My Other Son

In my career as a translator and interpreter, I’ve discovered that Spanish speakers often start sentences with the words “Por una parte…” It means: On one hand. It is a phrase that just begs to be completed. And the speaker will ramble on and on, and I wait and wait for the por otra parte. The logical conclusion, on the other hand. But most of the time, it doesn’t come. I’ve come to realize it’s just a quirk of the language, and it’s so common that I usually just omit it entirely so as not to leave the English-speaking audience hanging.

I look back over my last post, which I only wrote a few weeks ago, even though it feels like much longer. There was also a Diagonosis: Part Two, which I composed over and over again in my head. It was, in a nutshell, about the fact that Secondo was officially diagnosed with autism. It was about the kindness of friends and how the simplest of gestures made things better. I may post it later, but lately I’ve been thinking about how I left the audience hanging.

The thing is, por una parte, there’s Secondo.

Por otra parte, there’s Primo.

It is noon, and preschool is out. My mom has taken Primo out into the hallway, and I am shuffling around the classroom, waiting for his teachers to finish up so we can talk. I have been out of town for two weeks and they have already talked to my mother, and to P. But I have asked to talk to them because I am Primo’s mother, and I need to hear this for myself.

We sit around a table, the three of us. The chairs are tiny, and I remember them from when I was a student teacher in a kindergarten classroom. I learned to sit in them, but what I really remember is the bruises. I always had a line of bruises from the knees down, from all of the tiny furniture.

Primo doesn’t make eye contact, they say. He doesn’t talk. When we talk to him, he parrots back exactly what we’ve said. He doesn’t participate during circle time. He doesn’t even sit in the circle. He sits in that little red chair, behind the circle. He plays by himself on the playground. There’s another little boy who tries to play hide-and-seek with him, but Primo just wanders off, he’s not interested. You know, it’s fine that the knows all of his letters, but that’s not the only important thing.

We really think he needs to be evaluated.

We’re not saying this because of the issues you’ve had with your other son.

What they’re saying is not news to me, because I heard it from my mother and from P. But their tone is flat and defensive throughout, like they’re eager to get their grievances off their chest, and like they can’t believe they have to repeat this a third time. I can’t really remember what I say. I do remember telling them we’re wondering if we should leave him in preschool another month, and I ask for their opinion.

Well, one of them shrugs, he’s not disruptive.

And suddenly I feel the tears start to well up. I try to hold them back, because the fact that I’m starting to cry makes me mad. Not because I mind crying in front of others, necessarily, but because I have been bombarded by negative statements and this last one makes me realize that they have not said a single positive thing about my son. Nor have they shown a single shred of kindness, which would have made this so much easier to bear.

One of them points me in the direction of the tissues, and thanks to Snick’s comment on my last post, before I even reach for one I think, I’ll bet these tissues are FUCKING SCRATCHY, and I am right.

I leave the room, scratchy tissue in hand, and run into the director, who is happily chatting with my mom. It is obvious that neither one of them expected me to emerge in such a state. The director touches my shoulder and tells me I can call anytime, and I can tell she means it. She also sends me down the hall to talk to an education specialist who happened to be observing Primo’s classroom this morning. I tell her the story, give her some background information.

A week later, I am on the phone with someone from the county school system. She remembers who I am, which I find both comforting and depressing. I schedule an evaluation for Primo. And I can’t believe we’re doing this again.

Diagnosis, Part I

We sit in the waiting room in the Psychiatry Department, and we wait. Considering that it took us so many months to get this appointment, the waiting room here is not as nice as I thought it would be. It’s actually kind of sad. There is a worn train table, but there are no toy trains or cars to be seen. There is a chipped plastic musical toy that even Secondo, who adores anything with buttons that plays music, only tries out once before he loses interest. I have his favorite book, one about a school bus, in my purse, and I hold him on my lap and read it to him over, and over, and over again. He wanders over to the double doors occasionally, and I follow to make sure no one opens them and knocks him over.

We wait, and we wait. I am sick of the book about the school bus. After about an hour I hear the receptionist whispering animatedly on the phone. Tell her she’s got a patient waiting, she hisses loudly enough for me to hear, then hangs up and tells me the doctor is on her way down.

I can tell you all are really busy, I say, trying to sound sympathetic.

This place is CRAZY, she says, shaking her head, and I nearly start to laugh, considering where we are and all, but she doesn’t seem to realize what she’s said.

Dr. A rushes in, finally, and greets us warmly. She had an emergency upstairs. She disappears in the back for another twenty minutes. I assume she’s reading Secondo’s chart, or at least I hope she is, because filling out all the paperwork was draining and took P and me hours.

She walks back out, this time with an entourage of about four other doctors, interns, who knows. I don’t remember. They all stand in a row holding their clipboards and though she introduces them all, I am disconcerted by their presence and their names don't even register.

