When Rain Hurts by Mary Evelyn Greene

May 9, 2010

October 2, 2007 Journal Entry and Chapter 21


Tweetsie Railroad (Blowing Rock, NC, Summer 2005)

October 2, 2007.  Dr. Federici, the neuropsychologist who evaluated and diagnosed Peter in May 2006, wants us to send our son to the Scar Residential Psychiatric Treatment Program in Jasper Mountain, Oregon.  An enticing opening salvo on the Scar website states “Achieving Success with Impossible Children”.  One fact-finding phone call and I’m convinced the people at Scar have seen children like Peter before.  In fact, there are so many “Peters” in the United States, children adopted mostly from Eastern European countries who are “scarred” beyond the realm of what even extraordinary rehabilitative efforts can address, that an entire (and expensive) medical, psychosocial, and educational system has evolved to support them.  Until recently, Pat and I never had considered the possible need for residential treatment, but the idea has crept into our consciousness like a slow but steady cancer.  Peter at some point may well require residential treatment and if so, then it becomes a question of when, how, and whether we’ll be able to afford it.  The thought of existing, indefinitely, on a rollercoaster ride would fill any normal person with dread.  But imagine the rollercoaster was designed and operated by a person with frontal lobe damage, a person who can’t remember the peril he put his passengers in yesterday so is destined to repeat the same misstep today that he’ll in turn repeat tomorrow.  This is life with Peter.  I can cry and hug and hold and reassure until I’m more tired and drained than I ever imagined possible, and little changes.  I still believe Peter is reachable in those moments, but I’ve come to realize, and begrudgingly accept, that sustained emotional growth must be measured in miniscule increments, and over long periods of time.  His brain lacks storage capacity for the kind of complex, emotional learning that even newborn babies are equipped to internalize.  The old behaviors return the next day, or the next hour, not because Peter is defiant or merely shedding crocodile tears, but because the moment is gone.  Vanished.  His mind is more permeable than Swiss cheese but much less malleable, at least when it comes to shaping healthy concepts of love, family, and respect.  Sometimes I worry that we’ve missed our opportunity, if there ever was one, to leave our imprint inside the echoing, dark caverns that form the mystery of Peter’s brain.  I’m not sure how residential treatment would alleviate this problem.  I imagine, rather shamefully, that the mollifying aspect of a place like Scar accrues not so much to the children themselves but rather to the benefit of parents, like us, who have reached the zenith of their capacities.  At some point, if ever we need to set this course in motion, we’ll have to acknowledge a painful paradigm shift: the welfare of Pat, Sophie and me may become inconsistent with and need to take precedence over the welfare of our son.  Our beautiful but damaged son.  The very thought of sending Peter away, even temporarily, is anathema and yet sometimes I feel myself yielding, all the same, to the slow caress of temptation.

Chapter 21:  Attachment 101

One of the first things Sue made clear was that attachment work was serious, all-encompassing business.  Because Peter was institutionalized from the age of 5 months until he was almost 3 ½, he was deprived of certain crucial developmental steps that permanently affect his psychological and social functioning.  Children attach to a caregiver when their needs are met on a continuous and predictable basis.  A baby cries when he’s wet and he gets a clean diaper.  The same holds true for hunger, thirst, temperature control, tiredness and boredom.  At birth, any baby will seek comfort from any person as a matter of survival but as early as two months, all normally developing babies start to discriminate, relying on familiar caretakers to meet their immediate needs and provide a sense of security.

Most of us take this cause and effect relationship for granted because someone, a mother, father, grandmother, aunt or foster parent, routinely responded to our cries and subtle signals when we were infants.  Our primary caregiver’s consistent, loving, and nurturing responses provided the essential sustenance our brains required to develop normal, healthy abilities to process and cope with feelings, thoughts and complex relationships.  These interactions are as essential to normal brain development as nutrition, sleep and physical safety.  Children deprived of early attachments risk lasting neurological impacts that interrupt not only their abilities to relate socially and emotionally, but also their cognitive capacities.

