The Giving Up and the Giving In

About a month ago, someone from our Rett community shared a link on Facebook from an adoption agency. A family was giving their six-month-old son, who had just been diagnosed with Angelman's Syndrome, up for adoption *. They already had three children. There was no explanation in the link as to why the family was making this decision. There was possibly an extenuating circumstance, maybe two, but without knowing what those were, our impulse was to feel uncomfortable reading about the family's decision. Like many of the people who'd shared the link, the story saddened us. My wife drafted an email ** to the adoption agency, appealing to contact the family, to try to understand their reasons. I don't think she ever intended to send it. I don't think either of us really wanted to know their reasons, assuming the agency would even give us a response.

It really wasn't our business, but the situation still meant something to us, and we just assumed letting these people know how we felt would change things, showing them how wrong we thought they were. This family was manufacturing a solution that would not solve their problem. There are certain problems that aren't meant to be solved. And I began to wonder -- was I envious of their ability to make that choice? Discounting the profound regret they would likely feel every day for the rest of their lives, the parents were serving a huge injustice to their other three kids, who would undoubtedly remember they once had a brother who was excised from their family when he was six months old. I don't know what it is like to be the sibling of a child with special needs, but I live with a few children who can vouch for the experience. While it must be harder to be Zoe's sibling than it is for Hannah and Dylan to relate to each other, there are things about the experience that neither would sacrifice if given the choice (whether or not I'm giving them too much credit is beside the point, at least till they get a few years older). My three children are lucky to have each other as siblings. And I don't just mean that Zoe is lucky to have the two of them. All three are lucky to have each other. It is not an exaggeration to say that Dylan might not even be here if Zoe didn't have Rett Syndrome.

Back over on Facebook, where this story started (like all great ones do), I watched about a week ago on one of the Rett Syndrome forums as a single Rett mom tried to elicit sympathy from the group about her situation. She then rejected the show of sympathy she received from another Rett mother, who'd disqualified herself because she happened to have a husband and more resources with which to face her challenges with her daughter. Apparently, a huge and rare shared circumstance was not enough to bring these two people together, even on social media. The conclusion I took was: we're all different, and maybe none of us can ever understand one another. Comparing our family life to other Rett families can be both rewarding and futile. I'm not foolish enough to think that we don't have some advantages in dealing with our situation. Money and means count for something, and we're somewhere in the middle of the curve for both. Yes, we have some privileges and some circumstances, and some resources that not everyone in our situation has. But you can do what we do for Zoe every day without any of those things. It's hard as shit, but you can do it.

I often look at Zoe and wonder what she would be like without Rett Syndrome. There are elements of her personality that are unquestionably informed by it, but there are other traits she has that have been there since the start (before she knew she was any different than any other kid). We see it in her expressions, in the choices she makes, and how she reacts to us. She might not be as precious to me if she weren't so dependent and vulnerable. Her face might not be as gracefully beautiful if it could say mean things to me, her mother, or her siblings. Without Rett Syndrome, I might be wrapped a little more loosely around her finger than I am now, but I would be wrapped around it nonetheless. We gave into Zoe a long time ago, and we could not do without her. We need her just as much as she may need us. I can understand the choice that other family made, but I am far more comforted in the fact that I never had a choice in any of what has made our family, our family.


* The fact that it was Angelman's struck a special chord with me. It's a condition very similar to Rett Syndrome. Years ago, before Zoe's diagnosis, Steph's mom had gotten an email from her sister with information about Angelman's. The context was, essentially, could this be what's wrong with Zoe? I was furious; this was back when I still told myself that nothing was wrong with Zoe. Such a time existed, but its window was small. It took me longer than it took my wife to recognize that there was anything about Zoe for which we needed to be in denial. And it took me longer to recognize that there was something wrong that needed to be identified and fixed. At the time, though, I was angry that this was being discussed among family members, certainly outside my earshot, and very possibly outside my wife's. For us, we didn't have to wait too much longer for a correct diagnosis, and any resentment I felt at those other family members passed quickly.

