Giving birth to my son, I'm very sorry to say,
was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. After 36 hours of
labor and 3 hours of pushing to the point of complete exhaustion, I felt too
spent to labor any further. The baby was crowning but I was pushing in
the wrong direction. I had little guidance from the nurse on duty, and an
epidural that prevented my body from instinctively knowing what to do. My
muscles were weak from my Fibromyalgia, and I had no resolve left in me.
I was sobbing as all women do at some crucial moment during childbirth and
insisting that I couldn't do it. I wasn't feeling heard. There were
8 people standing around the bed talking over me, not listening, shouting
encouragements that were falling on deaf ears, to further an agenda that no longer
seemed like it was mine. Then we had a life and death emergency for my
son, who was in distress, and the obstetrician yelled "you have to pull it
together RIGHT NOW!". Her approach worked. I was stopped dead
in my tracks. My sobbing ceased and I re-focused. I gave birth in
the safest means possible, just in the nic of time, in one of the most
exhausting moments I'd ever experienced. This is the ultimate triumph,
right? Mind over matter! But it came at great cost. As my
first months as a mother passed, I became more intimately aware than ever of a
sexual abuse history. It became dislodged and unearthed during the
birthing process as I was wide open and vulnerable, and when my body felt most
broken, I was forced to do the unthinkable - that which required more of me
that I had to give. My first years as a mother were filled with
psychiatric disasters that came one after another after another. I had a
hard time bonding with my son, and I think I subconsciously resented him for
doing this to me.
The year my son turned 4, he was diagnosed with
an Autism Spectrum Disorder. He also has a significant problem with ADHD,
and some debilitating anxiety. More than anything, what has been hard for
me as a parent is tolerating his violent outbursts and feeling like an immense
failure. As a woman who struggles with my own hodgepodge mix of mental
illness and physical disability, I had no idea whatsoever why I was charged
with being a parent to a child who was so challenged and obviously needed far
more than I was able to offer, even in my wildest dreams. My poor child
has had so much to contend with just to exist and muddle through his day that
he has been unable to tolerate even the mildest of frustrating situations and
hasn't been able to modulate his anger. When he was in Kindergarten, he
was so volatile that I was terrified all the time and dissociating when he
exploded. My PTSD symptoms were often kicked into high gear in this
nightmarish existence. When I could handle no more, I fell apart and fled
to the hospital. He felt abandoned and when I returned home, he took out
his anger and frustration on me in a pattern that kept us in a vicious cycle of
abandonment, anger, and violence.
My son has always had a loving streak that seems
larger than infinity. But it was mired beneath all this suffering and
difficulty negotiating daily life. Five percent of the time he would take
our breath away with his sweetness, and the rest of the time we were dealing
with momentary frustrations - ranging from the miniscule to the
larger-than-life. In desperation, we turned to medication, and finally
got some behavioral intervention in the home. Suddenly the 5% / 95%
statistic got flipped on end. Now our child is pure sweetness and light
95% of the time. If he knows we feel ill, he brings stuffed animals,
blankets, and water. He draws us pictures and signs that say we're the
best parents. He wants family hugs and says we're the "triangle of
hearts". If we accidently break one of his Lego creations, he calmly
and lovingly says "It's OK. It can be fixed. What's most important
is that we have each other!". The pessimistic cynic within me wants
to balk at this and say "This is just so sweet, it's
sickening!". Other parts of me feel like a thirsty desert-wanderer
who has finally been given a drink. And then there is the part of me that
recognizes myself and my husband within our child and cries tears of joy and
relief that at last his generous heart has become unburdened.
Going to worship services has always been a
challenge with my husband and son. I am tremendously anxious about how
things are perceived by others. I have OCD and a tendency toward paranoia
at times. Showing up at church with a child who wanted to sprawl out on
the pew with his sneakers on, make noises during the handbell interlude, argue
when it was time to transition to Sunday school, and hit when it was time to go
home was like showing up naked. Add to the mix my shame and feelings of
failure about my ability to parent effectively, and my difficulties with
relationships that become magnified in community, and it can be hell - hell in
church.. When my husband and son first came to church, I would spew venom at
them for the slightest infraction. This isn't who I like to be, but like
my son, I have little armor. I work extremely hard with them to keep my
impatience and frustration in check. I have had moments where I've stood
with them in the closing circle, holding hands, and tears have streamed down my
cheeks as I've felt the intensity and true depth of my love for them. I
find ways to open my heart - wide open - to let go of all resistance. But
this is a challenge for me given the models for love that I had - the folks who
saw me as a disposable commodity. This week in church, my son was given a
turkey shaped from a latex balloon. The turkeys we were all given were
intended to go on the altar to represent turkeys our church had donated to
local homeless shelters for Thanksgiving. When everyone else brought
their turkeys to the front of the sanctuary, my son hid his beneath his
coat. He couldn't let go of it. The middle of a worship service is
neither the time nor place to push a child with autism past his comfort
threshold. I didn't want him to tantrum, so I let it go. But I
worried about who saw. Who was watching? Who was judging him?
Who was judging me for not making him give his turkey to those in need?
It didn't matter that it was a fake turkey that only represented turkeys that
were already given to the shelters. But then I remembered who we
are. I remembered all the love and generosity my husband shares with the
world. I thought about the amount I give - the parts of my self that I
put out there even though I feel vulnerable, unlovable, and never enough.
And I KNOW my son. I know him intimately. I know who he really
is. I know his generosity of spirit, and I suddenly felt no need to
demonstrate it or prove it or justify his need to hold onto his latex turkey.
My son still believes in Santa. He is 8
now, and I feel that we cannot keep him in the dark about Santa beyond this
upcoming Christmas. I have been thinking about how to let him know Santa
doesn't exist, I have read several blogs on the subject, and I have spoken with
friends and neighbors. Some people never allow their children to believe
in a literal Santa, but they allow Santa as metaphor. I've been thinking
about the birth of Jesus as metaphor as well. I was raised Christian, but
am now a Unitarian Universalist, and paint pictures of "God" with
very broad brushstrokes. Jesus was allegedly sent to the world by God to
"save" us from our sins - to offer atonement. Santa is a
saintly figure who brings gifts, who gives beyond measure, and who asks nothing
in return. I bet he really doesn't even discriminate between the
"naughty" and the "nice". Who or what is it that
brings you your salvation from what ails? Who or what is it in life that
brings you the most tremendous treasured gifts? My neighbor said that
playing Santa is something people do for the people they love. In the new
year, I would like to write my son a heartfelt letter. I will tell him
that just as I believe God is within us and all around us, Santa lives within
us and walks among us too. And my Santa Claus is him - that precious
child that has brought me to a place of deeper love and wholeness despite all
the obstacles.
Before my son was born, I printed out a quote
about childbirth and put it in a special frame. I wanted to believe it
for years, but couldn't get beyond my pain. Now I have found that I can
rest in its truth. It is written by Dr. Grantly Dick-Read that
"Childbirth is fundamentally a spiritual as well as a physical achievement
. . . it must be understood that the birth of a child is the ultimate
perfection of human love . . ."
Happy holidays!
Nirmalpreet