Sophie kissing her new baby cousin (Blowing Rock, NC, Nov. 2006)

During WWII, babies and young children were sent away in droves from London to avoid the bombings.  When they returned, sometimes years later, parents were shocked to discover their formerly happy, well-adjusted youngsters had regressed, both socially and intellectually.  The disruptions in attachments were responsible.  In the 1960s, researchers studied a group of babies and toddlers ranging in age from 7 to 36 months who were moved from an orphanage to an institution for retarded adults because of overcrowded conditions.  The retarded people cared for, played with and loved the youngsters on a consistent and regular basis.  When these same children were returned to the orphanage several months later, their IQs had improved 27.5 points on average.  The children who remained in the orphanage during the trial period however, continued to lose IQ points.

There are plenty of other studies as well.  One of the most heart wrenching took place by a researcher named Harry Harlow from the late 1950s through the early 1960s.  Taking day-old monkeys away from their mothers, he put them in separate cages where they could see other monkeys but had no physical contact.  He then placed these monkeys in a room with man-made “mother” dolls.  One was made of wire but offered milk through a bottle secured between the slats.  The other was furry and warm, but offered no nourishment.  The newborn monkeys without fail chose the security of the “living” doll over the nourishment offered by the wire doll.  The monkeys permitted to receive comfort from the warm, furry doll, though feeding occurred elsewhere and antiseptically, fared far better than their counterparts, in terms of both cognitive and psychosocial development.  Those monkeys exposed only to the wire doll and who had no physical contact with other monkeys became highly disturbed and incapable of rehabilitation.  Though controversial for a number of reasons, including the ethics of animal research, these studies were responsible in part for the birth of the foster care system and the demise of orphanages throughout the United States, Canada, and Western Europe.  It seems the profound damage in these monkeys caused by the lack of physical touch and maternal bond simply could not be ignored.

This was weighty stuff to consider in a cozy office in upstate New York as we watched our disorganized, hyperactive child bounce from corner to corner making quick work of destroying the room.  I hated to think our son, and maybe even to some extent Sophie, had been treated like one of those horribly deprived monkeys in the black and white films.

“Peter,” Sue said.  “Come here.”  He looked up from whatever he was pulling apart and obediently walked over.  “Now look at me.”  He wouldn’t.  With eyes diverted toward his shoes, he simply smiled and grunted as she attempted to grab him lightly by the wrist.  Once he shook free, he quickly returned to his corner and his purposeless activity.

Timeout (Spring 2005)

I found Peter’s reaction to Sue very curious because usually when he met someone new he happily ran to them, often plopping himself backwards into their laps.  He would kiss and hug and say “Hi, I Peter” to countless strangers’ delight.  In fact, he was much more social and affectionate to people he didn’t know, or at least didn’t know well, then he ever was with us.  But with Sue, it was as though he sensed something different about her.  His body language was pensive, his eyes wary.  He seemed to understand, somehow, that this benign looking woman knew what he was all about.  Pat felt the same way.  I realize we were assigning a lot of credit to a very damaged, trouble little boy, but it’s the feeling we had all the same.

I remember watching with fascination as Sue attentively followed our son’s every odd move, his back to her almost the entire time.  After a few minutes she pulled out a bin of Lincoln Logs and asked whether he would help build a house.  “Peter no build.  No thank you,” he mumbled, returning to the puppet he was manhandling.  Sophie, of course, immediately dropped what she was doing and joined the activity.  When Sue finally coaxed him into joining them, Pat and I realized he had no idea how to follow her lead.  She’d put one piece down, show him where the next went, and then ask him to follow suit.  But he wouldn’t.  Or couldn’t.  At the time we could never be sure, it’s a paradox with which we still struggle today.  He didn’t know how to interact with her, or Sophie, and he certainly didn’t know how to play – at all.  Left to his own devices he began throwing one Lincoln Log at a time into the air, watching with awe and horror as each came crashing back toward the floor.

He repeated the pattern over and over as Sue mostly ignored the behavior and spoke directly to Pat and me.  She didn’t seem to mind that Peter was fixated on throwing toys into the ceiling, though she did at one point redirect him toward the softer stuffed animals.  “This is what you need to do,” she said.  “You have to start from scratch.  I’ve seen this over and over with internationally adopted kids.  He doesn’t know how to play, think, organize or take direction.  He’s confused and scared and completely inside himself.  He’s missing a lot.  He doesn’t trust.  It’s not your fault but you’re the ones who’ve got to deal with it.”

