When Rain Hurts by Mary Evelyn Greene

January 7, 2011

January 7, 2011

An artist's eye (Dec. 2010)

January 7, 2011.  The snow outside the kitchen window falls like sprinkled baby powder, the whispery flakes fine and silent as they drift, almost apologetically, toward the ground.  Sophie and Peter are outside playing, even though it’s eight thirty in the morning, because both schools cancelled in anticipation of a storm that appears to have lost purchase.  I have so much to do today, including finishing up my syllabus for my Environmental Law class, but I hope to carve out a few hours for the children.  It’s not been a barrel of fun around here lately, and I’d like to make some progress toward turning the situation around.  The holidays have always been rough on Peter, for the usual reasons of lack of routine and schedule, but there’s something else going on too, though I can’t quite name it.  It may have to do with his medication, or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s growing and his episodes and distorted thinking are increasing right along with his physical measurements.  Regardless, it seems like every little change or provocation sets him off at a level higher, and with more frequency, than we’ve previously experienced.  Plus, the issue of his increased urine output, coupled with his occasional inclination to weaponize his pee, has me ready to scream “surrender!”.  Diaper, rubber pants, maximum doses of DDAVP, and no liquids after 6 pm have done little to curb the problem.  Though the DDAVP gave me a few weeks reprieve from washing his sheets every day, the drug no longer seems to be working.  What appears imminent, and his psychiatrist is speaking with a nephrologist today, is that we’re going to have to take him off the Lithium, which is messing with his thyroid and kidneys.  After two years on the “miracle drug” that cleared and soothed his tortured mind, Peter’s body has begun screaming in revolt.  The very thought of doing this terrifies me.  He’s not even doing well right now and I shiver to think what will happen when and if we remove the most powerful weapon in his pharmaceutical arsenal.  It’s times like this that take me to the brink of my strength, my reserves, and whatever sense of hope to which I still stubbornly cling.  Peter’s favorite phrases right now are “I won’t do it” and “You are a damn pipsqueak.”  The latter would be funny except for the venom spitting from his mouth.  And while we’re on it, Sophie’s been less than charming too.  Last night Pat took over the nighttime routine because he knew I hit my limit.  Most days I can handle Peter, but when Sophie starts spiraling at the same time, when her attachment issues flair and her anxiety symptoms skyrocket, I have a hard time coping.  This isn’t fair to her, of course.  She shouldn’t have to time her setbacks so they occur opposite of Peter’s.  But she’s been lying like a seasoned veteran, over things large and small, bringing home one poor grade after the other because she doesn’t feel anyone should tell her what to do (as in take a test), and she’s even begun abusing our animals again.  How do I put out Peter’s fires all day long when Sophie is running behind, resetting them?  It’s too much sometimes, it really is.  Sophie is the child we believed was all right, the one we thought we could truly heal; a little girl whose crooked smile and mischievous eyes hold so much light and promise.  But she is scarred too, maybe not physically, like Peter, but psychologically and emotionally.  They are both unhappy children right now, I know that, and Pat and I are unhappy parents.  But when I try to change the tone or steer us back in masse toward a more positive approach, one or both of them seem to purposely ambush the effort.  I either catch one of them at something – like Peter taking apart the electrical outlets the other day, or they fall apart and start beating on each other the second I turn my back.  It’s such a peaceful day outside, the light, steady snow blanketing the house and yard like a favorite worn quilt, and it saddens me to think that my parenting journey, the choices I’ve made and the paths I’ve taken, have lead to such a tumultuous, and at times hostile, environment inside the four corners of our home.  I love my children, both of them, for vastly different reasons and in countless different ways.  But they’re also robbing me of the best years of my life.  It’s so hard, sometimes, to see beyond the blizzard of problems, doctors’ appointments, teacher conferences, placement battles, or therapists, and think back to why and how we wound up here in the first place.  All I wanted was a family, a chance to mother children who desperately needed mothering.  It seemed a simple concept, but it’s not.  I can’t imagine anything else occurring in my lifetime that will offer a greater personal challenge than raising our two children, one impossibly damaged in utero by alcohol and the other wounded, maybe permanently, by the rigors of life itself.  What’s clear is that I’m not meeting that challenge right now, and am therefore failing our kids.  I have to get myself back on track, to a mindset where their problems and behaviors don’t feel like a personal affront, where I can make hot cocoa for Peter and Sophie and play board games and try to maneuver my feelings and thinking so that they align more naturally with the soundless beauty and tranquility that our snow day has so selflessly offered.

