I know when Caden is getting sick. Any illness seems to set in at night—right when I go to sleep. That moment of peaceful bliss when I fade in dreamland is when the bedroom door knob starts rapidly shifting back and forth. My first thought is that a crazed madman or zombie is inpatiently waiting to send me to my doom. I pull the covers up tighter as the door flies open and a 4 foot sniffling and whining shadow appears stoic in the door frame. Then, he slams the door to ensure we are officially awake. Charles and I stumble about preparing for whatever is ahead. This past week the illness was an eye infection in both eyes—a commonality for Caden. Charles and I quickly decided I would take the sick day, since work was slower for me. I started the medicine regiment, Vicks machine, and humidifier. Even with these implements, I managed three hours of semi-sound sleep. The next day I still had to be “mommy” for a sick child. However, Caden and I deal with illnesses differently. I want to stay in bed and sleep. He wants to wreak havoc on whatever crosses his path.
I’ve always taught Caden to leave “my stuff” alone (china, knick-knacks, etc.). But on this particular day, he had “forgotten his raising.” I tried time out. I made him lay down, but he refused to take a nap. I tried EVERYTHING! He was so tired; he was beyond reason. I had to take a shower before taking him to his doctor’s appointment. While I was showering, he knocked every item on the coffee table in the floor. I heard the chaos in the shower. I could still hear him; he was fine. So, I just stayed in the shower. I did make him pick it all up, but soon, he was raking the items on the end table in the floor. He was determined to be terrible, and I was just trying to survive. We were the Titanic, and we were sinking quickly.
Raising a special needs child can be a daunting task, especially when the child cannot verbally communicate pain, feelings, or discomfort. I find myself playing the guessing game each time Caden acts “strange,” will not eat, or wakes me up in the middle of the night. I find myself at our most-awesome pediatrician’s office asking for a complete check-up. I need an expert to help me determine the problem. But, it could simply be a headache, stomach ache, tooth ache—who knows? The fear and lack of communication only compounds my stress and escalates Caden’s inappropriate behaviors.
I had a meeting that evening; I decided the meeting was crucial to attend. In reality, I had to get out of the house. I had to get away from being a “mommy” for a while. I parked a block away from the meeting location just to walk and clear my head. When the meeting was over, I returned to my car and sat looking down the road.
The interstate was not that far. I remembered that old country song, “Heads, Carolina. Tails, California.” I contemplated my options. I probably could make it to the state line before I was missed. I didn’t have any cash though—credit cards can be tracked. The ATM was close though. I longed to turn my music up, turn my phone off, roll the windows down, and hit the open road for as long as the highway patrol would let me.
Then, I received a text from Charles. My mom was volunteering to buy us dinner and have it waiting for me. Dinner sounded nice. He updated me on Caden. My little hooligan was getting tired and waiting for his “Mom-Mom.” He asked me how much longer it would be before I could come home and rest. Rest…that sounded better than a road trip. I would probably fall asleep around Nashville anyway. I decided the interstate was not for me. And, I returned home. But, for a moment, my options were endless. But, deep down, I knew I could never leave. How would my guys manage without me?
So, as I found myself driving through the city back to our home, I was thankful—thankful for a support system that I can call upon when I absolutely must get out of the house, thankful for a husband who is willing to let me rest, thankful for a child who wants a kiss before bed, and thankful for an interstate sign that reminds me my family would come looking for me—eventually. There really isn’t a feasible escape option. I rely on my monthly dinners with a friend who is a therapist, diet cokes, and the love of family members to serve as my GPS. They always lead me home, where I am needed and belong.