She sent us home that first week with instructions to nurture and treat Peter like a baby.  The idea was that he needed to experience the developmental stages he missed so that his brain might make new connections and fill in the gaps.  I was to cradle him several times a day, rock him before bed, sing lullabies, devise tricks to engage eye contact, even give him warm milk with a bottle while I held him in my arms.  We were never to look him directly in the eye when we were correcting his behavior or if we lost our cool; eye contact from this point forward was reserved solely for bonding and making up for three years of lost parenting.

We were also instructed not to let him jump into other people’s arms or otherwise monopolize their attention.  “You just need to explain ahead of time,” Sue said.  “Or when it happens, just politely remove him and tell the person that hugs and snuggles are for parents only right now.”  Easier said than done, certainly.  Some people understood but others would look at us like we had Medusa heads as we bent down and removed our soon to be screaming son from the joyful contentment of their laps.

But other than committing social suicide in public places near and far, the approach seemed to be working, at least somewhat.   If Peter could receive physical comfort only from us, then he would have no choice but to allow us to meet his needs, both physical and emotional.  We played Peek-a-Boo (still Koo-Koo in our house) to encourage eye contact.  After dinner we sang and softly drummed our hands on the table to a song we dubbed Abu De Abu Da, which was something of a rhythmic chant.  Peter couldn’t sing, he can’t to this day, because he can’t process the words and the music at the same time.  We didn’t know that then, not specifically, but we did realize he garbled the words and sounds of the simplest children’s songs but was able, with practice, to manage the four sounds in our LoBrutto after dinner mantra.

St. Pete, FL (Spring 2005)

In the ensuing weeks and months, I dutifully drove Peter the 60 miles to Albany and back once a week to see Sue.  Sometimes I took Sophie, occasionally we went as a family, but mostly Pat took a half day off each week from his business to stay home with Sophie.  During our sessions, Sue would interact with Peter, trying to engage him in purposeful play while she and I rehashed the previous week’s progress, or in some instances, regression.  I found her incredibly helpful and understanding when it came to expressing my worries and frustrations, as well as celebrating our small but significant strides forward.  She understood what Pat and I were going through in a way I hadn’t previously experienced, and it was tremendously comforting to let my pent-up concerns pour out without fear of judgment.

By this point into our adoption journey, I was having thoughts not unlike the single mother from Tennessee who’s been in the news lately.  Although I can’t pretend to know the facts, the media reported the woman was so distraught over her 7-year-old Russian adopted son, who had been “home” only 6 months, that she sent him on a one-way United flight back to Russia.  He had nothing with him other than his book bag and a note directing a prearranged driver to take him back to his orphanage.  I’m neither qualified nor inclined to pass judgment on this woman, but I will say I can understand the sheer terror and frustration that might lead to such an ill-conceived solution.  By six months into our adoption journey, I was a deer in the headlights, working on autopilot, doing my best to survive Peter’s inexplicable behaviors one day at time.  But unlike the Tennessee woman, at least I had an incredibly loving, supportive, though equally perplexed partner on whose shoulder I could lean.  We also, within the year, had Sue.

After our very first meeting she suggested it would take about 6 to 9 months of intensive work both at home and in her office for Peter to become more securely attached to us, and for us to notice measurable change.  A lofty goal, for sure, and one I dreamed longingly about as the endless days continued.  During the times Sophie was with us, she’d leap around Sue’s office like a Kangaroo on speed, often refusing to take direction or calm down.  I could see the unspoken worry in Sue’s eyes, but because she always returned to me once her blitzes had run their course, I felt we were okay, that we were bonded.  In short, that Sophie’s problems were fixable.  It turns out I was a little naïve in this regard too, but at least not entirely off the mark.  But I couldn’t say the same about Peter, not even remotely.  I believed in the work Sue was doing with our son, and maybe more significantly, I needed to believe in it, but secretly I struggled to see an end in sight.

“That’s okay,” Sue would laugh, whenever I confessed my reservations, usually when Peter was taking one of his lengthy bathroom breaks.  “As long as you keep doing what we talk about.”   So every week I would leave recharged, ready to give the bottle another try, which never did work, and stay committed to practicing our other assignments, which did seem to produce some improvement.  For whatever reason, Peter could not tolerate either Pat or me trying to give him milk (including chocolate milk) from a bottle.  He would squirm and giggle maniacally.  Any milk that made it into his mouth would come out in a bubbling, spurting mess that would then invoke another wave of hysterical laughter.  He simply couldn’t handle physical contact, and certainly not the intimacy.

