.
• Its one of my busiest times of year at work.
• Last week of November:
• Every spare moment I can find is spent cleaning and painting the new townhouse, to make it as comfortable and familiar as possible the day my son and I move in.
• Every other moment is spent packing and cleaning the old place.
• My son still has a cold and doesn't sleep well the whole week (so neither do I).
• Last day of November: Moving Day. 2 hours of sleep. Barely ate anything. My son was happy to see objects that he knew, but still tried to 'go home' to the old place. He sleeps in my arms that night, clutching closely to me. I think we were actually clutching onto each other.
• First week of December
• within 24 hours, my son figures out this is our new home. He is happy.
• my son gets pinkeye. He is in a fair bit of pain.
• unpacking takes a long time.
• Second week of December
• my son's cold is still going and I have been up with him numerous nights with very scary coughing fits (That's the part I hate the most about single parenting because I get really scared). I take him in to the clinic and discover he has an ear infection AND bronchitis.
• trying to finish up painting. Unpacking.
• my ex forces me into a surprise situation that is extremely uncomfortable. Takes me a day or two to emotionally recover.
• Third week of December
• Christmas shop? Christmas bake? Paint? Clean?
• sort out inappropriate surprise situation with ex
• my son recovers with the help of antibiotics
• Fourth week of December
• extremely awkward and dreaded Christmas situations with the ex come to pass. I survive. I am not a saint, and I didn't want to be a saint. But I am happy with who I am and what I put forward. Despite it all, I have a good Christmas.
• January - back to work, bills, and monitoring changes with my son's therapy.
• I get out to explore some of the trails and shops close to my beautiful new townhouse.

And with the arrival of the New Year, it seems that particular storm has passed by. Peace and calm have arrived (for at least today), and I am taking it all in. I am learning to embrace it all. In my daily meditations from Fr. Richard Rohr this week, I read that to love God is to love everything, for God is in everything. I know I'm definitely not "there" yet (I don't love everything), but maybe I'm leaning in that direction? Maybe I'm getting better at acceptance?

A few friends have commented on a difference they've seen in my spirit since we moved. There's a peace there. I sense it. And I don't know particularly what it is, except to say that its LOVE. Love from God. Love from family and friends. Love from my son. Love from the incredible nature that surrounds our new home.

 Love lives here.

This is my favorite song these days.
The general gist indicates a romantic love, but could certainly be interpreted into love of life.
And miraculously, that's where I emerge from the storm - in love with life and my son, still struggling most days, and glorying in the messiness of it all.

Sober - Little Big Town