** I did not, until I asked my wife to preview this post, realize she actually sent the email. The message she sent is beautiful and sweetly in-your-face, much like the woman who wrote it:

Hello,

I read your urgent alert about baby Spencer needing a forever home, and I have been in tears and unable to stop thinking about that child ever since. I am the mother of a child with Rett Syndrome, very similar to Angelman's Syndrome, and I wish I could speak to Spencer's birth parents and discuss their reasons for giving him up. I wish I could show them the statistics for children with special needs finding forever homes, or perhaps direct them to a site like Reece's Rainbow to see just how many children with special needs there are on the verge of aging out of the system without ever finding that family. I would love to show them pictures of my beautiful daughter and tell them that doctors and genetecists and the internet are giving them the worst possible outcomes, and cannot possibly describe the joy these children bring. 

I do not have a home study, as my family has not been looking to adopt, but I do know what it's like to care for a child with profound physical needs and feel like it's a privilege and not a burden. I know how these children make everyone around them - parents, siblings, cousins, teachers, friends - better people for knowing them. I know what it's like to receive a diagnosis after feeling like you had a perfectly healthy child, and the fear and mourning that accompany the loss of the life you planned, for yourself and your child. I certainly know that that highly-charged emotional time after diagnosis is not at all the time to make decisions as important as this, and I wish I could tell his birth parents that.  

I would love to share the research currently underway that shows a treatment for AS is not only possible, but probable; that there is evidence to suggest that it may even be reversible. I would love to give his birth parents hope when I'm sure all they are seeing at the moment is darkness. But in the absence of that, I have shared Spencer's story in the hopes that someone who is looking to adopt can see all of these things and give this sweet child the love and support he deserves.

Who Asked You, Anyway?

Dylan has been fascinated by Zoe's Tobii device for a while now. At home, we usually have her use it when she's eating, as it's easily accessible at the kitchen table. However, anything that's easy for her to access can also be easily accessible for unwanted toddlers. He needs such little encouragement to stand in between Zoe and the device and push buttons, both literal and figurative, until we get annoyed, and I push him away. He's been doing this for months, and we've seen an inverse relationship between her interest in using the device as his has increased. According to her teachers, she uses it regularly and effectively at school. It's possible she's too fatigued from her day to use the device at dinnertime, but it seems more likely to me that she's too exhausted to fight over it with her brother.

The other night, he was upstairs while Zoe was eating. I was trying to model a few phrases her teacher had emailed us about a lesson they'd done on the solar system, and he heard us. And he came running. As usual, he ingratiated himself right in front of the device and began pushing buttons until he got to the screen that had all the colors on it. And he started to pick each one, listen to the recorded voice, and repeat after it. I'd never heard him say the different color words before, and I probably would have been prouder of him under different circumstances. But it was showing off. For lack of a better term, it was a Dick Move. And I could have been proud of him for being able to say his colors at Age Two, but that would always be outweighed by my irritation at someone - anyone - messing with Zoe. It is unfair in a family of three kids, but it's the law. You can't expect me to take your side against Zoe. You're going to get a light kick in the butt and get sent on down the line, where you can sit by yourself and say your colors to your heart's content. I can be proud, but I'll do it quietly when my girl is around.

If You All Want To Adapt, I'm Not Going to Stop You

A few weekends ago, we were at a birthday party for one of Zoe's boy classmates. The kid really likes sports, so the party was at the gymnasium in our local rec center. One of the rec center employees, a high school kid, was tasked with moderating dodgeball, kickball, and basketball for a bunch of first graders. There weren't a lot of us parents out there on the floor -- just me and the father of the birthday boy. His son didn't need his help, so the other dad could kind of float around, have fun, and mingle with the kids. I stuck with Zoe, since that's...what I do. And I dragged her along to play the games, since that's the other thing I do. Usually, she likes it, if her energy level permits. When it doesn't, she gets annoyed, but she usually manages to tolerate my stubborn insistence.

