Rewriting the Story

I wrote this reflection many years ago when my son's life caused me to change course. The winds of change are once more blowing in my life. As I begin blogging again, I have chosen to start with this piece because of the pivotal role it had in the decisions I made after that fateful night.

******************

I was barely fifteen minutes into my nightly run when a phone call shattered my bliss. I had taken to running at nights as a last ditch effort to exercise. The opportunity to run required a finely-tuned schedule that would culminate in a five-year-old finally going to bed by 9 p.m. no matter how hard I tried. His schedule consisted of an evening shower, dinner, story, and a nightly prayer, each punctuated by requests for water, a snack, and bouts of tears at the inevitable impending bedtime.

I would wait less than patiently for my time alone, intent on the promise of a better mood, a less rotund body, and a clearer mind masquerading as a run around the city’s main thoroughfare. I had finally gotten my speed up past snail’s pace and into prize-winning turtle territory. I had hit my stride. And then my husband called, “Sorry to disturb your run but you’re gonna need to come home.”

Our son, in an act of defiance, frustration, and pain had decided that confessing to harmful behaviors was the only way to finally get our attention. "He is only five" I thought. "This should not be happening. Perhaps during the angst-filled teen years. But not at age five." Suddenly my pace quickened as adrenaline coursed through my body. I ran breathlessly chased by the bloodhounds of my fears, anxiety, and guilt. And as I ran I told myself that there had to be a way to save my child. Hasty consultations with a family physician, emergency physician and a pediatrician assured me his life was in no imminent danger. At least not tonight. I spent hours scouring the internet trying to find a label, an expert, a blog–anything that would help me understand my child. The shame came hot and swift. The truth is I did not know whether the behaviors had occurred or whether he was spinning a tale. Neither option gave me peace.

My sleep was uneasy and restless that night. I reflected on life. As a healthcare provider and professor I worked hard. I also had other pursuits that took me away from home every week. As the sole breadwinner I gave my all while my husband attended medical school. Our interactions with our only child were limited to exasperated clipped commands to wake up, hurry up, get dressed and get in the car. We repeated similar commands in reverse every evening. It was our son who begged us to eat dinner together as a family. He told us about his day as we absentmindedly completed chores, paid bills and talked over him.

We did not pay attention until the behavior notes started coming home. Our child was angry. Our child who almost never cried as a baby had morphed into a difficult and defiant preschooler. Yet we did nothing but asked him to behave better. I watched him have increasing temper tantrums, and heard him say we never kept our word. Too many broken play dates and promises. We were losing him but I had to work two jobs to maintain the lifestyle we had created. I chose a harried, hurried existence disconnected from the very person I brought into this world and I would have kept on choosing if it were not for that phone call.

And so it was I made a choice to make a change. It mattered not whether my son was testing his own theory of how to get his parents’ attention. What mattered was that he should not have known that the weapon of self-harm existed in his arsenal. Two days later I gave notice at my part-time job, effectively increasing our budget shortfall by a third of our expenses. That was two months ago. I made it home on time that night but only time will tell if I have truly made it home in time.