One thing I realized early on though, was that Peter would look at me using the rearview mirror from his car seat.  At first I thought it merely a coincidence, but then I started noticing how he’d stare at me while in the car more and more.  It was as though the mirror was a go-between, a metallic medium that made the interaction for Peter somehow less intense.  When I shared this theory with Sue she was thrilled, and not particularly surprised.  She said it wasn’t that different from sending an email to someone you’re afraid or unwilling to confront face to face.  So this was progress, I learned, though of a variety I hadn’t expected.  Just one more reminder that improvement for a child like Peter must be measured in miniscule, sometimes barely perceptible increments that nonetheless add up, slowly but surely, over the course of a month, a year, or in some cases, a lifetime.

But in other ways he wasn’t improving, at all.  Peter still smeared feces and sometimes hurt himself.   The worst injury he ever inflicted was the day before Sophie and Peter’s joint birthday party, which was our first as a family.  Sophie turned 3 on July 22, 2005 and Peter turned 4 two weeks later, on August 4th.  He had been screaming and stamping his feet about something, and Pat and I had sent him to his room.  When he began swinging the door open and closed with such ferocity that we were afraid he would hurt himself or pull the door from its hinges, Pat closed it, which sent Peter into some kind of frenzy.  As best we can tell, he leapt from the bed directly at the door, the left side of his face making impact with the doorknob.

Pat was still upstairs when the screams began and by the time I turned the corner to peer up the stairs to the landing, tears were streaming down my gentle husband’s face.  “I did it to him,” he sobbed.  “It’s my fault.  I closed the door.  This is no good.  I just can’t do this.  I can’t,” he continued.

The blood pooling beneath Peter’s skin and along his cheekbone and brow formed an exact replica of the doorknob, including the push lock.  By morning, his face looked monstrous.  Pat had deep circles etched beneath his eyes from sorrow and regret on a day that should have been filled with happiness and celebration.  It was no fun explaining to the other parents what happened as they watched Peter flit from present to present with obsessive, bug-eyed interest.  I remember some of the other parents nervously laughing, doing their best to reassure me that all kids do that kind of thing on occasion.  I couldn’t help but wonder whether they were referring to the doorknob impression on my son’s face or his compulsive interest in the birthday presents to the exclusion of everything else that was occurring around him.

Peter's Doorknob Injury (4th Birthday, 2005)

Although another incident that severe never reoccurred, he was still banging his head, throwing his body against doors and walls, and occasionally hitting himself several months into our therapy.  We also weren’t making much headway with the attachment parenting except for the small gains regarding eye contact.  Peter routinely cringed whenever I tried to hold him.  He became so stiff that his joints locked.  My feeble attempts at reenacting his lost infancy felt more like snuggling with a tire iron than a child.  But I kept trying.  And so did Pat.

First Birthday Party Home (late July 2005)

During our rare times alone we would discuss how things were progressing with Peter, sometimes fooling ourselves, sometimes not.  By then I had taken a post as a Visiting Professor at Bard College, teaching environmental law and policy to graduate and law students who were mostly in their early to mid twenties.  It was an exciting and terribly welcome change to be able to channel at least a portion of my nervous “Peter” energy into an intellectually stimulating pursuit.  The only problem, which any first year teacher knows, is that my course load was more time-consuming than I anticipated.  I was a part-time faculty member, earning a part-time salary, but easily working 50 or more hours per week.  Each 2½ hour lecture had to be prepared from scratch, using a textbook and other materials with which I was wholly unfamiliar.  I also found myself often covering for our program’s director, who is a dear and important person in my life, but whose substantial expertise in international environmental policy was far beyond the realm of my more modest federal environmental law background.

So in short, I was busy, very busy.  I often graded papers and worked on upcoming lectures starting at 7 pm when we put the children to bed and continuing until 1 or 2 am.  I did this so that I was able to spend every minute with our children that they weren’t in preschool.  This was especially important for Peter, but Sophie needed me too.  Pat and I didn’t travel half way around the world on two separate occasions to turn our children over to someone else.  It just wasn’t going to happen.  My only concession, which was unavoidable, was that on the two afternoons a week that I was physically teaching, the kids stayed for both the morning and afternoon preschool sessions.