We were in the field first for kickball. Initially, I positioned us too far away (right field, where I learned to blend in so many years ago when I started playing organized baseball). A few at-bats went by with no action. I figured, if we wanted to just stand around, we could do it anywhere, so I decided to move us over behind second base. That part of the infield was too crowded, though, so I moved us over to the hot corner. However, I didn't have time to explain to Zoe why it was called that before the next kid up kicked a screamer right at her head. I was able to make a play from my knees, knocking the ball away while holding her upright. It exhausted her (or so I told myself as I struggled to catch my breath), and we took a break to sit on the sidelines. The break also gave me a chance to explain to her who Orioles' third baseman Manny Machado is, and how hard it would have been for him to make that same play, especially if he'd recently turned 41 and was incredibly sleep-deprived. Luckily for her, it was our turn to bat before I could get too in-depth with my story.

We were fifth in the batting order, and the bases were actually loaded when we came up. I wasn't sure she understood what an important kickball run-producing opportunity this was. I whispered to her to get ready, and just as I did, her teammates started chanting "Let's go, Zoe, Let's GO!" If I'd been watching this unfold on television, I'd have rolled my eyes and changed the channel. What kind of cliched, feel-good movie crap were they trying to subject me to? If they'd started a "Rudy"-style slow clap, I would have known right then and there they were just messing with me. But they weren't. These kids were sincerely rooting for my girl. And this wasn't even kids that we consider to be her friends. The girls we knew were all on the other team. Zoe and I wound up on a team with all the boys -- those boys: the crazy ones, the ones who punched everything. The ones who I always assumed said shitty things about her amongst themselves, when no one important was listening. Thirty-five years ago, I never would have done what they were doing for Zoe. I probably would have been saying shitty things about some kid with special needs. Which doesn't mean I was a jerk in those days. Our educational environment was just more compartmentalized, and we didn't interact with special needs kids our age in any meaningful way. There was one special needs class in my school growing up. The kids in it were different from us, we assumed. Furthermore, we assumed they were not different from one another, in any meaningful way. Now, the kids in Zoe's class might not be able to enumerate the differences between Rett Syndrome, Down Syndrome, or Cerebral Palsy, but they seem to know there are differences. They seem to get the fact that they're looking at an individual with their own merits. So someone's doing something right. And I know a few people who are grateful for it.

Zoe and I did not kick a grand slam and get carried off the field on the first graders' shoulders. It's harder than one might think to manipulate a child's foot to connect with a kickball while holding them up with your other arm. But we made contact and got on base. The boys cheered behind us, but I didn't look back at them as we ran to first. I've learned in the last few years that my eyes have this horrible allergic reaction to people being kind to Zoe, and it's possible the first grade boys would have made fun of me for it (and possibly punched me).

We switched to dodgeball after another break that Zoe and I both needed. The kid who was the ringleader for the "Let's go, Zoe" chant wandered over and asked if they could throw the balls at Zoe. "Sure," I said. "Try to be gentle, though. Don't peg it at her head or anything." He looked me over with an expression that told me he might not know the term "double standard" yet, but he knew one when he heard it. I was fine with that. Kickball, dodgeball, basketball. These are all things with standard, straightforward rules. Figuring out how to include a child with a disability like Rett Syndrome is not one of those things, and we're making up the rules as we go along.

The Ending to Every Story

I'm probably not alone in affixing a certain emotional importance to the cultural figures I admire. And while it would never be the same as with a friend or family member, when one of these cultural figures passes away, I have an unsurprising emotional reaction to it. Still, I can't always predict the power of that reaction. There are writers whose work I love more than that of the late Hunter S. Thompson. Yet, when they've died, it hasn't affected me as intensely. I vividly remember coming home from a pickup hockey game late one night about ten years ago, reading the news of Hunter's suicide and just putting my head on my desk in sorrow for a good ten minutes. As another example, I've always loved both Bruce Springsteen and Neil Young, but I can say without hesitation that Springsteen's music has always meant more to me. However, I think when they both pass, I can imagine myself being far more upset about Neil Young's death than I will about Springsteen's. It's hard to articulate why that might be, but it may have something to do with my sense that I'm much more comfortable that a world exists that can produce and foster someone as singularly odd and affecting as Neil Young.

