Concrete (part one of three)

“The reader will be interested to know that I have discovered a means of removing almost all of the characteristics that define Asperger’s syndrome in any child or adult.  This simple procedure does not require expensive and prolonged therapy, surgery or medication, and has already been secretly discovered by those who have Asperger’s syndrome.  The procedure is actually rather simple.  If you are a parent, take your child with Asperger’s syndrome to his or her bedroom.  Leave the child alone in the bedroom and close the door behind you as you walk out of the room.  The signs of Asperger’s syndrome in your son or daughter have now disappeared.”

Tony Attwood

My mom was sitting on the couch when I came in the door.  And my brother was sitting beside her, in the chair next to the couch.   

“You’re brother was here!” my mom exclaimed as I took off my coat, “He was in the basement!”

My mom had come to town for Thanksgiving.  She’d planned on staying for a few days, so I’d offered her the house that we’re trying to sell as a place for her to stay.  I’d offered her the house that we’re living in too, but she’d opted for the other.  Not that I blame her.  My mom doesn’t much like screaming children.  Well… not for a bunch of days in a row anyway.

I’d taken my mom over to the other house a couple hours earlier to unlock the door for her, and then I’d left to go and see some friends.  My mom had asked if I’d pick up a quart of milk and drop it back by on my way home later, so that’s what I was doing.  I went into the kitchen and put the milk in the fridge.  Then I came back into the living room and sat in a chair across from my brother.  “In the basement, huh?” I asked my mom, not taking my eyes off my brother.

I was glad I already knew he’d been getting in.  I’d been over to that house every day to check on things, and I’d noticed stuff out of place two times.  The lower left corner of a blanket, which was folded across the foot of one of the beds, was a bit tousled one day.  I didn’t say anything to my husband, Shane, that time.  But then, just the day before, a throw pillow had not only been moved about an inch, it had also been turned clockwise.

I have a fairly good memory when it comes to things that I see, especially when it comes to simple objects and uncomplicated spatial reasoning.  The trouble is that my brother does too.  He’d been quite thorough in making sure that things were in the exact same spots whenever he left, but he’d gotten a little too comfortable and had finally started slipping up just enough for me to be able to catch it.  I almost felt a sense of victory as I called Shane after I noticed the moved pillow.  “My brother’s been getting in the house,” I’d said, “We need to make sure all the windows and doors are locked at all times.”

Shane and I made sure that both of the keys to that house were accounted for after that, and that all the windows and doors were locked.  But my brother had apparently found a way in again anyway.

It’s not that there’s anything left in that house worth stealing (it’s just old furniture and an ancient T.V. now), and it’s not even that I think my brother would steal from me anyway.  He’s never stolen anything from me in his entire life.  It’s just that I’m trying to sell that house.  And what would I say to somebody, exactly, if I took them over to there to show it to them, and there was a strange man inside?  “Oh, don’t worry.  He probably won’t come back once you’re living here.”??

Shane had asked me, on the day I’d noticed the moved pillow, why my brother would be coming into the house in the first place.  “The cable’s not hooked up,” he’d said, “and there’s no way to watch the T.V. without the cable.  And there’s no food there.  Why would he be doing it?”

My brother’s been living with my dad, in a one bedroom house, for something like a year now.

“Privacy,” I’d answered.

I understand this actually.  I often go over to that house just to sit in the quiet myself.  Sometimes I’m over there at night, alone.  Or, at least, I’d always thought I was alone.  And as I sat there, staring at my thirty six year old, baby brother, I had to fight the urge to imagine what would happen if I realized that someone, during one of these times, was in the house with me.

“I’m so sorry,” I said to my mom, “I should’ve told you he’s been getting in.  Did he scare you?”

“Oh!” she said, “I almost peed my pants!  He was in the closet in the downstairs bedroom, hiding, no doubt, from who he thought was you.  I’d been here almost an hour already, and I’d decided to have a little look in all the rooms.  You’ve got this house looking so cute, Jessie!”

My mom giggled and smiled as she talked, like this was just some sort of cute little misunderstanding.  “He said ‘Hi Mom’ as he came out of the closet,” she continued, “so I’d know that it was just him.  But still, it scared me half to death!  Hee!  Hee!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t me,” I smiled politely, trying to assume the same giggly tone of voice that my mom was using, “If I’d been here alone and had heard something, I probably would’ve grabbed the shot gun that I have in that closet over there.  I have a couple of shells hidden for just such an occasion.”