But despite my fatigue and the welcome distraction that teaching provided, I was never able to shake the feeling that our situation with Peter wasn’t really improving.  He was still unengaged with us, he still didn’t interact with other children, and he could alternate between screaming over the simplest injury, such as a slightly torn fingernail, to not reacting at all upon being stung by a wasp.  He laughed when others hurt themselves, and sat down like a wooden puppet, refusing to move, whenever he became irritated or angry.  And most alarmingly of all, he began directing more and more of his hostility toward Sophie.

After a while Sue began suggesting that we double our sessions, which we did.  She and I would do our best to engage Peter in meaningful, organized play, but to little avail.  She also had me read to him in her office, cuddled on a couch and wrapped cozily in a blanket.  They were always books that addressed attachment, whether directly or indirectly, such as Llama Llama Red Pajama or Twitchy.  Although Peter still struggles to read, he’s always been drawn to books, a characteristic very much in his favor and one that certainly endears him to his book-loving Mom and Dad.  At the time, books were one of the few and easy inroads into our son’s troubled and heavily cloaked heart.

But not all our sessions were about books, snuggling and play.  Often Peter was very angry in Sue’s office, he didn’t like what she was doing and let us know loud and clear.  He would throw toys and stuffed animals across the room and dig his nails into the walls.  Sometimes when I was trying to cradle or otherwise physically comfort him, he’d bite me.

When he wouldn’t calm down in her office after one or two verbal warnings, Sue made him practice “strong sitting”, a technique we still use with Peter and on occasion, even Sophie.  It entails having a child sit cross-legged (something Peter physically cannot do so we relax this requirement) with hands on lap, back straight and head held high.  The psychological point of the exercise is to allow the child to regain the strength and self-control that was obviously lost as a result of the outburst.  “You need to get strong again,” Sue would whisper softly but with authority.  Peter would face a wall and practice his strong sitting until she thought he had regained his composure enough to rejoin us.  In the meantime, she and I would talk as though he weren’t present.

Although Sue hinted about the possibility that Peter was alcohol-exposed, and definitely thought he exhibited attachment problems, she never addressed the concern head-on.  But she did acknowledge he had trouble with impulse control, distractibility, organization, problem-solving, and self-regulation, all telltale signs of executive dysfunction.  Not a good thing.  The executive function center of the brain, which is located in the frontal lobe, is responsible for working memory, cognitive flexibility, abstract thinking, rule acquisition, initiating appropriate actions (and inhibiting inappropriate actions), and selecting relevant sensory information.  In short, although Sue was a social worker and not a diagnostician, she sensed that for Peter, the wiring in the area of the brain that makes us uniquely human was riddled with short-circuits, missing links, and faulty pathways.

A Joyful Moment (Spring 2005)

“He can’t organize his play,” she commented one afternoon.  “He moves around so quickly from one thing to the next.  And he never chooses people to play with.  Only things.  He won’t let me in.  It’s as though we’re not even in the room with him.”  I hadn’t heard this level of frustration in the six or so months we’d been coming to see her so my ears, as well as my heartbeat, naturally perked up.  “Mary,” she paused, her hands dropping heavily in her lap.  “I would have hoped to have made more progress by now.”

So there it was.  Pat and I weren’t the only ones at our wit’s ends.  The “Adoption Whisperer” was frustrated too.  “I’m thinking you and Pat should consider a short-term round of medication, Sue offered.  “Just to see whether there’s something that might help lower his resistance a bit.”  I hadn’t thought of medication, Peter was only 4, and the very idea terrified me.  Pat didn’t receive the suggestion any better than I; in fact, he was even more opposed to the idea.

But then another month or two elapsed, the conversations continued, and Peter’s behavior and development was at best stagnating and at worst deteriorating, despite our constant efforts and our weekly double sessions with Sue.  Pat and I were also becoming more and more exhausted.  Any unsuspecting babysitters we cajoled into our home fled so quickly upon our return, puzzlement and fear evident in their eyes, that their otherwise bouncy ponytails remained suspended by the sheer loft created by their hasty escapes.  The only young woman whoever came back more than once was the 20-year old daughter of our friend and house cleaner.  She worked as an aide at the Children’s Annex, an area school for autistic children, so we thought she might have the training and stamina to handle our kids, especially Peter.  But we later found out she would call her mom several times during the three hours we were out for tips, survival advice, and general encouragement.  We couldn’t keep doing this to either our friend or her daughter, especially knowing they were basically having to conduct a sort of spiritual séance over the telephone wires just to make it through the evening.

