The Rest of His Life

 "Ohh Fuck!" The words resonated out of the dressing room in the busy department store. Instinctively I yelled my husband's name in a parental tone. Then, embarrassed, I realized that I'd just yelled a very common man's name into the men's dressing room where at least several other men were in varying states of undress. My tone likely made my disapproval clear.  Then out walked my 10 year old in his new clothes. The shorts were on backwards, but at least they seemed to fit. Men's Medium. A gigantic size for a 4th grader, but there was no denying the weight he had put on recently. At least these massive shorts gave him back some dignity and privacy and didn't showcase his personal shape to the world. I silently wished he wouldn't display his overly large vocabulary either, while we're on the subject of not socially appropriate things to share in public. I made a mental note to stop by the underwear section before leaving to replace the tiny ones...

 Awake at 6:00am on the dot. I hear the quiet rustle of his steps as he tries to discreetly get the Switch from the study where it charges overnight. I start to get up and stop him, but I stop myself instead as I reach for my phone. The irony hits me as I look at the device in my hand and decide to 'not notice' him for a bit.  When I leave my room just before 7 he and I are both dressed and feeling pretty good, so I think my plan worked. I tell him that we're going to his cousin's baseball game and he fairly agreeably gets his shoes. I tell him to go downstairs and grab a couple of Gatorades from the fridge for us at the game, knowing that mine will turn into a bribe for him later. I offer him his handful of daily morning meds and he slams them all at once without water. Impressive . . ..  We head to the game with his sister as well, and with the help of some Starbucks he tolerates the 40 minute drive without electronics. When we arrive he heads to the playground and pr...

 The ride home was both familiar and awkward.  He sat in the front seat. Taller, wiser. And in shorts that were too tight and a shirt that looked like the seams would burst if he took a deep breath. He looked both more mature and somewhat neglected. His face had filled out and he sported a brown tan and shaggy hair. That haircut we requested never happened. His clothes by contrast looked dirty, ragged, worn, like they had been laundered intermittently at best and without the benefit of soap. His new crocs showed wear all over, the color faded and the straps missing, the dirt caked on his feet rubbing off onto them.  We rode in comfortable silence after he asked for a Dramamine as we left. He found the book I brought for him on the seat and alternated asking the same questions, reading a bit, asking for music, and begging for food. He couldn't hold a conversation or a topic for more than a minute. The same disturbing lack of focus we had seen often on our visits.  "I ...

 He's coming home today! He's coming home . . . today! Those words ring with excitement and joy! My son is finally coming home after 2 months at an inpatient facility.  A journey that started with so much hope, and ended in disappointment.  After being kicked out of yet another school when his behavior became too much to handle, we opted for an inpatient placement hoping that the full time care he would receive would be what he needed to overcome his challenges with functional communication and emotional regulation. What we learned is that despite his and the staff's best efforts, a system or rotating caregivers could not provide the consistency he needed. In a cohort of kids with similar challenges, my son didn't find connection, but overstimulation. His doctor tried every combination of medications imaginable, but he experienced more side effects than success. His therapist truly attempted to build a relationship, but talking has never been my guy's strong suit. W...