I was not expecting to hear that David Carr passed away last night, no more than I was expecting to be so saddened by it. I had never heard of him before seeing him interviewed on "The Colbert Report" right after Night of the Gun was published. I bought and read it immediately, right at the same time I was writing The Big Deal. I had never forced myself to write something that honest before, but to have his model at my fingertips was an immeasurable inspiration. I think the only other thing that had as much as an influence on my writing at the time was re-reading Lorrie Moore's devastating (and devastatingly funny) "People Like That Are the Only Ones Here", as much as a model for humor and perspective as was Carr's tour de force. While the struggles he wrote about are nothing I've ever experienced, his writing still made me feel a connection. After all, we had some things in common -- we both had two daughters we loved immensely. But only one of us wrote an intensely powerful memoir that should be read by anyone wanting to write seriously and movingly about their own lives.

I had read a few more things that David Carr wrote in the last few years, especially once I happily realized he used Twitter to promote new columns I wouldn't have found otherwise. Not having more things to read from him won't be the biggest loss, but it is sad. Sadder though, is the thought that, while he hadn't completely defeated his demons over the span of his memoir, it seemed possible that he had in recent years. And maybe he had. Maybe those past experiences took their toll. Some shit catches up to you. Some shit is just out of your control. We know this quite well, from our experiences with Zoe. Rett Syndrome is out of our family's control. Rett Syndrome may catch up to us. We all think we, and the ones we love, are long for a world that has always had other ideas. The Big Deal suggested that Zoe will have a happy ending. Carr's memoir suggested he might have a happy ending, but if he did, it didn't last long enough.

Loud and Clear

Steph and her siblings were recently looking at some old videos from their mother's camera. Not old, as in from a Super 8; old as in from a flip camera that her mom had a few years ago. One of the videos was of Zoe, right after she'd started preschool, and the video was amazing to see now. One thing that astounded me was that I apparently was the cameraman, even though I had no recollection of the conversation we captured. Another thing that amazed us was how accurate it was to call this a conversation.

Zoe is vocally interacting with Steph in a way we don't really see anymore. Three years have gone by since the video was taken, and when I say we don't see this anymore, it's not me lamenting something we lost. Zoe now has many other ways to communicate with us, and we've learned to navigate those together in those few years. But there isn't usually the same urgency and expression that we can see in the video. This younger Zoe is so intent on letting us know how her day was -- the answers to Steph's questions, the laughter in response to certain things, the "NO" when she asks about Seth being her boyfriend (no offense, Seth).

This was a year or so after her regression and diagnosis; she's still figuring out what she's supposed to be able to do compared to other kids in school. She's dealing with the frustration of knowing there are gaps in her abilities. There is desperation in just this simple conversation about her day. I love that Zoe has learned ways around some of these barriers and can cope with that frustration. But I miss that little girl, that bespectacled little professor, and I'm not getting her back. I'll say the video is good enough, but the video isn't good enough.

It's In Her Code

It only took five years, but last year was the first year that Zoe seemed to truly enjoy Halloween. Between iffy autumn weather, indifference to or discomfort in her costumes, or (perhaps most cruelly) an inability to eat 95% of the candy she got in her basket, Halloween was never that much fun for her. There were some years she was back home and out of her costume within ten minutes. But last year, she braved a little misty rain and made it as long as the rest of the family. I chalk that up to two things: she picked her own costume for the first time (the Little Mermaid), and Daddy promised to make sure she got to try more of her own candy than in previous years (before he ate all the Twixes and Kit Kats).

