The Square Peg: A Story About Overcoming Adversity

After walking down the steps of the church basement, the preschool teacher pulled me aside and said, “We need to talk.”  The little parochial school was host to about thirty 3 and 4 year-olds. That particular day while twenty-nine other children played happily in the finger paint, my son shrieked at the touch of the paint, hid like a turtle under a desk with his hoodie up over his head, and refused to come out for the rest of the day. That, combined with the fact that he tended to vibrate and literally bounce off walls, suggested to the preschool teacher that Aaron was not her average student. He was a square peg and they only had round holes, she didn’t know what to do with him.

Over the next four years a series of teachers, physicians and so-called experts were brought in. They all had an opinion on what caused all this odd behavior, as did every person I met on the street. They gave us diagnosis after diagnosis, but I always knew they were wrong. Finally, the summer after third grade we met a doctor who recognized immediately what was going on. Her own daughter had been dealing with sensory issues and had been diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome. There was nothing “wrong” with my son, he just didn’t fit a one-size-fits-all education system. Particularly since the grade school he attended was built with an open classroom concept, meaning there were no permanent walls or doors. Every sound in one end of the building could be heard at the other. For a child with souped-up hearing it was an awful lot like daily torture.

I consumed every book and webpage about the subject at the time, hoping to figure out what to do to help him. The school did their best to try to accommodate, even assigning him a full-time aide, but the school had never worked with a student like Aaron and the whole concept of public school goes against everything a child with sensory issues needs. We spent four or five hours a night trying to complete homework since he couldn’t focus enough in the classroom to finish assignments. He was miserable, I was miserable, it wasn’t working.

Finally, during one of the regular meetings with the school staff, it came up that the teacher had been physically forcing him to make eye-contact with her every morning before entering the classroom. The very thing you should NOT do to an Asperger child. She should have known, she was given an information packet at the beginning of the year. Clearly she’d never bothered to read any of that information packet. I made the decision right then and there to homeschool from that point forward. If I couldn’t get one grade school teacher to understand or care about what he needed, there was no way six or more each semester at the high school would either.

The decision wasn’t a popular one. Teachers, administrators, family, friends and physicians all thought I was making a huge mistake. I wasn’t even sure it would work myself, but I knew sending him to torture every day wasn’t worth it. We spent the first six months just decompressing from all the stress he had been under, while I compiled a curriculum to meet his specific learning style. When we finally sat down to get started it became clear that during all the years he was in school he always thought he was supposed to know the answers ahead of time. He never once realized he was there to learn them. No wonder he was stressed out!

We read books. Lots of books. Real books, not textbooks. We studied history, in order, following a timeline (a novel concept to education in Indiana.) We joined other homeschoolers for socialization, for field trips, and moral support. We visited museums. He joined a blacksmith association, took fencing lessons and basically immersed himself in whatever subject he felt like studying.

It was the best decision I ever made.

Then the day came when he wanted to study things I couldn’t help him with. He wanted to study Criminal Justice. At the same time, the local high school started allowing homeschoolers to take classes ala carte. They offered dual-credit courses in Criminal Justice, however students were required to be full-time students. I was very reluctant at first. We faced many of the same issues we had the first time around with the public education system, but this time he was determined. He knew what he wanted and knew just because the teachers and administrators didn’t think he could do it, didn’t mean that it was true.

He was still a square peg, they still only had round holes, and there were still plenty of hurdles to face daily. The system in Indiana teaches to the test and while he knows the information, he simply doesn’t test well. Everything he wanted for the future hinged on that test. They strung him along for what seemed like forever and we didn’t even know for sure if he would until two days before, but he graduated last night.

During the ceremony the faculty recognized all the students that had signed up to join the military; the crowd giving a standing ovation. Aaron wasn’t included because even though it has been his life-long dream to join, he couldn’t sign up without knowing if he was getting a diploma or not. When we asked him on the way home how he felt about that he said, “I thought what the crowd did was awesome. It didn’t bother me not to be included, it just wasn’t my time to shine.”

The thing he doesn’t realize is that he has been shining all his life. Louis Kossuth once said, “It is the surmounting of difficulties that makes heroes.” I’ve never known anyone who has had to surmount more difficulties to receive an education than my son. As far as I am concerned, he already is a hero.

He Has 1000 Aliases

Most of which are not appropriate for a family friendly blog. But most often I just call him Turd.