We go to the playroom. The carpet is dark and the room is small and bare, except for a table and chairs and one large window, which I later realize is a two-way mirror. Dr. A and another doctor (the others have disappeared behind the mirror, I assume) break out a bin of toys and watch Secondo play even as they’re grilling us. They ask P and me probing questions that throw me for a loop, questions about breastfeeding and baby blues, our marriage, high school. Secondo wanders around, not so much into any of the toys with the exception of a hot pink Barbie convertible. At one point he gets up and starts licking the armrests of every chair in the room. I am so taken aback that I can’t even speak, because I’ve never seen him do this, ever, and it makes me feel deeply uneasy. Absurdly, a clip from the movie Airplane! starts playing in my head: Jim never has a second cup of coffee at home. Secondo never does this at home. But I don’t say that, because he's doing it now. Instead I distract him and he moves on to something else.

Dr. A is full of positive comments. It’s always hard to diagnose children who’ve received good parenting. You have a gentle touch with him. I think your instincts are good. She needs to see Secondo a few more times, she says. She and the second doctor talk for a minute about repetitive behaviors they've noticed. It’s just such a relief, I tell her. It's such a relief to have someone NOT dismiss my concerns. And all of a sudden I am crying so hard I can’t speak. Someone passes me a box of tissues that is on the table. I hadn’t noticed it when we came in. Of course they keep them right there, I think. Duh. And as I try to regain my composure I am reminded of all of the witnesses I’ve ever interpreted for who have cried on the stand as I’ve stood next to them, waiting, sympathetic but detached and professional. There’s always a box of tissues right there, but they never notice it until someone nudges it in their direction.

I know this is hard, Dr. A says gently, and that’s when I stop crying. No, I tell her, wiping my eyes. This isn’t hard. The hard part was taking him in for that very first appointment.

This is what I’ve told people for many months now, and I’ve firmly believed it. And yet, today, even as I’m saying it, I realize it’s not true, at least not this time.

Because it is hard. Even when you see it coming, it’s hard.

A Note to Ms. C

9/26

Ms. C,

An update on Secondo’s appointment—we met with Dr. [Big Fancy Psychiatrist] at [Big Fancy Hospital] today. No official diagnosis, because she wants to see him a few more times in the upcoming weeks, but in her words, he’s most likely on the autism spectrum.

I know Secondo isn’t so big on the fruit I send to school with him, but I keep trying anyway!

K.

Open House, Part Two

The thing is, I used to be against preschool.

I just didn’t think it was necessary for my kids. The boys have a nanny, who I’ve known since I was in high school, and I’ve loved and trusted her from day one. The fact that she is from El Salvador and speaks no English was a huge bonus to me. It meant the boys would be exposed mostly to Spanish, and I wanted to keep that going for as long as possible. Plus, preschool for two children would be expensive, and who needs that? I watched several of my friends research schools last spring, tour them all, get on waiting lists and then agonize over the decision. Oh, hell, no, I thought.

But then Secondo qualified for the preschool class at our public school, and P and I started feeling a little bad for Primo. He would be lonely without Secondo, probably. We don’t have too many playdates, so he doesn’t see other kids all that often. And he’s such a cheerful, outgoing child that he would probably love being with other kids at preschool.

So I contacted a preschool. It’s a short walk from the house. That was seriously my only criterion. Primo and I went on a tour, and he walked into the classroom like he owned the place. My guide talked the school up. That’s okay, lady, I thought. As long as you aren’t torturing small children in the basement, really, I’m good. But I just nodded. Since this was just last month, there was a waiting list, so I put Primo on it and crossed my fingers.

I got the call fifteen minutes after Secondo’s open house was over. It was last minute, the director said. There was a parents’ meeting that night, and an open house the next day. I got the wrong information about the class would be in, so we went to the wrong open house. I was bummed—again--when I found out there were three Spanish-speaking parents there, too. Primo will be in the other class, the one for younger children, starting tomorrow. In the end, it doesn’t matter. He loved it. It will be good.

Today was Secondo’s first day. We were going to take the bus, Primo, Secondo, their nanny and I, so I could show her how to get there if she ever needs to pick him up. But the bus was late, so we had to pile into the car and rush over. P was waiting there. We all walked in, and Secondo headed for the toy school bus again. I kissed him goodbye and told him I was leaving. It didn’t seem to register. Then we closed the door behind us and I looked through the window for just a few seconds. When he looked up and seemed to realize I’d left, I quickly moved away so he wouldn't see me. Didn’t you cry? my friends asked me later. I would have. No, I said. I just wanted to get away from there to make life easier for him and his teacher.

P told me his was just fine, if clingy, when he picked him up. Ms. C told him Secondo named several foods and ate a rice cake. That was the summary of the day. I looked through his daily log as soon as I got home from work. Great first day! it read in neat script. Secondo used lots of words! Underneath was a little list: cracker, raisin, more.

That is a good first day.

One Day Only

I'm mostly shy when it comes to my blog. I haven't even put up a blogroll yet. And I definitely haven't posted any pictures of my kids. So I don't know what came over me when I sent a picture of the boys to The Dad of Looky, Daddy! for his Month of Mastheads.

It's perfect, really. Anyone want to see a picture of the boys? It'll be posted there today, and then it will be gone. Maybe someday I'll decide to post pictures, but not for now.