October 28, 2010

October 28, 2010

Scout, Peter and Sophie (Spring 2005)

October 28, 2010.  Tomorrow we’re putting our nearly 16-year-old Jack Russell Terrier to sleep, at 11:00 am to be precise.  We’ve already changed our minds numerous times and even cancelled one scheduled appointment.  But we can’t put it off any longer, there’s no denying what has to be done and I need to believe that this will be in fact the last act of love we’ll ever give her.  I remember picking Scout out of a litter of 9 as vividly as if it was yesterday.  The man selling the pups sized me up in about 30 seconds and warned that Jack Russells don’t make good lap dogs.  I smiled politely, thanked him for the information, and went about deciding on the puppy I intended to name Scout, the one with the diamond marking on her forehead.  Having buried my father only three weeks earlier, Scout has been a tremendous comfort and loyal companion from the start, and this despite all her typical Jack Russell characteristics.  Although weighing only 13 ounces, she nonetheless had the gumption, at just 8 weeks of age, to growl at me the first time I took her food away.  Even so, only a few days of convincing were needed to transform her into a snuggly, if tenacious, lap dog.  The first time Pat flew from NYC to visit me in Atlanta, when we were just beginning to see each other, he walked in my home, immediately reaching to pick up Scout before I had a chance to warn him that she can be nippy with strangers.  I had visions of his hands being sewn up in the Emergency Room and our fledgling relationship ending before it really ever began.  But she surprised me.  Or maybe it was Pat who did the surprising.  At any rate, they became fast and furious friends, meaning tomorrow’s appointment will be as hard on him as it will be for me.  She’s been every bit his dog too for the last dozen years.  As for the children, we’ve decided to lie, and I hope it’s the right decision.  Sophie especially was traumatized after being graphically exposed to the process of euthanasia by watching Marley and Me, a PG-rated movie whose advertising as a “family holiday” film still infuriates me.  Neither of us feels she’s of the mindset to handle being told we put Scout to sleep.  When they get home from school tomorrow, Sophie and Peter will be told she died at home, peacefully.  We began preparing them weeks ago for the inevitable and I hope they handle the news.  Of course, having Lulu, our new puppy, will help.  As I sit here contemplating the most difficult task of dog ownership, I can’t help reflect on how effortless my relationships with animals, especially dogs, always has been.  I seem to earn their trust and affection almost instantly, a feat I’ve not quite achieved with our two Russian-born children.  I know they aren’t comparable, children and dogs, but still, this journey with our kids has shaken the belief I had, and relied upon, regarding my ability to reach and keep the hearts of those I love.  I’ve earned Peter’s love and trust, something for which I’m immensely grateful, but it took five years and enough sweat and tears to fill a lake.  Only recently have Pat and I realized we’ve been fooling ourselves regarding both the solidity and nature of Sophie’s attachment to us.  This child I love more deeply than I imagined possible, it turns out, has very complex and troubled feelings toward us and the very concept of family, what it means, and requires, to be part of a family.  In the midst of Peter’s endless tornado, I allowed myself the fiction of believing that Sophie was secure, that she was ours and we were hers, in the most usual and heavenly ways.  But it wasn’t entirely true.  She was playing a part, acting a role, and now that Peter has emerged substantially from the storm of his early trauma, she’s adrift and unmoored, unsure of her place in the family and rejecting the fundamental tenet that parents’ love for their children is not an either/or proposition.  She’s angry, seething, boiling mad.  I have to find a way to reach her, show her that I love her as completely as I always have even though in her eyes, I now love Peter in the same “outward” way.  Despite our efforts to talk these issues through, she is young, and emotionally much younger than her age, and to her, our tough love approach with Peter seemed, I think, like the absence of love.  Also, for years, Peter wouldn’t allow us to hug, kiss, or snuggle him.  But now that we no longer feel like sandpaper against his skin, I take full advantage whenever the opportunities arise to make up for all the intimacy he missed, and of course, deserved.  But Sophie doesn’t see it this way.  To her it’s a threat, that much is clear.  What’s not clear is how we address it, how we help her heal wounds that have been festering, it turns out, like a bubbling low grade infection the entire time Peter’s more urgent injuries were being triaged.  But we must, and we will.  In many ways it’s going to be harder than what we went through with Peter.  As Pat sagely pointed out, Peter’s thought processes are simple, his trauma finding purchase in the way his brain and body reacted to demands and stimuli.  We had to break these patterns, to be gruff about it, much the same way one goes about breaking a horse.  But Sophie’s mind is complex, terribly complex.  Her injuries are emotional and psychological and because in large part we missed them, or more aptly, were unwilling to see them, they’ve been brewing and multiplying for years within the interior of a very capable, clever brain.  There’s no doubt Sophie is the Jack Russell of our family, or as Pat likes to say, the Jack Velociraptor.  As I prepare to say goodbye to my oldest and best canine friend, I hope and pray I have the strength to convince my daughter of the completeness and unassailability of my love for and devotion to her.  To be honest, not many people love Scout.  She’s bitchy and ornery and generally ill-tempered.  But I love her and so does Pat.  I hope tomorrow that our old girl senses we’re there to help her and that she accepts our love this one last time.  It’s all I want for our daughter, too.  That she be able, in the privacy of her own thoughts, to acknowledge that we love her, no matter what, for who she is and who she’s not, for what she’s done or might never do, because we are her parents and we love her, forever, without condition, judgment, or pretense.