My brother is moving. Not just down the street, he’s moving all the way to Florida. While he juggles the job change, locates a place to live and packs his belongings I’m keeping Turd and his brother Loki. It is impossible to get anything done with Turd around. He’s not a normal cat. I think he’s brain damaged. It’s really the only explanation I can come up with.

The night of the hay delivery for instance. I was beat. All I wanted was to sit down and relax for a few minutes in my favorite chair. I set my glass of wine down on the second bookshelf nearby, making sure not to put it on the top just in case Turd showed up since he likes to knock things over. Then I sat down in my comfortable chair with my ‘dinner’, a plastic cup of fruit. As I settled in Loverboy Loki arrived to curl up in my lap, that being his only desire on earth, to be adored. As I lifted the plastic cup and spoon into the air to allow him room, Turd rounded the corner of the hallway and immediately noticed a little orange bug in the corner of the ceiling directly behind me. It happened so fast I can hardly describe it, but I’m sure there was terror in my eyes as I realized my mistake. He came flying through (almost literally) like a bat out of Hell across the room, up my legs, the fruit and juice landing squarely on my head and chest, the spoon disappearing to who knows where, while he leapt from the chair to the bookshelf in an attempt to reach the bug.  Unfortunately he had underestimated the distance from the chair to the top shelf so instead of landing on top, he grappled with his font legs while his back legs kicked over the wine glass among other things I had safely stowed away. It was red wine. Sticky red wine. And there were books. Lots of books. And bloodshed - all of the commotion caused Loki to freak out and insert his claws into the back of my hand, his signature move. I stood there stunned, fruit juice dripping from my hair, chunks of fruit stuck to my glasses, splatters of wine and blood across my shirt as my son shouted up the stairs, “Are you okay?” 

“No,” I replied. “Not exactly.”

A week later I am still cleaning up wine splatter but I finally found the spoon under my sewing table.

There will be no holiday decorations around here this year.

Poetry

I’m not really into poetry. It’s just never really been my thing. It is so subjective. But recently, there was a poetry contest at the community college. They were giving away free tuition to the winner. That got my attention. I decided maybe I was at least a little bit interesting in poetry. Enough to enter the contest anyway.

I didn’t win. And that’s okay with me. I’m sure the winner was someone who loves poetry. Or at least I hope that’s the case. But, seeing how it is World Autism Awareness Day, I wanted to share it with all of you.

Blue Screen

The experts call it autism
A mother calls it heartbreak
Like a computer processor overloaded with input
Neurotransmitters fail to respond
Too much sensory input, no escape—Crash.
My son has encountered an internal error and must shut down.

I see it coming, feel the pain
The anxiety, the frustration, the fear
Witness the torture
If only I could run a virus scan
Load a software patch, press CTRL-ALT-DEL…
My son, why MY son?

No band-aid, no antibiotic, no kiss to make it better
No geek squad to the rescue
I’m helpless; he is hurting
I want to scream at the top of my lungs
Leave my child alone!
Only there is no one to hear it.

On his own terms he’ll unplug, restart
Life goes on, until the next glitch
And I wonder
Will his body eventually upgrade itself?
Will he simply learn to channel the input?
Will he ever fully understand how deeply I love him?

A Bedtime Story

Once upon a time there was a beautiful golden sheep named Sophia. She and her three best friends, Dorothy, Blanche and Rose, lived on a farm. They spent their days eating green grass in the summer and nibbling on crunchy hay in the winter. Their shelter was small but nice and filled with comfortable straw to rest on. In the morning the shepherd would pour out a small amount of corn for them as a treat. At bedtime they would follow the shepherd into the barn where they would each receive an animal cracker. It was a good life.

Then one cold and blustery day Sophia grew tired of the animal crackers. She thought they were bland and tasteless. She would rather have more corn. That night, when the other sheep followed the shepherd into the barn, she stayed outside and refused to go in. The shepherd asked "What's wrong, Sophia?"

"I don't like animal crackers, I would rather have corn" she said.

"But I don't have any corn, Sophia."

"Yes you do. It's in that little barn over there."

"No Sophia, it's time for bed. Come get your animal cracker."

"But there is corn in this building right here. Just behind the door. I know it's in there."


Sophia wouldn't give up. No matter how hard the shepherd tried to reason with her, Sophia wouldn't budge. "I'm not going to bed until you pour out some corn and that's all there is to it" she said.