But I will get my blogroll up. Really.

Open House

“You’d better get a three-ring binder,” the teacher told me a month ago, as we left the IEP meeting. “You’re going to need it—you’ll have that much paperwork.”

The events regarding Secondo the past few months have been a blur. Not because there’s been that much going on, or because things have happened at lightning speed. But it’s all kind of fuzzy in my mind. He was evaluated at home, several months ago. It took an hour. And after that, we got a report in the mail. Even though I read it many, many times, I can only remember a few phrases. Developmental delay. Special education. And the only one that actually scares me a little: Social communicative disorder cannot be ruled out.

Which is how P, Secondo and I finally find ourselves at the open house for the special education preschool class he will be in starting on Monday. It is so bright and welcoming. The children’s names and birthdays are written on construction paper balloons and stapled on the bulletin board. When I see Secondo’s name up there, I am happy and excited and wistful and think I might cry.

Secondo, unfazed, makes a beeline for the toy school buses. His little yellow school bus is his favorite toy at home, and he immediately starts rolling this one back and forth. We parents and the two teachers alternate between making small talk and refereeing squabbles over toys, of which there are many.

“Secondo,” I chide, when he instigates such a squabble. “Tiene que compartir.”

The other little boy’s mother stares at me. “¿Hablas español?” she asks me, and then we are chatting away at a speed that English speakers find unnatural.

“Does your boy speak Spanish?” I ask.

She lowers her eyes. “Well, I speak to him in Spanish,” she says. “But he doesn’t talk too much.”

I could kick myself. “I know,” I tell her. “Secondo’s the same way.”

Her little boy is Ramón* and I am deeply bummed to find out that he and Secondo won’t be in the same class. But his mother tells me she’ll be going to the support group meetings for parents. I remember the flier, which is buried deep in a stack of papers and will be until I get that three-ring binder. I hadn’t really given it much thought, but now I decide I’ll go whenever I can.

We get ready to leave. I gather up Secondo so that he’s at eye level with his teacher, who he’s ignored for the past hour. “Secondo,” I say in English, for her benefit. “This is your teacher, Miss C.” Nothing. “Secondo.” I gently turn his face with the palm of my hand. And then he looks at her, really looks at her. And I can tell he doesn’t quite know what to make of this. So I tickle him and get a huge smile.

“He’s a beautiful child,” Miss C. murmurs.

And I’ll bet she says that to all the parents. But he is a beautiful child. I take him by the hand, and we walk to the car. And I’ve come away with such a great feeling.

I can’t wait until Monday.

*Names changed, of course.

Embarrassing Stories

A few years ago I was at a professional conference, surrounded by translators and interpreters. I love attending conferences—they’re expensive, but I need the continuing education credits to keep up my certification, and I always enjoy the experience. I come away feeling invigorated, at least for a while.

We sat down to lunch in the big ballroom and listened to the keynote speaker tell a story, a story about a gaffe he made when he was just learning Spanish. He’d done something or other and was feeling embarrassed about it, so he said, “Estoy embarazado.” Funny! Because (false cognate alert!) embarazado does not mean “embarrassed,” it means pregnant. Oops. The crowd tittered politely, but I was unimpressed.

The thing is, that happens to just about everyone who’s learning Spanish. When people who are learning the language tell me that story, I always laugh, because it is indeed funny and the fact that it happens to everyone doesn’t make it any less embarrassing if it happens to you. And it makes for a good icebreaker. But I was in a room full of interpreters, so my thought was, really? That’s the best you could do? Because interpreters can tell some really good stories about the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to them.

Here’s mine:

I used to interpret for a lot of anti-terrorism courses--definitely not the kind of work I ever imagined I’d do when I was interpreting in a nice, quiet booth in graduate school. It involved lots and lots of time on the shooting range. I loved the work, even though it was physically demanding. There was a mechanical precision to everything on the shooting range, and a rhythm I got into when interpreting the instructors’ commands, barking short, neat orders into my radio transmitter to all of the students on the firing line. No one did anything, anything at all, unless it had been ordered by the instructor.

We stood uprange one day, the line of students preparing their magazines and weapons for the march up to the firing line, an instructor and I behind them. The students had loaded two or three pistol magazines with ammunition, checked their gear and awaited the order, which finally came.

“LOAD YOUR WEAPONS!” bellowed the instructor.

“¡CAGUEN LAS ARMAS!” I shouted, just as forcefully.

And then I watched helplessly and turned beet-red as the rigid, perfectly straight line of men fell apart as all twenty-four men in fatigues doubled over in laughter.

The instructor, a former cop who was twice my size and who intimidated the hell out of me, turned to me and asked, “What did you say? What did you say??”

It was a slip of the tongue, I explained. I left out the r. Carguen las armas = load your weapons. Caguen las armas = shit on your weapons.

I underestimated the instructor. He wasn’t angry or even exasperated—he was mostly horrified and intrigued that leaving out one letter could make that much of a difference.

I had developed a rapport with the group during the course, which meant that they teased me mercilessly all day. I thought I’d never hear the end of it.

Qué embarazada.