I do not know the science behind chemical changes our brains go through when we are traumatized. There are names for psychological reactions to horrific circumstances that human beings endure. Some of the more well known are Stockholm Syndrome, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Agoraphobia to name a few. I've even heard of Seeing Red, though that's an idiom. My reaction to what has been my worst experience by far was to see yellow.
My first son was born at 28 weeks, missing out on the last trimester of gestation. He spent 73 days in the NICU and 7 months on oxygen. From there, we started on our way to "catching up". It's a strange concept to a first time mom who had no experience through friends or family with premature births. So, for instance, when he was three months old in early January he was measured for development at his actual age and his corrected age. His corrected age then was two weeks old based on his due date of December 30th. The pediatric community at the time expected a child to be caught up by age 2. It makes total sense after a while, really.
We began hitting our milestones in a timely manner. He started smiling in late January (be still my heart). He was nursing like a champ. He grew a little slowly because his lungs were healing and that's where his body was concentrating its efforts physically. He started sleeping for more than 20 minutes at a time and enjoyed an afternoon nap. We were beginning to relax.
In addition to his regular pediatric care, he was seen by a pulmonary specialist from Children's Hospital of Philadelphia who tracked his lung development by way of his weight, respirations, heart rate and the oxygen level in his blood. She was a wonderful doctor who never frightened me and was always focused on his progress. That was so important to me because I was having a really hard time and could become terrified at one insinuation that he might not be where he should. The physicians I chose were as much for their bedside manner as for their expertise. My son and I were both very fragile and needed to be handled gently.
My son started walking at 15 months (really 12, remember corrected age) was eating baby food, some table food and was loving carrots and sweet potatoes so much that he was actually turning orange. What a laugh we had over that. By the time he was 2, he had been discharged by the pulmonary doctor, was starting to climb everything and was laughing and playing all the time. I didn't think I'd ever be able to keep up with him. At that time, we were attending a neighborhood play group and while the other moms could chat and sip coffee while checking on their kids, my coffee grew cold as I raced around someone else's house trying to find that child.
We enrolled at a Mommy and Me class that was held once per week at a local pre-school. He was just 2 years old. There I noticed that the other children were able to focus and sit still longer than my son. I also saw the other kids talking to their parents and the teacher with greater ability than my boy. Late talking isn't all that unusual in our families so I had him evaluated for Early Intervention Services and indeed, we received visits 2 times per week to work on speech and language. Again, we were on our way and would be catching up just a little behind schedule.
A really great thing happened when my son was not quite 2 and a half. I found out I was pregnant again and I was beyond thrilled. I was 43 and had been told in my 30's I couldn't have children. As is very like me, once told I can't do something I just have to do it. After an early scare with my pregnancy it was smooth sailing. My son was making excellent progress and his little brother was on the way. How could things have turned out this wonderful for me relatively late in life? I was filled with gratitude for my child and my pregnancy.
Just before my second son was born, my oldest was discharged from Early Intervention as he tested at 3 years, in the age-appropriate range. A relief! If I could have only slowed his activity level down a bit things would have been easier. He woke up often between 4 and 5 in the morning and other than an afternoon nap, he was awake until 9 or 10 at night. It was exhausting. I was starting to wonder if he might be hyperactive which can be common in premature children. I just couldn't go there, though. I knew families with hyperactive children and it seemed awful to me. It caused social problems and there were difficult medical worries about prescription medication. I had enough of difficult, thank you very much.
I need to mention that I did not have a healthy support system at that time in my life. My boy's behavior and activity level came under scrutiny by family and I received more than my share of opinions on the deficiencies in my parenting. I got a lot of flack about co-sleeping, his lack of having a schedule, what he ate, that I was still nursing him and my inconsistent discipline. What I knew was that I was becoming increasingly isolated. I was nearly paralyzed at home in the late stage of my pregnancy, partly from the pregnancy itself and partly because it had become too hard take my son out alone. He just ran, ran, ran and there was no way I could keep up with him. I doubted myself as a parent. Why couldn't I just enjoy being a mom? I was concerned about him, but held tightly to the fact that we had met our milestones and that he had been discharged from Early Intervention Services.
As we began our second year of Mommy and Me, I was totally in love with my infant son and sure that whatever difficulties #1 son was having would iron out. It was not to be. His activity and attention level deficits were becoming more pronounced from his peers. He was talking, but still not having a dialogue with me. He loved being around other children yet he wasn't playing the same way they were. Reluctantly, I telephoned the local Intermediate Unit and set up an appointment for an evaluation.
I was terrified of a diagnosis of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, but I knew something wasn't right and we needed help. My infant was 6 months old and while he was a happy, easy baby, I was overwhelmed with fear and exhausted. I wanted to enjoy him! I wanted to return to my neighborhood playgroup. I missed being around my friends. I missed being able to attend our wonderful little church with my husband. My family needed some relief and some answers.
The day of the evaluation was a beautiful spring day. My sister came to babysit and my husband and I went off with our boy to our appointment. We arrived at the old church building and had to jog across the parking lot to keep up with our youngster as he ran ahead and into the door. We caught up to him inside and were ushered into a classroom by three smiling therapists. We began to answer questions and there was note taking and observations being made of my son's behavior. After about 15 minutes, the school psychologist sat at the end of the rectangular, child-sized table and began her explanation.
She placed her left hand, karate-style, on one end the table and said, "This is autism.". Then she placed her right hand, also karate-style on the other end of the table and said "This is Asperger's." What? Was she saying he had autism? I only knew about non-verbal, hand flapping autism and my son had none of these qualities. I began to argue vehemently with this woman. "My son does NOT have autism!", I said in an almost threatening tone of voice. My husband fell silent. She went into some explanation of how he was at the high functioning end, and how this was not uncommon considering our intelligence levels as his parents and....
I stopped hearing her. I didn't believe her. After all, my son could read I told her. "Hyperlexia.", she said. "Well he knows how to get to my husband's place of employment and points it out everytime we go by.", I desperately explained. "That's common in these children." Oh. "But, he's learning to talk! He carefully repeats what I say!". "That's called echolalia.", she gently explained. I went on offering other explanations, including his premature birth and couldn't it be ADHD? The therapists stood firm to their findings and told us a written report would follow. Defeated, we left for home.
When we emerged from the church my eyes squinted against the brightness of the day. By the time I got to the car, I had to squeeze my eyes shut against the light. As we started the silent ride home, I looked out of the window and everything was yellowish. I reached for my sunglasses, but it didn't change things much. I remember a little brick house with azalea bushes along our route. It was yellow, too. So were the bushes. I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear them, but everything remained tinged with yellow. For the rest of the ride I observed all of the yellowness with detached curiosity. I felt dead inside.
When we walked into the house my little boy ran ahead and happily got back to his things. My sister asked me how things had gone and I collapsed into her arms choking back sobs. My mother came over after a phone call and everyone tried to assure me that things would be fine. I knew that nothing would ever be fine again, not even one little bit. Our lives were forever changed.