"If you don't do what she says, we could be out here all night" whispered her friend Rose.

Finally the shepherd agreed, deciding a little corn wouldn't hurt anything. The news made Blanche jump straight up into the air. "It worked, it worked! We're getting corn" she shouted!

"Oh my goodness, I'm so excited! I can't believe it worked" said Dorothy as she kicked up her heels.

"Give us the corn, give us the corn, give us the corn" they all cheered as they danced around the shepherd.

"Yes, yes, I will but you must get ready for bed like good little sheep."

"Oh we will, we will" they said as they raced into the barn.


They enjoyed their bedtime snack and settled down for the night, bellies full, thinking about how wonderful the day had been. Sophia quietly chewed her cud, beaming with pride over what she had accomplished. She had heard of a breed of sheep called Leadersheep, part of the primitive flocks in Iceland. They were said to be the smartest of all sheep.

"Well, maybe not all sheep" she thought with a grin.

The Corn Cat - Part 3

Twenty minutes later we were back in the exam room at the vet’s office. The vet commented on how much better the cat was looking. I just starred at her in disbelief. I thought, “Why is she not freaking out? How could this situation possibly be treated so nonchalantly? The cat’s butt is hanging out for crying out loud!” Then she slipped on a glove, added a little lubricant and popped it right back in as casually as if she were merely wiping the bangs from her face.

She had obviously done this before.

The vet said, “It is called a prolapsed rectum. It was most likely brought on by the cat’s diet going from starving to well-fed. It may or may not go away on its own. If not she will need surgery…”

“Wait just a minute. What did you just say? It may not go away? But you just made it go away. You mean it’s going to happen again?”

“Oh yes, Most likely it will continue to happen every time she uses the litter box. You’ll need to push it back in.”

“SAY WHAT? You want ME to do WHAT?”

“It would be best to deal with it just as quickly as it happens. Otherwise it may not go back in. We’ll put her on a diet of tuna and cottage cheese to hopefully loosen things up.”

So now not only would I be preparing special meals, applying salve to its eyes and drops in its ears I would also be pushing its butt back in every few hours. All this for a cat I didn’t even want in the first place. My mind quickly returned to the cornfield. Maybe I could just put it back? But there they were; the vet, the technician and Aaron staring at me, again.


I left there with a box of latex gloves and for the next several weeks everywhere I went so did the cat. We were inseparable. I couldn’t leave it home alone for long periods of time because if its butt fell out, it needed to be dealt with as soon as possible. It served as quite the lively topic of conversation at the family reunion when one of my cousin’s kids spotted the cat hanging on the porch screen, mooning everyone so to speak.

She used her charms to schmooze her way into the fold of family life. Aaron, of course, loved her. There is something very tactile and soothing about a cat. She would let him carry her around like a rag doll and pet her as long as he wanted. She loved it when he would cover her up with a throw; you could hear her purr clear across the room. He thought that was the funniest thing ever because he also loved to hide under the covers. The weight of the layers has a calming affect for those with autism. It is said that all cats have Asperger Syndrome. Cats certainly don’t feel the need to conform to social conventions. That very well may be why they hit if off so well. They were two peas in a pod.

Even Lucy grew fond of her. I thought it was odd that these two natural enemies would bond so easily until one evening when I caught the cat flinging leftover chicken wings off the kitchen counter to the dog below. Everyone knows the way to a Beagle’s heart is through its stomach. This made them best friends instantly.

After you shove someone’s butt back in for them a few times you start to develop a relationship. It didn’t take the cat long to figure out I was the bringer of food and the fixer of butts. The cat was not fond of all the procedures by any stroke of the imagination, but it was almost as if she knew I was trying to help her.

After a few weeks of fine dining on gourmet tuna salad with a side of cottage cheese while using up an entire box of latex gloves, she was finally healthy. It was time to take her to the shelter. I didn’t want a cat. I didn’t ask for a cat. I sure as heck didn’t want a sick cat. But whether I wanted to or not, somehow during the course of her treatment, I had become her Mama. She needed me.

