Today it has been 31 years since my mother passed away. Well, this is the date we mark, though the stroke she had four days earlier is actually the day she died. That week still replays in my mind like a bad movie. I remember the phone call, the flight to Kentucky. Then the walk into her hospital room and all that came afterward like it was last week. I wish August had met my mom.
My mom was an amazing woman. A force, many of those who knew her might have said. She’d been an English teacher which I have often said is how I’ve become a writer. It may be genetic. In fact she’d just quit a very high-paying and powerful job at a prestigious advertising agency to write a book at the time of her death. She’d gotten a computer and a printer and learned to print envelopes the week prior. The week she died everyone she knew got letters! She was a fierce feminist and as opinionated as they come. There was never a doubt where my mom stood on an issue.
As I’m working with my younger son on his applications and the processes of looking at college for next year, I remember going through that with my mom. She took me on as a project. We discussed all the colleges and looked at all the “paper” brochures that arrived in the mail. I remember her feminist hackles being raised at a brochure that featured a picture of the college president and his wife. She got annoyed that his wife was in the picture. I learned later that college President’s wives have a very important role but my mom thought that was ridiculous.
When I got my sights set on the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill my mother wouldn’t pay to let me apply. She didn’t think I could get in. She made me write them a letter outlining my qualifications and asking if I had a chance. I was mortified. Amazingly enough they wrote back. They said while my SAT scores were on the low side (for their acceptance criteria), my grades and extracurricular activities were excellent. They said make sure I stress that. That must have been good enough because she let me apply. Thank goodness I got in!
As RAD parents we are constantly searching for any tip, trick, tool, therapist, pill or magic bullet. We desperately want our children happy and healthy and whole. And we can’t stand to see them hurting and our families in disarray by the illness that is reactive attachment disorder. But we know that there is no magic bullet. The horrible trauma that our sweet children endured as babies and toddlers has left damage and scars that no quick cure can heal.
However, today I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of difference having my mom in his life might have made for August. There is the fact that I wish she had met my children and they her, which is a sadness I will always have. My mom would not have put up with a lot of August’s mess. I can imagine her going to battle beside me to figure out what he needs and how to help him. She would not put up with his yelling and vandalism and stealing and manipulation. She might have been the opposite and equal reaction he needed. I could imagine having sent him to live with her and having an altar boy come back!
Now I know that’s a dream and it’s unlikely it would have turned out like that. It’s also just as likely it would have turned out just like it is today. But I wish August had met my mom. And I will always wish he had the benefit of her wisdom and intelligence and love. I know she would have showered all that on my fragile, sweet boy. And would it have made a difference? Well, I think there a lot of people who think having known Bonnye Friend Miller, their lives are richer for it. I know having her for a mom made all the difference in my life. So I wish August had met my mom.
Until next time,
Shannon
This is the first picture I ever saw of August. It was sent by the adoption agency along with a video (which I will figure out how to get up here at some point-the technology is still a challenge). The chair was quite shocking. And that outfit. Which was the same outfit he had on when we met him in person. He’s just a little over three in this photo. An eternity away from the skinny, tattooed inmate currently sitting in a prison cell 90 minutes away from me.
But those eyes are the same. They both show the same fear. The same need for love and acceptance. The same pain behind the beautiful blue. Some things I couldn’t see at first and couldn’t help when I could. I wish I could go back and tell that sweet face just to trust me and let me help him make everything OK.
I can’t remember what birthday it was the last time August and I were together. I remember it was awful. We went to dinner, then I told August I’d take him to buy some clothes. He wanted to go to a store that closed in 10 minutes. I tried to convince him not to go but he was so stubborn. So we went. And we fought over the clothes after having fought over going and he spun even more out of control to the point where I just had to let him go away. He couldn’t understand how much he was taking advantage of me and the store. He couldn’t understand that his birthday was something I wanted to enjoy with him and how this falling apart made me sad.
I can’t go see him on his birthday. He’s still on visiting restrictions until the 29th. I will send him a note, hopefully he will call. I sent him some money to get extra supplies. This is how birthdays have gone for the last few years. Some years I have been able to visit with him.
My heart breaks for children with RAD who should be showered with love and affection on their birthdays. This disorder means that instead their need for control and unwillingness to believe the love is real or they are deserving means these celebrations many times will blow up and end in disaster like mine and August’s.
I wish August a happy 21st birthday. I love you bud.
