SAMPLE CHAPTER:
Copyright © 1999 Carico Press
Developmental Delays & Depression
There is a certain innocence that accompanies parenthood. New parents
wait for the first healthy cry, they count 10 fingers and 10 toes, and they
breathe a sigh of relief that the baby is okay. I was so exhausted after
Trista's delivery that I don't even remember noticing her fingers and toes
my only concern was that it was over!
Because I had not given much thought to raising a family, I did not realize
that I had such fantastic educational preparation to be a pretty good mother.
I knew my degree in home economics was wonderfully practical. (I had always
reminded Dave how lucky he was to have me because I had the best "wife-preparation
education"' that any woman could have.) But I didn't realize how much
(and, paradoxically, how little) I had learned about parenting skills until
we had a child of our own. I was grateful for my basic understanding of
child nutrition, child development, child behavior, and on and on. Though
it was all college textbook information, it was, at least, a foundation.
When the reality (and finality) of parenthood settled in on me, I had
enough background to know that Trista was a difficult baby. She was colicky,
often melancholy and aloof, and she had rashes on her face. My greatest
fear was that she would grow up with a bad case of acne because my doctor
said there was a correlation between infant rashes and teenage acne. As
I look back on it, I'm sure we all would gladly have traded the complex
neurological problems that she had ahead of her for a bad case of teenage
acne!
I loved her infancy, although it used to break my heart when we could
not console our newborn. Sometimes she seemed so uncomfortable, and there
was nothing we could do for her except to let her cry herself to sleep.
Rocking and walking her seemed to only prolong her distress. We used to
set the timer when we put her to bed. If she cried for over 30 minutes when
she was dry, fed, and burped, we'd get her out of bed and put her back in
the little windup swing. The "automatic mother," as we called
it, always worked better than anything we could do for her. She refused
to be comforted with holding, rocking or walking. I was grateful that I
breastfed Trista because that was about the only time she would let me cuddle
her and enjoy her. It had to be sufficient for me because that was the way
it was with Trista.
I began to notice subtle indications of slow development. Many of my
friends were having babies, and all of their children's developmental stages
outpaced Trista's. I abandoned our newly-formed babysitting cooperative
because I couldn't bear to scrutinize my child's delayed development. Our
country doctor kept reassuring me that all children are different. I clung
to his optimism like a life preserver . . . that hope was all I had to hold
onto.
As every month passed, I became more certain that we were dealing with
some significant developmental delays. It was useless to try to settle Trista
for a story time, or to encourage her to watch "Captain Kangaroo"
or "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" on TV. Her attention span simply
was not long enough for quiet-time activities. Even joining her to play
with toys or little games seemed futile. Because her interest in anything
only lasted a moment, she would soon be off to something else. I often found
myself deserted reading her book, or watching the children's program,
or playing with her toy all by myself. Having little friends over
to play with her was also fruitless because Trista really never advanced
beyond the "parallel play" stage, where children appear to be
playing with one another, but they are really only playing beside one another
and are not interacting. The little friends usually sought me out to play
with them because Trista had abandoned them, as she toddled off towards
whatever might have caught her attention.
Trista played hard and fast, running all the time between her pursuits
of purposeless activity. She was more active than any child I had ever seen!
I used to think of her as our "little honeybee," flitting from
one attractive flower to another; hovering for a moment to taste, and then
darting off to sample from all the other flowers in the garden. She was
constantly in motion, and her little body always had cuts and bruises on
it because her balance was poor and her coordination was delayed. She didn't
walk; she only ran. And when she ran, it was with her hands and arms tensed
behind her, where they were useless if she fell or collided with something,
which she often did. There were so many times that she ran "full-speed-ahead"
into the outside corner-wall of our hallway. We recurrently observed her
for signs of concussions. And because of Trista's frequent black eyes and
lumps on her forehead, we were fearful that someone would turn us in for
child abuse.
When she wasn't getting hurt, she was happy enough, just distant. We
couldn't corral her to have long tender moments we got them on the
run! She would be intensely affectionate for just a moment, and then instantly
become totally engaged in something new which had captured her short-lived
focus.
My most tender moments were finding her halfway onto her bed. With her
torso and one leg on the bed, the other leg still on the floor, she would
be sound asleep. Her infant sleep patterns of going to sleep alone had carried
over to her toddler stage; when she got tired, she just went to her bed.
But she was usually so exhausted that she only made it halfway into bed
before she was sound asleep. Many times, I would realize that the house
was exceptionally quiet, and I would find her, fully asleep, draped over
the edge of the bed with one foot still touching the floor. She was loving
and sweet as I would tuck her limp little body into bed. And for just a
few moments after she awoke from her naps, she would snuggle and cuddle.
I was full of love for her. And yet, her "distance" gnawed at
me.
It became too painful for me to compare her lag in development. I pulled
farther and farther away from most of my friends, whose children seemed
bright, assertive and social. My doctor continued to affirm Trista's general
well-being. "She's just terribly two," he would say. "First-time
parents worry a lot; your second child will be easier." It placated
me but my concerns were valid, and the physician's words did not eradicate
my trepidation.
The three years which included my first pregnancy and Trista's early
childhood were a real "stretch." I was trying to be a good mom,
but I never felt equipped to deal with a child who was like none I had ever
seen nor read about. I found myself hoping the doctor would diagnose some
little problem because in spite of everyone's reassurances, Trista surely
did not seem normal to me!
They say a mother knows.