They both looked at me.

“Hee.  Hee?” I continued.

I hoped that this might convey the gravity of the situation, but the only thing it seemed to convey was that I was mad.  My brother didn’t make eye contact.  He gave me his infamous nervous giggle instead.  Then he tried to be funny.  “Dad watched cooking shows for over an hour last night,” he said, making a face, looking at his watch, making another face, looking at his watch, then saying it again, “for over an HOUR.”

“Don’t come in my house without permission,” I said, “It’s not okay.”

I told my spiritual advisor, of sorts, about this the last time we met.  And, once I was done telling her the story, she laughed and said, “Wow!  You’re brother probably really does have Asperger’s (high-functioning Autism), doesn’t he?”

“Either that or he’s nuts,” I laughed.

She didn’t laugh at this.

“We know he’s not nuts,” I continued, trying to assume a more compassionate tone, “That’s why I’m continually amazed that your question is somehow still up for debate.”

It’s rather confusing to be writing a book, within which you’re describing growing up with a sibling with Asperger’s, when your sibling doesn’t know that he has it.  I’m running into all sorts of problems with this, the most concerning of which, so far, is that I’m worried about making it look like I think there’s something wrong, instead of different, about my brother.  I mean, this one story about him breaking into my house is a perfect little example. 

I don’t think my brother would care about being called Autistic.  He’s not the type to put much thought into any kind of label actually.  But I do think he’d care if I thought that there was something wrong with him.  And this has had me questioning all of my writing actually.  What if I’m making it look like there’s something wrong, instead of different, about my kids too?  What if they grow up and read my blog and feel like their mom thinks there’s something wrong with them?    

Perhaps the real question, at the moment (since I can’t predict the future or anything) is; why do I still tend to react to the Autism in the people that I love, with irritation?  I mean, I know full well not to expect “normal-ness” from someone with Autism.  So why do I get upset when I see the “abnormal-ness”?  

It’s an important question for me to take a look at, not only because I’m writing about the people that I love and I certainly don’t want to be coming from a place of irritation all the time, but also because I don’t want to be the kind of person who reacts to anything with irritation.  Yet, that’s exactly the kind of person that I am.

I feel like there’s been concrete in my writing lately.  It’s been too slow, too forced, and slowly settling into a complete stop.  And this isn’t good, because there are a million things going on (there are always a million things going on) that are tripping me up. 

My daughter got a permanent tooth knocked out (root and all) at school the other day.  It was an accident.  She happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time (which is a place that Isabel seems to end up with uncanny consistency – she nearly got hit by a car on her way home from school last week).  We had an emergency appointment with an orthodontist, who shoved the tooth back into it’s socket and hoped for the best (we should know in a couple of weeks whether or not it’ll stay in, and whether or not it’ll need a root canal).  And the pain is well under control now. 

And Cale is on a new muscle relaxer (to counter some of the muscle tension caused by the Risperdal) that is causing agitation and involuntary muscle twitching.  It’s not a medication that he can just stop taking either.  If you ever want to feel freaked out, and I mean completely freaked out, watch your child cry with his head twitching involuntarily, while putting the medication that you know is causing it directly into his mouth.  I guarantee you a whole new kind of closeness to God after this.  We’re still waiting (as usual) for a call back from the psychiatrist to figure out what we can do differently. 

It’s always something.  Always.  You know?  And I do so tire of the “always-ness” of the “somethings.”

What I’ve come to realize is that this block in my writing has been nothing more than a symptom of something larger, a block in my spirit maybe.  And when there’s a block in my spirit, it doesn’t just affect my writing.  It causes blockages (and stop thinking about poop!  Oh, maybe that’s just me:) in every area of my life.  

Our other house has been on the market for a couple of months now, yet, up until a couple of weeks ago, we hadn’t had so much as one single nibble on the place.  And the only problem with this is that we can only afford to make the payment on both houses one more time.  Then we’re out of money.

It really has been the mother of all the blocks that I’ve experienced so far.  I’ve been thinking, in fact, that it’s too bad they don’t make a stool softener for the spirit.  Now I realize, however, that there actually is one.