Sunday, April 7, 2013

A Child’s Disability


I have a son who has autism. Autism is a disorder that is hard to describe and even harder to diagnosis. My son Phillip was almost three before my first husband and I became concerned about certain behaviors, and more importantly, skills that were not developing.  He was six before we found a team of doctors who could tell us what was wrong.

When Phillip was born, he was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. A large number of nurses and my doctor agreed. He was a drop-dead gorgeous baby; a head full of sandy golden hair, huge dark eyes, and a beautiful skin. My husband and I couldn't believe how wonderful our baby was!

The first few weeks were pretty tough, but we got through them and eventually I learned to tell the difference between cries, how to bathe quickly and thoroughly, how to combat diaper rash and the hundred others things that every new mom has to learn. Phillip seemed to be completely normal, even better than normal. He hit every development milestone on time or early. We talked about sending him to Harvard.

The first time we noticed anything was amiss was when Phillip was three. We were visiting my in-laws and Phillip was running around playing, making us all laugh. My father-in-law asked Phillip a question and Phillip didn't respond. He asked again but Phillip barely even paid attention to his granddaddy. My father-in-law asked me, “Why doesn't he ever answer me?  He acts like he doesn't hear.”

It was like being hit with a brick. Even as I denied that anything was unusual, I had already realized that my father-in-law was right. Phillip did talk, sometimes non-stop. But he rarely talked to us. We had to ask him direct simple questions repeatedly in order to get a response from him.

I decided to take off that summer to spend more one-on-one time with Phillip. We needed more observation to get an idea of what was going on. We also took Phillip out of daycare and enrolled him in a half-day preschool for the following year. I would only work in the mornings, again so I could try to get a grip on what was happening.

The next year was busy. I was pregnant with my second son and was constantly sick. We bought a house and moved. (Actually, I didn't do much moving. I was too busy throwing up.) I spent every afternoon with Phillip, reading and playing with him.  I called the local school and was able to get a ruling of speech impairment for him. We paid the speech therapist to come to our house, since the schools offered no services before age four.

We consulted with a local child psychologist, who told us Phillip was hyperactive and spoiled, and that I was a weak mother. He was the first of four doctors we would go through before finding the doctors at Ochsner’s Medical Center in New Orleans. Remember this was in 1993, twenty years ago, and autism was considered a rare condition. Most of the doctors had little training or experience with autism.

Phillip was almost six before we got his diagnosis. We spent a week at Ochsner’s Medical Center in New Orleans, having physical, neurological, and emotional testing done. It was an incredibly stressful week, as we struggled to get to each appointment while handling a two year old toddler, and a frightened five year old.

At the end of the week we went to meet with the team doctors who had overseen Phillip’s testing. A kind aide had offered to watch Daniel, our younger son while we talked to the doctors. As we sat in the small white room where doctors delivered unwanted diagnoses to frightened parents, I watched my boy play on the floor as the doctor’s spoke. I looked back and forth from the doctors to my boy, wandering if we were talking about the same boy. My Phillip was smart, already reading and learning math. He just couldn't express himself very well. He just needed some kind of therapy and he would be fine.

The doctors told us Atypical Autism, Pervasive Developmental Disorder, Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder, Expressive Language Disorder, and Functional Retardation.  The whole scene was unreal and difficult to understand. I felt like the floor had fallen away under us. They told us that Phillip would never read; never progress much beyond the level of development he had reached. We left the room holding Phillip’s hand as if he might drift away if we let go.

That night my husband and I knelt beside the hotel bed, watching Phillip sleep. We prayed, pouring out our grief and pain to the Lord. We wept, wandering what was to become of our son, where could we find help for him? And we knew that this could not be the end of Phillip’s story.   


© Copyright 2013-2013, Magistra Vitae| Linda Simpson. All Rights Reserved

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Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Being Old Is Good


If you read my first post, you noticed that I admited right up front that I’m old. I have reached the ripe old age of 55, which was considered practically on death’s doorstep when I was a child. My husband Ron is about to turn forty-nine, and he thinks he’s old (really, he’s just a spring chicken.) But frankly, I don’t feel old.