Dave was dealing with his own set of concerns. He also observed the reality
of her developmental delays, although he did not discuss them with me. He
worked with grade school children every day, and he knew the challenges
that Trista would face if our concerns were substantiated. Dave was active
in the teachers' union, and he immersed himself in his teaching and civic
activities. We were of little support to each other. We had a good business
relationship, but we failed to share with each other the burdens of our
hearts.
I knew my parents were also concerned about their first granddaughter,
and as a result, I felt like I had failed them. All my young-mother friends
had already outpaced me; their companionship offered me no solace. I felt
jealous anguish when I observed their children who were all normal, some
even gifted and astute. My doctor was less than comforting. He wasn't giving
me any of the answers that I wanted needed to hear. I felt like
I had failed in every arena as a mother, a wife, and a daughter.
Depression was my close companion. 8 I had such love for Trista, but
I felt rejected by her. I found myself drinking more and more, buying wine
by the gallon because it was expedient and more economical. And I became
very involved in prestigious women's groups, climbing my self-serving social
ladder while escaping into volunteerism and good civic causes. Nonetheless,
my preoccupation with superficial activities did not fill the void. I cried
myself to sleep many late nights. I had nowhere to turn.
Thoughts of suicide invaded my head. It was a recurrent theme in those
lonely times. If I ended my life, someone else would have to raise Trista.
I knew that was selfish. She seemed to need so much who else besides
a mother could give her that extra attention? I had heard people say that
there's nothing like a mother's love. Those words haunted me. If I gave
up, would there be anyone who could be the mother that this special child
needed? Could anyone else love her enough? Sometimes I could answer, "Yes."
But usually I knew that abandoning ship was a less-than-satisfactory solution.
Ending my problems would only magnify Trista's problems. Suicide was not
a solution; but the thought tormented me.
control.
- run. jump. pull. bite.
- too young to understand;
- unable to control
- those urges. you seem driven
-
- to talk. whine. run. cry.
- return. beg . . . attention
-
- I beg . . . Peace!
- One hour . . . One minute . . .
-
- free
-
- of your grasp
- of your incessant activity.
-
- Paradoxical: you sweetheart
- "i wud du mama.
-
- Oh Trista. How lon
- can your innocent charm remain?
-
- How long?
-
- Patience. Understanding. Control, mama
- she doesn't know
- she doesn't understand
- she can't control
-
- Love her, mama. Tolerate
- She may remain.
- even if you don't
I finally found the courage to reveal my suicidal considerations to my
husband. Although Dave was genuinely alarmed, outwardly he was calm and
compassionate. Urging me to seek professional help, Dave suggested I speak
with a pastor.
During my college days, I referred to myself as an agnostic ("to
keep the 'churchy' kids off my back"), and I wasn't too excited about
going to a man of the cloth. But I always had great respect for Dave's advice,
so I went to the local pastor of the denomination where I was baptized as
a child. While I was waiting in the pastor's office, the titles of books
on his library shelves seemed to leap out at me: Help for the Hurting;
When the Pain Won't Go Away; Mister God, I Have a Problem; God's Answers
for the Hurting Heart. I was encouraged. I wasn't at all interested
in "getting religion," but after looking at his bookshelf, I had
a sense of expectancy that the minister would offer me the comfort I so
desperately needed.
The man listened quietly as I poured out my heartache. When I was finished,
he suggested that perhaps I was not stable enough to raise this child who
seemed to need so much. He told me that there were state agencies which
could "assist" by removing the child from our home, to give me
some relief.
I was terrified. I had gone to a minister for counsel. He had every opportunity
to introduce me to the Friend who would stick closer than a brother; to
the One who loves children more than any mother; to Him who is the friend
of the lonely and the oppressed; to the Counselor who holds all the answers
and all the power to overcome all my problems. This pastor had a precious
opportunity to introduce me to Jesus Christ, so that I would have the power
to live an abundant, peaceful life in the midst of my problems.
Jesus said, "The thief comes only to steal and kill
and destroy;I have come that they may have life,and have it to the full."
~ John 10:10
Instead, the preacher threatened me with the suggestion that perhaps
Trista should be taken away from me!
I did not pass go. I did not "collect two hundred dollars."
Stunned, I ran the entire block to my home, locked the door behind me, and
begged a God whom I did not know to not allow this preacher-man take matters
into his own hands.
Perhaps I overreacted. Perhaps the minister was using "shock treatment"
to bring me to reality. Whatever the interpretation, I seemed to snap out
of my depression for awhile.* I was fearful for a long time that the state
Children's Services Division might suddenly appear on my doorstep, and snatch
Trista from my grip. My fears refocused my attentions, and my preoccupation
with suicide sat on the back burner for about a year.
~ ~ ~
-
- If I had known what trouble you were bearing;
- What griefs were in the silence of your face;
- I would have been more gentle, and more caring,
- And tried to give you gladness for a space.
- I would have brought more warmth into the place,
- If I had known.
-
- If I had known what thoughts despairing drew you;
- ( Why do we never try to understand? )
- I would have lent a little friendship to you,
- And slipped my hand within your hand,
- And made your stay more pleasant in the land,
- If I had known.
~ ~ ~
- * Editor's notes:
- See Appendix Depression My Close Companion for important
information about depression.
- For the reader's use and convenience, thesse extensive resources may
be found at the back of this book:
- Abbreviations & Acronyms
- Glossary
- Endnotes
- Coping Tips & Treasures (alphabetical index)
- Index
Copyright © 1999 Carico Press
|