As I watched Aaron lie next to her one evening on the living room floor wrapped up tightly in a blanket like a burrito with only his eyes showing, I realized she wasn’t going anywhere. The disheveled, the seemingly-unlovable and the miserable deserve some tolerance and acceptance. Their quirks and idiosyncrasies are part of what makes them worth saving. With a little love, encouragement and intervention early on, the rest of us can sit back and enjoy the unique individuals they become. We don’t go looking for them, but we sure are blessed to have them in our lives.

It’s time to give her a name. I think we’ll call her Ethel—Lucy’s partner in crime.

The Corn Cat - Part 2

When I found her still breathing in the morning I mentally threw up a thank you and a few promises to be a better person. Explaining the sudden death to Aaron would not have been easy. His analytical autistic mind would have pegged me as the perpetrator in a heartbeat. Never mind the guilt I would have suffered all on my own without his help.

We could barely fit the dog carrier through the door when we arrived at the vet’s office. Sized for Lucy, a Beagle, it was far too big for this scrawny, little kitten but it was all we had. I called ahead and told them we were coming so they ushered us right into a small exam room. I pulled the cat out of the crate and I could tell by the look on the veterinarian’s face it wasn’t good. As she looked the kitten over I confessed how I nearly killed it with toxic chemicals. She quickly assured me I’d done no such thing. In fact, the cat had no pink tone to her skin at all; even her nose and tongue were white. She was so anemic she was almost dead. Had I not killed the fleas that were sucking her blood she may not have made it through the night.

As I was afraid of, she was going to need eye salve, ear drops and a special diet if she were to survive. My heart sank because I knew the shelter wouldn’t take her. Unless someone volunteers to care for them, animals this sick are humanely dispatched simply because they don’t have the manpower to handle them.

It was about that point that Lisa, the vet, said “She’s so lucky she found you and you’re willing to take care of her.”

“Huh?”

My mind raced. I hadn’t agreed to anything. I couldn’t keep a cat. My mother-in-law is terrified of cats. It would cause all sorts of mayhem at the holidays if we had a cat. But they were all staring at me; the vet, the technician, my own child. I was backed into a corner. I had to set a good example. I agreed to pay for the visit, the medications, the special food and take care of her but only until she was healthy enough to go to the shelter. We couldn’t keep a cat. They all nodded in agreement with a smug, “Uh huh sure, you’ll wear down eventually,” look on their faces.


Those weren’t the only things I’d have to pay for. A cat’s got to go when a cat’s got to go. We needed a litter box. But I put my foot down and refused to buy any toys. I also set the ground rule of not naming the cat. Once they’re named they’re yours forever.

The cat started eating its new, rather expensive I might add, special diet food very well. The salve was helping her eyes and she tolerated the ear drops. It was all good until two days later. After one of those trips to the litter box it became rather apparent that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. She came traipsing through the living room with part of her butt hanging out. Yes, out. Out in the open where you could see it.

Now—I had grown up on a hobby farm. I had seen all kinds of things; calves being born, chickens hatch, pigs being butchered. All kinds of stuff. But NOTHING prepared me for this. So I was just a little excited when I was explaining the situation over the phone to the receptionist at the veterinarian’s office. She calmly stated, “Oh, well you might want to bring her in.”

“MIGHT? MIGHT? No lady, I can assure you I absolutely, positively, without a doubt want to bring her in. While it seems like this might be considered normal to you, where I come from we prefer to keep our intestines on the INSIDE!”

(to be continued...)

The Corn Cat - Part 1

It was a beautiful afternoon drive on one of the last nice fall days in Indiana. I made it home just before my son, Aaron’s, school bus was due to arrive. After I pulled the car into the garage, I picked up my bag of groceries and walked out to pick up the mail. Our mailbox stood alone across the road from our driveway. As I pulled the metal hatch down to peek inside I heard a noise coming from the cornfield behind it. “Ow, Ow.” It was so faint I wasn’t even sure what it was. I collected the mail, slammed the door shut and turned to cross the road. Then I heard it again, only louder this time. “Ow. Ow. Meow.”

I knew that very moment I was doomed. If I turned to look I would find some abandoned animal. People often drop off their unwanted pets in the country. As if the creature will miraculously learn to fend for itself overnight and live happily ever after. They particularly like to drop them off directly in front of farmhouses. Most likely because the seemingly carefree farm life is how they would like to envision Fluffy living. I’m sure it makes them feel better as they drive away.