Finally the proverbial shit hit the fan.  When Pat went out of state for one of his writer’s conferences later that winter, which are absolutely necessary to maintain business and attract new clients, the director of my teaching program also happened to leave for China at the same time.  It was a double whammy that left me with twice the teaching responsibilities and no help at home.  Although I’m not the type to fall apart when my husband leaves town, I have to say this particular trip was a cathartic experience.  Peter never does well with change, and certainly didn’t then, but what happened over those three or four days cemented my decision to medicate our son.  The strangest part is that I can’t even tease from my mind a single event.  I do recall, however, that I endured a constant onslaught of unrelenting attacks, tantrums, and waves of nonsensical laughter that caused chills to run up and down my arms.

As I came gradually upon the little love notes that Pat leaves me when he travels – an “I love you” in the medicine cabinet, or an “I can’t wait to be back in our bed” on my nightstand – I tried to survive being bitten, spit on, kicked, hissed at, and vomited upon by Peter.  Sophie was so overwhelmed by his behavior, as well as the anxiety, no doubt, oozing from my pores, that she began putting forks in her eyes and jamming crayons in her ears.  Despite my efforts otherwise, I found myself sobbing on the phone almost every time Pat called, which I knew was a horrible thing to do to him.  And I don’t know what’s worse: being in the middle of a blitz or knowing the one you love is fighting for her life and there’s nothing you can do.

We were both miserable, and we knew it.  As hard as it is to admit, we decided then and there to medicate Peter, if not for him, then for us.  Within two weeks we obtained a prescription of the anti-psychotic drug Risperdal, prescribed by a psychiatric nurse practitioner with whom Sue worked.  That night we gave him the tiny terra cotta colored pill and kissed both our children goodnight.  We had been warned that the drug would need to be in his system for a few days before we could hope to notice any changes.  That night Pat and I stayed up watching dopey horror movies, neither of us able to sleep.  The decision had seemed so huge, and it weighed heavily on our hearts and consciences.

But at some point I obviously did fall asleep because I woke to the familiar plop of a small body at the foot of the bed.  I opened my eyes expecting to see Sophie, who loved to burrow under the covers and snuggle in the morning.  But instead I saw Peter, who had never, not even once, come into our room to say good morning or seek comfort because of a nightmare or thunderstorm.  “I love you, Mama!” he announced, his eyes shy, his voice monotone, and the smallest of smiles creeping across his face.

March 2005

“I love you too,” I cried.  Within seconds the tears gushed unchecked down my face and neck and onto my silly, flannel nightgown.  I opened my arms to receive him but he couldn’t move any closer, and that was okay.  “I love you, too, my darling Peter.”  I could barely choke out the words.  I had waited more than a year to hear that phrase from my son and it was the most melodic, beautiful, and divine declaration I’m likely ever to have the privilege to hear.

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5 Comments »

  1. Never feel guilty for medicating your child when he needs it. I still struggle with forgiving my parents for their refusal to allow me to take medication–and their anti-psychiatry stance in general and belief that I just needed more whipping–even though I was suicidal by fifth grade and had several more suicidal episodes throughout my teens. I don’t know if it was biochemical fate or if the ever-escalating abuse was to blame. I suspect both.

    As an adult, I started medication, and it has helped so much. First, I started Adderall XR for ADHD, and that helped a lot, but I was still having problems with depression and anxiety. Then I was diagnosed with bipolar. I had had symptoms since my teens, but it didn’t meet the diagnostic threshold until my mid-20’s, after steadily worsening. A combination of Celexa and Lamictal has helped a lot. Interestingly, neither on its own helped, but together they did. I’m currently also on a low dose of Xanax to take during panic attacks and Mirapex to help with a tic that developed from the Adderall XR.

    Do I like having to take so many medications? Hell no! Do I still suffer from the symptoms of the conditions that, while much better, still haunt me? Absolutely! (I spent two days last week in bed from acute anxiety and depression, the first time in many months.) But I’m no longer acutely suicidal all the time and can function the vast majority of the time.