January 25, 2010

Prologue

My first babies were born under the spigot of my childhood home in St. Petersburg, Florida.  Bored with actual dolls, I began filling up hotdog-shaped balloons with the garden hose, transforming them into three-dimensional creatures in the quirky corners of my imagination.  I’d draw faces on the multi-colored balloons with magic markers, strip my various dolls down to their white baked-on underpants, and liberate the dresses and bloomers for my water borne creations.  Then I carefully placed them in extra long breadbaskets swiped from the kitchen cupboard, taking precautions with a dishtowel to protect their fragile latex skin.  Snug in their baskets, I strolled my water babies around the backyard in a green wheelbarrow, singing lullabies and telling magical stories of my own devising.  Sometimes Joy, my best friend then and now, would participate in the ritual.  We’d pretend we were sisters and the water balloons were boisterous, rowdy cousins who required time-outs and occasional spankings.

Since my mother forbade me to bring them indoors, I’d carefully tuck them into their baskets, using dust rags for blankets, and lay them in the back of a garage shelf for the long, lonely night ahead.  I loved my limbless babies and mourned each time one began to leak, or even worse, explode into liquid oblivion.  My obsession with mothering the water balloon babies began when I was in nursery school and ran its course by the time I entered first grade.  I would wait thirty more years to experience again the loving, and at times harrowing, responsibility of motherhood.

I intend to skip everything that happened in my life between the water balloon babies and the decisions leading to Birobidzhan, Russia.  Suffice it to say I met a man and fell in love, tried the traditional means of procreation along with space age medical ones, and finally set about creating our family through international adoption.  Our odyssey has been at times ordinary and astonishing, evoking feelings of shining triumph that are sometimes dwarfed by moments of profound regret and sorrow.  The vision of motherhood I developed as a young child and stubbornly clung to through my mid-thirties did little to prepare me for the challenge of loving and reaching a child whose brain was damaged by unspeakable hardship and poor prenatal judgment.  In the simplest sense, this is a story of rebirth (my son’s) and re-invention (mine).  Every day I work hard to transform myself into a mother who can successfully parent our son, a special needs child who often and actively resists the tug of intimate family life, clinging all the while to the hope that somewhere there is a path that leads to a richer life for him.  This is the story of Peter, our search for a magical path, and my journey toward forgiveness and peace.

Our Water Babies (Fall 2006)

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