The Safe Room

    Don't you think it strange that whenever you commit something to writing it is no longer true? In the past I wrote that I had provided a safe place for my Autistic son to excorcise his demons, a room where he is allowed to go bat-guano crazy until he calms himself. So whenever the boy has a rage episode I lock him in his room where he can bang his head and throw things until he is satiated. I bragged that he never hurts himself seriously. I boasted that I just let him do his "thing" and everything turns out fine.

    Well my plan worked fine until it didn't. Last month, during a particularly lethal meltdown, I managed to get Tanner into his room and lock the door before he could tear the flesh from my bones. Then I proceeded to go about my business while waiting for the head banging and book flinging to stop. Once it was quiet I peeked in on the boy to make sure he was still conscious. What I found was an unusually bloody situation. Of course there is always some blood but this time he was covered in it (but still casually thumbing through a picture book). He had managed to split the side of his head open. I really wanted to ignore his injury, clean him up and then go to the Symphony as was planned beforehand. But there was this flap of scalp that needed an emergency room visit.
     Thus we visited the ER for the first time in Tanner's life. Talk about a craptacular experience! I wasted three hours of my life while the boy happily sat on a stretcher and thumbed through channels on his personal TV. Just when I thought that nobody in the world had been so thoroughly ignored as much as Tanner and I, a gaggle of staff came into the room, burrito wrapped Tanner and put six staples in his head. Ta da!!! Since the experience was so underwhelming I vowed to steal a staple gun and do the job myself next time.
     Then three weeks after I removed the staples I continued to feel a lump in his scalp where he split his head. After picking at the poor boy's scab for a few days I pulled out a piece of chunky plastic the size of my fingernail. Then I began to get a good idea as to  what happened the night of the injury...In his rage, Tanner threw a toy at the ceiling just to have it come back down and leave a gash in his head as well as a broken piece. Of course he banged his head on the door with great and enthusiastic force but the deep wound was due to a toy landing on his head.
     In reality there is nowhere absolutely safe where the boy can blow off some steam. I can't protect him from himself. So instead I am learning to ensure my own safety. In essence, the "safe room" isn't just a secure place for Tanner to wreck havoc. It is also a place that can "contain" him in those moments of dangerous behaviors. It is safer for ME to keep him in his room when he blows his top. I accept that there will be blood but it is time to let it be Tanner's blood and not my own.

The Sameness

     I often look through old photos and videos of my Autistic son's past; way back when he was younger and smaller. There are so many "Tannerisms" that I notice now that I am experienced. Back in the days when I was still guessing at a diagnosis I didn't see the subtle yet classic quirkiness of Tanner's movements and gestures. I have pictures of him as a two year old flapping his hands in the exact fashion that he does today. I find photos which show that he started biting his right hand quite early in his life. There are photos of him pinching the skin of my face between his thumb and forefinger in the exact way he's done for the last 15 yrs. When I notice images of a young Tanner grabbing and "twinging" the tendons behind my knee or "messing" with the sinew in my neck I see how he has always done that. In watching videos of a seven year old Tanner I notice the ritualized routine of turning on and off lights, patting a certain part of a certain wall .

     Besides body growth and voice pitch, the boy hasn't changed at all in eleven years. His movements are identical, his thinking patterns and his interests have remained downright fixed. It is a curious thing really. As Tanner's body changes his mind remains forever the same. The little pinches of a two year old are damaging as a sixteen year old. Light hugs from a spindly four year old are manageable but bear hugs from a sixteen year old sometimes knock me off my feet. When a six year old takes your hand to show you something it is a pleasant thing. But when a sixteen year old has a death grip on your finger and won't let go it can be a bit disconcerting.

     One thing is for certain; I really know my boy! I know the meaning of each sound he makes, I know what he wants just by his facial expression. I know his likes and dislikes more surely than I know my own. And the best thing is that I get to live with a teenage boy who still loves his mommy and is not ashamed to show it (although the heavy hugs and slobbery kisses do get a bit tedious at times).