The victory was undercut a little once we got home and saw pictures that different friends had posted on Facebook. One in particular had a daughter, who we know is within days of being the same exact age as Zoe, also dressed up like the Little Mermaid. I tried not to let seeing their girl walk from door to door behind her big brother, ringing doorbells and waving at the camera, sting too much, but it did. And it didn't ruin the day for Zoe, but it just reminded me why we get so frustrated that a fun holiday can't just be a fun holiday for Zoe, the same as for any kid. We know why, but that doesn't help. It was great that Zoe picked her costume, but I would have loved to be able to hear her explanation why she picked it, as this other girl was no doubt able to tell her parents.

It hadn't been clear why Zoe had wanted to be the Little Mermaid, but she'd definitely enjoyed it. A few months later we borrowed the movie from the library (again), and I watched it more intently. As I did, certain elements in the story began to stand out, and it answered some of my questions. I assumed, however, that my wife already had this shit figured out, since that's how things usually work around here. I wasn't prepared for the evening my wife came outside with me to talk privately, and she remarked how stupid she felt for not realizing why Zoe had been so drawn to the Little Mermaid. "It's because she can't talk," I blurted out. "And she wants to have legs. Or you know, be able to use the ones she has." My wife shook her head, annoyed with herself, and annoyed with me for realizing it.

It reminded me of the Ron Suskind piece from earlier this spring about his son's attachment to Disney characters, specifically the sidekicks. I've noticed that Zoe's interest awakes in any scene where the heroine is about to undergo some transformative moment. Zoe hates when we talk to other people about Rett Syndrome in front of her. She rubs her face in agitation, or she looks away in cool disdain. Still, she hears what we say in these conversations, and she's repeatedly heard us talk about the work underway in pursuit of a cure. She knows her own transformational moment may be around the corner, so she may identify with those moments when one of the characters in her movies is presented with them. Rapunzel's first moments outside the tower in Tangled. Tiana and her friends singing about what's going to happen when they're human again in The Princess and the Frog. But I don't know if she's identified with those characters to the same degree as the one who seems to be her new favorite.

This year, our house has been gripped in the oversize, destructive mitts of Wreck-It Ralph. We watched it with Hannah at least a year ago, but her toddler brother has taken to it unexpectedly. Dylan loves it; the idea that an over-sized person can make a living smashing other people's stuff  (even if it's just in a pretend video game) is the only thing to comfort his soul in its darkest moments, like when we make him go to bed. Because it noticeably calmed him down right before bed, we would play it a lot. At first, Zoe would get annoyed when it came on, mostly because she knew it was her brother's choice of movie, not hers, and that last hour or so before bed was precious airtime. She would even get so worked up, she'd start to have one of her Rett episodes.

A Rett episode can be mistaken for, but is not the same thing as, a seizure. They can last anywhere from one to fifteen minutes, depending on Zoe's disposition or what prompted it. When she's in the throes of one, her muscles will tense up, she will look off to one side, and sometimes open and close her mouth involuntarily. There are times we can calm her down, and prevent or curtail the episode. They can be caused by sudden changes in position; surprises, like a loud noise; or general annoyance (like the frustration at having to watch a movie your little brother picked). She has them almost every day, something that started about two years ago for her. During a recent episode, I asked her to stop glitching, a reference to the Vanellope character in the movie. It just slipped out, but I think she thought it was funny, and more importantly she listened. Over time, we noticed, she was laughing harder and harder at Vanellope's scenes (specifically any where she got to showcase her smart-assery). The cute little kid who winds up being an outcast because her body doesn't do what she wants it to? Sorry, try somewhere else, Vanellope, no one in this house is going to relate to you.

As Halloween approached, it came time to pick a costume. Zoe first selected Wonder Woman, browsing through the options on the Party City website using her Tobii eyegaze device. She seemed happy with that. But the more my wife heard Zoe's laughter in reaction to Vanellope's scenes in the movie, she wasn't sure Wonder Woman was our girl's first choice. She asked her if she would prefer to be Vanellope. The "YES" response was unmistakable, and my wife got to work. Amazingly, a replica of Vanellope's race car came together over the course of a week. Every time Zoe saw it, as my wife built it bit by bit, the pride on both their faces was my favorite part of the day.