    One thing that’s hard, however, is that a lot of people, including myself, had to go through many medicines and doses before finding a good combination. What works for one person doesn’t work for others. It’s very much trial and error, and the “error” parts are so challenging. Also, I’ve heard that for children, they may need many medication and dose changes as their bodies change. I’ve been on the same dose of Adderall XR for eight years, and on the same combination dose of Celexa and Lamictal for about three years, but it often doesn’t work that way for kids, especially during puberty.

    My main point is, modern medicine has a long way to go, but it’s also already gone a long way. If your kid had any other medical problem, you wouldn’t want to limit them to the medical technology that was there fifty or a hundred years ago, or not treat it medically at all, right?

    Comment by MM — May 9, 2010 @ 6:50 pm | Reply

  2. Wow, I keep thinking of more things to write. Your story has been mesmerizing.

    First, you state that the “Peters” are mostly adopted children from Eastern Europe. A lot of adoptees from Eastern Europe do have these problems. But many children adopted within the US, particularly from the foster system, and also from other countries–I’m thinking of a particularly bad case of Haitian adoptees and two others of Chinese adoptees–have the same problems.

    Damages from birthmother alcohol and drug abuse and a counterproductive early childhood environment are blind to race and nationality. Though boys are affected more than girls, I know of girls with FAS and RAD whose symptoms match the worst boys. It’s amazing how much an innocent child can be ruined even before they are born.

    It’s also amazing that just an extra year or even a few extra months in an unhealthy early childhood environment can make a big difference as well. I’ve worked extensively with adoptees from China, and the vast majority of them had no major psychiatric problems. Some of them had anxiety problems and PTSD and ADHD, but for the most part, they were developing normally. One girl, however, was violent. She was adopted at around age three, while the others were all adopted before the age of one.

    It’s such a difficult situation because if the children aren’t adopted ever and get kicked out of the orphanages or foster system when they reach 18, they are pretty much doomed to lives of misery, crime, and desperation and often die young. But at the same time, if they are adopted, they cause so much misery to their parents through no fault of their own–they didn’t ask to be born with FAS and spend their early lives in an unhealthy environment.

    Finally (and this may not be final as I keep thinking of even more things to write!), I’ve read that a short stay in a residential treatment center can help some–not all–children who grew up in institutions because for them, that’s closer to their comfort zone. This may only apply to children who are sent pretty soon after the adoption though. It’s also not a bad idea if you’re going through a major medication change because it ensures that they are safe and have constant medical attention while you wait to see how it affects them.

    Comment by MM — May 9, 2010 @ 7:17 pm | Reply

  3. I am reading your story breathlessly, and hoping against hope for some respite for you all.
    It seems that the Risperdal may have given you all that.
    I think you did the right thing; it seems as if his brain is physically altered and for this he needs medication to try to address some of the imbalances at least.
    I know it’s not a miracle cure, but it sounds hopeful.
    Sending you lots of strength and hope:)

    Comment by Claire — May 9, 2010 @ 11:50 pm | Reply

  4. I’m late for work. I don’t have to time to read things in the morning, or make comments. And honestly, I was ‘test-driving’ this writer’s group because I have tried before and not really felt the writers in other groups were good enough or interesting enough to make it a challenging and rewarding experience for me. As you can tell, I am a serious but blunt critic. I love writing. I love reading. It makes me mad when others don’t take it seriously enough to work hard, write well and share honestly.

    But here I am – I read your whole post. Thank you for your story. Excellently written, shared honestly and important to hear. Others will comment on the story. I was a foster mother with PA for six years. I know some of your struggle. BUT I see you as a writer, and a good one.

    Comment by Shirley Landis VanScoyk — May 12, 2010 @ 6:43 am | Reply

  5. I’ve been reading for days. Every post, my mind has been screaming, “Bail, bail, bail, BAIL! For the rest of your family’s sake!” It’s awful to admit that… especially in light of the fact that I’m a mom raising two daughters with FASD, both adopted at birth domestically. And I love them beyond reason. I cried reading this post. These are the moments that make the other choice impossible.

    Comment by Sharon — June 29, 2010 @ 7:30 pm | Reply


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