All Done

Here I am again. Up worrying in the middle of the night. Shane is asleep because he has more faith than I do. The children are asleep because they don't know there's anything to need faith about.

I haven't desired to not feel in a great while. But I desire it now. "Just grow up," my head is telling me. But I have a child in my chest and she has twisted in the midst of her blood curdling tantrum. I hope I'm the only one that can hear her.

I've gone over the check list several times. Prayed? Check. Eaten? Check. Meeting? Check. But she's still there. She isn't a child that can be soothed with a sippy cup full of warm chocolate milk and a snuggie in the rocking chair. Or by soft singing voices, puppies, or complete adoration. Nothing will soothe this child. She must be ignored with the fierceness of an old English nanny.

Autism is technically brain damage. Actually, if I'm understanding it correctly, it's the nerves that communicate between certain brain tissues that are either damaged or didn't hook up right in the first place. It's physical, is my point, yet our insurance doesn't cover it. We've been waiting, for nine months now, for Medicaid to decide whether or not they'll help my kids. And they've just put it off for another five weeks. My daughter continues to lose weight and have uncontrollable tantrums and anxiety. She's banging her head again. Cale seems like he has a concrete block on his tongue. And they've never gotten treatment for their Autism.

Most of the parents I met at the Autism conference last weekend, have children who have been getting a variety of therapies since they were between one and three years old. Both the parents and the professionals INSIST that early intervention (BEFORE the age of five) "is absolutely essential for any real improvement." I guess that means it's too late for Isabel, and it's quickly approaching too late for Cale.

I'm furious with myself for listening to the doctor that pronounced Isabel "normal" at eighteen months old. It was obvious something was wrong, but I wanted to believe that nothing was wrong. Denial is a great producer of procrastination. That doctor told me what I wanted to hear and I let her. I didn't push for anything further until she was almost four years old.

If I'd taken her to someone else, gotten proper treatment back then, and learned about Autism, she'd have had a lot of help by now. We also would've caught it much sooner in Cale because we would have learned what to look for. They could've gotten help eons ago. And here I am blaming Medicaid's slowness. MY own slowness is the real villain here.

This fury has sent my heart into regular, painful palpitations. I've had these, oddly enough, for nine months now during which I've blamed the state for MY mistake. Or maybe it's just all the coffee I drink. I keep thinking that it surely must be more dramatic than caffeine addiction. As I told the doctor about my chest pain and anxiousness, I was holding a venti-Americano with cream which he looked at and said, "Chest pain and anxiousness huh? Is that...coffee?" It's a good thing he was dark and beautiful or I might've had words.

And my left eye twitches non-stop. It's kind of funny actually. When I'm talking to friends, I have to be careful to not look at them too hard lest I freak them out with my twitchy eye! Okay. I'll switch to green tea. Maybe that will make everything okay.

Maddening is a good word, but it's still not intense enough. I am so close. Here I can SEE all the help that's out there for Autism, but I cannot access that help for my children. It's worse than maddening. In fact, it makes me want to pull the skin off of my arms in long, jagged strips. I cannot continue to sit back and watch my children deteriorate.

So, I've made a decision that may dump chunks of our world onto the cereal coated floor. I'm done waiting for the state of Arizona. I'm done waiting for anyone. I am going to wave cash at the therapists, coaxing them into my home to take care of my children. The cash will go home with them. The house payment won't get made. Nor will the car payment or the student loans or the credit cards. With as much as these therapies cost, it will only be a matter of one month before we'll be unable to catch back up, and three before we are completely ruined.

But finally, my kids will get treatment for their Autism. And they'll get it NOW. We'll rob Peter to pay Paul, because Paul may give my kids a future. Everything else be damned.

Maybe we'll rent a house with a pool. I've always wanted a pool. Maybe I'll find mountains in the stucco of the garden wall and maybe I'll plant tall green plants. I'll make it my mountain lake and I'll swim when I can't sleep. The cold has never bothered me. I like to become one with water. That's sounds silly huh? I know I've succeeded when I'm floating softly and my body is so still I can no longer feel the water moving over my skin. And for just a moment, before I become me again, I become the water.

Okay. The little darling seems to have knocked herself out. I've weathered another internal storm. It's interesting about spiritual exercise. One can't always think their way out of an episode of it. It just comes, like a bad cold with it's congestion and head pain. And no matter how sweetly your head tells you it's not happening, it doesn't actually stop until you take action to heal it. I'll call the therapists first thing in the morning. Who cares about the stuff. I want healthy kids.