Jump-start my heart.

Today we put my son in the NeuroPsychiatric InPatient Unit at Sheppard Pratt for the second time in less than a year. My sister told me I should take some time for my husband, Aidan and myself.  It's time to regroup, recharge, recover from the past months that have led up to his hospitalization.  I love her for this.  It's really good advice. 

At the same time, however, it's just so hard to do.

My days are filled with other things, now that Conor is in the hospital.  There are the crying jags during the day, which ruin my make-up so the tedious re-application all through the day gets a bit much.  Thank god I'm not a celebrity, or the paparazzi would have a field day.

Then there's the staring blankly at the wall, wondering how we got here and why the hell do men keep tweeting pictures of their penises to women who don't seem remotely interested? I mean, hello, what happened to buying a girl some dinner first?

I can't figure out the carpool line at my younger son's new camp.  I've signed him up for a bjillion hours of camp this summer because I didn't know what was going to happen with his brother.  These other women in line get really pissed off if you don't know the carpool line etiquette.  Especially the Grandmas. (I found this out the hard way.)

There's all the time I spend feeling guilty for wanting to read a book.  So I re-organize the closets.  Again.  For the millionth time, my husband is left yelling "Where the hell are my boxers, Alisa, did you move them AGAIN?". 

What can I say, honey, I'm a "producer" personality, I have to have SOMETHING to do.  I can't just, you know, sit by the pool and read a book, can I?

What I can tell you is that I have already emailed a few of my closest girlfriends and have suggested a night out.  I think I need it. Luckily for me, Sue, Laura, and Lize are always up for a drink.  

We don’t even need an excuse, baseball/lacrosse/soccer/husband schedules allowing.

Visiting hours are from 5:30pm – 7:30pm, so I have lots of time to nurse the hangover I have from drinking two glasses of red wine the night before.  What can I say?  Two glasses of Bogle’s Pinot Noir make me feel like I’m wrapped in cotton and life doesn’t hurt as much as it did before.  (I know, two glasses=lame ass. At least I’m a cheap date.)

In all honesty, admitting my son to the psychiatric ward of a hospital is one of the hardest things I will ever have to do in my life.  Even if I know he needs it.  (He needs it. Oh boy, does he need it.)

In addition to the sheer emotional hurting, there are psychiatrist meetings, blood tests, medical procedures, and having to assuage the pain of all of our extended family. Much as we may feel differently, we don’t have a monopoly on loving Conor.

There are logistical problems, camp to alert, school to inform, therapists to manage, and questions about what to do next.

There’s the wondering and worrying about what will come next.  What will Conor be like when he gets out?  Will he be on more medicine?  Less medicine?  God forbid, the SAME medicine?

Will he be better?  The same?  Different? 

Where do we go from here?  Does anyone know?  Because I’m tired of trying to figure it out.

Break out the Doublemint Twins

In Mexico, I hear, there is a gum version of Viagra.  Perhaps it is for men who want longer lasting... flavor? (Turns out, even guys who can't swallow very well like to get a little action once in a while.)

I'd love for Pfizer to take all this innovation, all this research and development, and put it to use on autism.

I mean, I know erections must be simple, relatively speaking.  But we're talking brains here, right?  One's just a little smaller than the other.

Oh brother, how art thou?

My husband and I took Conor to Busch Gardens in Williamsburg, VA, for his Spring Break.  He and his brother go to different schools, and thus, have different schedules. 

So we sent Aidan (our typical child) to my Mom and Dad’s for a few days and nights. They made sure he slept, bathed, got to school, and got the payment in for the class picture and the dollar for the Used Book swap.

Tonight, my Dad brought Aidan home.  I missed Aidan so much.  He’s my red headed, freckled face, blue eyed wonder full of what makes almost-nine-year-old boys so wonderful.  He’s the love of my life. 

(Until he turns thirteen, that is, at which point I’m sure I’ll give him away to the first gypsy who offers to take him.) Nine years old is my favorite age. They still need you, but they don’t need you.

We feed Conor dinner pretty early and by himself.  It’s just easier.  My husband inhales his food in about 3 minutes.  (He always has.) And then he supervises Conor while Aidan and I finish our meal together.

As Aidan and I were eating dinner together, he started crying because his brother was at the computer, just screaming.  Not screaming in an angry kind of way.  More like screaming in an “I-like-the-sound-of my voice” kind of way.  But still, Aidan said it made his stomach hurt and his chest feel all squiggly down to his stomach. I have to agree; it’s quite jarring.

Who can blame him?  After four days with two retired, doting grandparents and an 11 year old golden retriever/lab mix who sleeps for a living, it’s got to be a jolt to come back to a loud, chaotic, unpredictable environment with a brother with autism.

“You don’t know what it’s like to have a brother with autism,” he cried to me over his grilled chicken, noodles, and yogurt tube. 

“I know what it’s like to be a parent of child with autism,” I replied.

 “Yes,” he said.  “But it’s not the same as having a brother with autism.”

I guess it’s not.  I’m an adult after all.  I took on the responsibility of having a child, no guarantees, when I was almost thirty years old. It’s not the same as being an 8 (almost 9) year old with a brother with autism.

I mean, Aidan still cries if he can’t go over his new (I swear he’s my best friend even though I just met him) friends’ house.  I can’t imagine what it must be like for him to cope with a brother who struggles daily with communicating, has really weird behavior, and targets him with aggression for no reason at all.

I hope that it will get easier for him as he gets older.  Maybe it will get harder as he becomes more self-conscious.  I don’t know.  All I know is, he’s right.  It’s tough to have a brother with autism.