In fact, I often have to stop and remind myself of my age, because in my mind I’m still a twenty-something. I sometimes find myself surprised that I am the mother of a twenty-five years old son, and a twenty-one years old son, and a nineteen years old son. Gee, how did they grow up so quickly?  They were just little kids when my husband, Ron, and I married.

My husband and I married 10 years ago. Both of us had gone through very bitter divorces. We first met in karate class at the local YMCA and just sort of acknowledged each other’s existence for a couple of years. We actually only dated for a few months before deciding to marry and blend our families. Our boys got along well from the beginning and are still very close. In a way, this relationship was like starting life all over, being a kid again.  New love, new family, new life.

We had both learned a lot from our first marriages, so this time around we knew what pitfalls to avoid. We didn't expect each other to be mind readers. We spoke up if something bothered us or if we needed the other to do something. We talked before spending large sums of money. We made sure all our boys knew their new parent (Ron for my boys, I for his son) was an authority figure in our home. It was like we had always been married. There were no wasted hours of anger or the silent treatment.  

We also had more reasonable expectations of each other than we had had of our first spouses. I knew Ron was a pastor, and that we would never be rich. He knew I had a law degree but had found practicing law a bad career choice. I would not be going back into a courtroom again.  We didn't expect to change or mold each other into our personal vision of perfect. We took each other as we were, warts and all.

We have had a few bumps along the way, but Ron and I have a great marriage. We love spending time with each other. Staying home and watching TV is cool with us. We don’t need huge sums of money because we have most anything we need (or want.) We don’t need to go out every weekend because we’re not bored by home or each other. Friday night is date night, spent sitting in bed cuddling and watching our favorite movies. We are content.

And it’s all because we are old. All those life lessons combined to create in us the ability to avoid old errors, and enjoy new life. So yes, being old is good.




© Copyright 2013-2013, Magistra Vitae| Linda Simpson. All Rights Reserved

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Sunday, March 24, 2013

Opinions


I have opinions. Boy, do I have opinions! One on practically every subject that comes up.  

Some years ago, as I was embarking on the practice of law, a friend told me to always remember something about opinions. She said “Everybody has an opinion. An opinion plus a quarter will get you a cup of coffee.”  

I guess nowadays she would say “an opinion plus a $1.50 will get you a cup of coffee.”  But that’s another topic.

Anyway, the point is that everybody has an opinion and basically they are not worth much.  I have my opinions and I’ll be glad to give them to you. Just don’t except them to be pearls of wisdom to cure all your problems.

I’m glad we got that out of the way.


© Copyright 2013-2013, Magistra Vitae| Linda Simpson. All Rights Reserved

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Saturday, March 23, 2013

The Teacher of Life


The name of my blog is Magistra Vitae. Simply put, it means "teacher of life."  Sounds kind of impressive doesn't it? 

So, what are my credentials to be a teacher of life?

Well:
I’m old, older than you. I've been around a while.
When I was very young, God called me to follow him.
I was a teenage nerd, geek, outcast, etc. I thought God had left me.
I went to college. I was lonely.
I went to law school. I married my law school love.
I was a lawyer. I practiced.
I found that God was still here. In fact, He had never left.
I have two beautiful boys who are the greatest achievements of my life. (If I achieve nothing else, I have reared two wonderful young men.)
I home-schooled my two boys for six years.
My oldest son is autistic. He loves facts.
My younger son is a genius. He will graduate from college in about six months.   
I have fibromyalgia.
I have dysthymia (mild, chronic depression.) 
I have year-round allergies.  
I went through a horrible divorce.
I learned karate.
I changed careers.
I met a nice man.
I married the nice man.
He had a son too, younger than my two boys. Now I have three boys!
Our youngest boy has decided to leave college and join the Navy. He will start basic training this summer. 

I have learned to be happy, because being unhappy makes you miserable.
I have learned its okay to make a mistake. Most things can be fixed.
I have learned that life is what you make of it.

Okay, so what it boils down to is that I've had a lot of life experiences and I think I learned a few things along the way. I don’t have all the answers to your problems. I can only tell you about what happened to me. And maybe it will help you, or comfort you, or give you a chuckle.  



© Copyright 2013-2013, Magistra Vitae| Linda Simpson. All Rights Reserved


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