Till next time,
Shannon
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When I was young there were no boys in the house, just me and my sister. So I became the boy. I could bait my own hook, played soccer, went out at night looking for night crawlers, went ice fishing. Neither my sister nor I were particularly girly (she was a swimmer), no matter how many matching dresses my grandma made. But when I grew up I just assumed I’d have girls because that’s what I knew. And when my friends started having children their first-born’s all made sense…of course! She’s a “boy-mommy”. I just KNEW I was going to be a “girl-mommy”.
Now when you adopt, the surprise is gone and when you adopt from Russia there’s even less. We knew we’d be getting a boy. It flew in the face of everything I believed about my path to motherhood. But at that point my path to motherhood had taken every twist and turn it could so I was just along for the ride. But when I saw the video…that face…he was my son. As sure as I was giving birth to him. I was a “boy-mommy”.
I’ve said this to friends before but I truly believe that August saved me and his brother. Getting pregnant with Spencer wasn’t planned and if I didn’t have August, I wouldn’t have been nearly as healthy during my pregnancy. Having August meant I stayed active, ate better and didn’t obsess about being pregnant which I’d tried for eight years to become. I am forever grateful to him for that.
All along this journey he has fought me. We have fought over bedtime, food, school, medication, therapy, clothing, haircuts, computer time, TV time, video time, girls, curfew, drinking, drugs, and so much more.
But mothers and sons. And this mother and THIS son. I know before it’s over this current conflict will have us arguing more I’m sure. And I’ll take it. And give it back. Because that’s what mothers do. And maybe I’m having to do it on a scale many of you won’t ever have to deal with and can’t possibly comprehend. I certainly hope so! That’s the point of this whole blog and my wish for you who are dealing with these precious damaged children.
Till next time,
Shannon
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Fast forward a few years and you’re sitting in a restaurant in Hollywood, CA where you’ve paid a lot of money to go and you’re trying to have a special moment and you get this:
Much of it is normal sullen teenager but changes have started happening that are not what you expected. There is rage. There is hatred. He’s on medications that treat the symptoms but the cause lives in his body like a parasite you cannot kill.
And words come out of him sometimes like he is possessed. And you wish that he was because then you could blame the devil inside him and not the sweet boy you wish he still was who is now saying he hates you.
When August first got diagnosed I thought, “If I’d just never put him on the school bus…” He learned a lot of his colorful language there. His father and I were very careful not to curse in the house though as his RAD emerged that got harder and harder! When he would be raging and want to push our buttons he would just say, “shit, shit shit” over and over again. That’s when I learned from his psychiatrist that putting soap in a child’s mouth isn’t appropriate any more. As I have mentioned in past blogs we did as much harm as we did good early on in learning about RAD and how to parent August effectively but in that instance it was the only thing that made it stop. This was when he was maybe 10. He went on to use many more curse words but for some reason early on that was his favorite. He seemed to like the sound of it best.
As an adoptive parent you fear hearing your child say, “You’re not my real mom.” It’s like a dagger to the heart. Children have the ability to fill you with more love than you ever thought possible and also take it away in one breath. With August, for better or worse, that became one of the least horrible things he said. He talked in his middle school years about killing us, killing himself, wishing we were dead, all of which prompted his placement in the residential treatment center in Missouri. When we got ready to leave, I hoped for a tearful goodbye to show some signs of attachment and he was able to provide another kick in the gut with, “If you’re not going to take me with you then just leave.”
As a high-school age man-child he felt entitled to use all the curse words he knew. Which were plenty. “Fuck” became a punctuation mark, an adjective, a exclamation, you name it. He didn’t care that it upset me, that only made it more fun. He didn’t care about using it at school or with the police. That adorable face became unrecognizable to me whenever it spoke because it spewed hatred-filled, awful words. He manipulated and threatened and spoke with no feeling in his voice at all. But you could feel all the hurt in every word that came out of his mouth. All the pain he didn’t know how to process. All the loss and anger he feels and doesn’t know what to do with. It’s all in there trying to find an outlet and he is trying with every horrible word to control it. Not letting anyone else help him and making it worse every time he pushes someone away with the hurtful things he says.
Since he’s been in prison much of that has not changed. He’s tried some amazing cons on his father and I to get money. When we don’t fall for them the tirades are pretty amazing but at least now I can hang up the phone.
But more often there are these pleasant, calm phone calls. He asks me first what I’m doing and how I am. We talk about books and movies and my garden and my job. We talk about the family. When we visit together we talk about the past and things we used to do. He tells me about things that happened when he was living on the streets that both scare me to death and break my heart. Both of the phone calls and the in-person visits end with his saying “I love you” first. With a tone that says he means it. Hard to know for sure but I think so.
I’ll take it.
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