She could not have a more perfect costume. She gets to use one of her least favorite aspects of her Rett condition (the wheelchair) to a cool effect. When she looks at it, I'm sure she says (to quote Vanellope herself), "THIS is me." Because it is. She's the sweetest little smart-ass kid we know, glitches and all. The kid is in a race every day against a cruel medical condition, and we have the utmost faith she's going to win that race when a cure is found. She might as well look cool and have a little fun while she does it.

Math Rules Everything Around Me

It all started simply enough. It was summer, and somewhere in our house, a child was bored. Normally I try not to get involved in matters like that, but the child in question was sitting at the kitchen table with me, and she was really bringing me down.

It was our older daughter, Hannah. She had slouched into the room while I was feeding Zoe dinner and sat down with us, giving us the gift of a deep sigh. My wife had just brought in our latest tomato crop from the garden and put it on the table. Given the weather peculiarities around these parts this year -- Polar Vortexes, Late Springs, Summers Without Swimming Weather -- our garden has underperformed and underwhelmed. For most of the summer, our cherry tomatoes have ranged in size from a Red Ryder BB to a cats-eye marble. We have struggled to find anything to do with them, but Hannah had the beginning of an idea that got me thinking. She looked at the pile and said "I wonder how many there are. Can I put them in this bowl?" "Of course," I said, "but you should count each one as you do." I figured that additional task would occupy her for almost a minute, which was precious to me at the time. The final tally was 43 (and to help illustrate my previous point, those 43 tomatoes, taken together, did not equal the size of a normal Roma tomato).

The large number of tomatoes made me think to the past school year, when Hannah and her first grade class were given a series of guessing contests by their teacher each week. How many jellybeans were in the bowl? How many clothespins were in the jar? Hannah had an uncanny knack for having the closest number. She "won" the contest at least three times (even though technically, there were never any winners). If the finer casinos in Las Vegas had a "Guess the Number of Clothespins" game, we'd be on our way there right now, plotting ways to spend our winnings in advance. Zoe is going into first grade in a week, and it occurred to me that she will probably have the chance to show off her numerical guessing skills too. Or would she?

Zoe is smart, but like many Rett girls, we struggle to find ways for her to show how smart she is. She has a Tobii eyegaze computer, and her teachers started to complement that with her own PODD book this year also. Each system has pages where she has access to numbers and can choose and say them. But given the page and screen size, her choices are limited. As I thought about Hannah's guessing acumen and the number of tomatoes, a comment from Zoe's summer school teacher in her daily notes from a few weeks ago came to mind: "Zoe counted all the way up to four today." Four is a long strike from forty-three. Every single number in between the two of them has proved useful at one time or another. And I got pissed. Because Zoe only stopped counting at four for them that day for one of two reasons: she either got tired (very possible depending on what else had gone on in school that day), or they only showed her that many numbers.

I immediately flipped to the number screen on her Tobii. The first screen showed 1 through 7. That's it. Granted, one of the reasons for that is the layout of the screen and the other buttons for which we need room on each screen ("Back", "What I Want to Say Is Not On Here", etc). But it was clear we were putting constraints on Zoe's counting that didn't need to be there. Either that, or we were electing to use the obscure "Base-7" numerical system. The next screen had 8 through 13. There was not a third screen.


I started editing right away. Clearing out unnecessary buttons, I made room for all ten numbers, plus zero (it deserves to be there as much as all the other numbers), and a button to skip to the next set of ten numbers. 11 through 20. 21 through 30. All the way up to 50.

Then I showed Zoe where they were and how to navigate them. She looked at me. She rubbed her face with her arm, as she always does when she's tired, and then she rolled her eyes, as she frequently does when the end of her patience for me is within range. That's fine with me. I accomplished what I wanted. She may not need them right away, on Day 1 of first grade, but they're there. She's equipped for more heavy-duty counting when she needs it. And I know there are going to be more than four clothespins in the jar at the MGM Grand when Zoe and I hit town for the Guessing Contest, and we make off like bandits.