“Meow. Meow.” It sounded more like “Ouch. Ouch. Please help me.” I didn’t look. Instead I marched back to the house, slammed the mail down on the counter and cursed the idiots that dumped an animal in front of my house.
That lasted all of, oh, two minutes maybe. I couldn’t stand it. One of three things will happen to an unwanted puppy or kitten in the country. They will either get hit by a car, eaten by coyotes or slowly starve to death. I was doomed to look. I had to look. It wasn’t my responsibility, but I couldn’t just leave it out there to die.

On the way out the door I scrounged up some gloves and an old towel. I hadn’t seen the cat but I suspected it was in bad shape. After years of growing up on a farm listening to my mother threaten, “Don’t touch it, it could have fleas”, I was conditioned not to make skin to fur contact if I could help it. Because, of course, all good mothers know any wild thing that lives outside must have fleas or lice or “heaven knows what else”. As I approached the cornfield I heard mewing again, then out popped this tiny mess of a kitten, filthy and covered in, you guessed it, fleas. I mean COVERED. Even at a distance you could see them crawling up, around and through the fur. Its eyes were infected and ringed with scabs. The ear canals looked like they were full of mites. The scrawny ball of fluff seemed barely old enough to be separated from its mother.

I crouched down at the edge of the field as the cat walked right up to me. Desperation overrides all fear I guess. I carried it back to the garage carefully wrapped in a towel. No way was I bringing this nasty little thing into my house. I left her there while I gathered water and a little bit of our dog, Lucy’s, food. I’ve never seen an animal that hungry. When she saw the food she didn’t just eat, she attacked it.

Aaron arrived home soon after. He barged through the garage door, saw the cat, threw his book bag to the ground and immediately ran over to pick her up. All of a sudden I heard my mother’s voice come flying out of my mouth saying “No, don’t touch it. It has fleas!” He jumped back two feet but eyed the cat closely. “Can we keep it? He asked.

“No, of course we can’t keep it. You know your grandma hates cats. She would have a fit when she comes to visit if we had a cat. I’m afraid we’ll need to take it to the shelter.”

“But where did you get it?”

“I found it in the corn by the mailbox. Someone must have dumped it. I think it’s sick.”

“Awe, but then we should keep it. It needs a Mommy. You could take care of it just like you take care of me.”

For a special needs child with Asperger Syndrome, a communication disorder, his use of manipulation was truly remarkable. But I wasn’t buying it—well, not completely.

The constant movement of the fleas made it impossible for the poor thing to rest. I could tell she was miserable. It was late enough in the day I knew the veterinarian’s office would be closed. We would have to try to keep her alive on our own overnight.

Still carefully wrapped in the towel, I allowed Aaron to hold her at arm’s length while we drove back to town to get some flea powder and a can of cat food. Once home again I quickly scanned the instructions on the side of the can, then doused the ragged little thing with the powder. She finally rested once they started to die off. While I was cleaning up I noticed at the very bottom of the can in super teeny, tiny almost microscopic print: “Not for use on kittens under 8 weeks old.”

“Crap!”

I immediately raced to grab the cat, filled the kitchen sink with soap and water and threw the cat in, violently scrubbing her down until she gleamed like a newborn baby.

Have you ever given a cat a bath? They don’t like it much.

At this point, she looked more like a sick rat than a sick cat. All I wanted was to just keep her alive until the next day. Then I could take her to the vet and if they thought she was going to live I would take her to the animal shelter. Now here I had gone and nearly killed her myself. That’s just great.

(to be continued...)

Boy Vs. Wild

In this episode our host, Boy, gets stranded deep in the backwoods of Indiana. With only a pocket knife and his shoestrings, can he survive?


The hawks circle above, waiting for any sign of weakness.


The sun beats down as Boy scans the landscape. Spotting a deer trail, he knows if he follows it he will eventually find water.



After tromping through the thorny tangles of wild roses, he comes to a winding creek.



Boy has to wait while his not-so-limber-as-she-used-to-be camera crew finds a safer place to cross.



If he follows the creek it may lead him to a road. But should he go this way?



Or that way?

If he chooses the wrong way he could be stranded for a very, very long time. He may even have to resort to drinking his own urine. His gut instinct tells him to follow the sun and the larger raccoon tracks. A fat raccoon must know where a good source of food is.


In the end he finds his way to the road which leads to an old farmhouse. Finally, clean water to drink and a place to rest! Bear Gyliss and Les Stroud would be proud.


Stay tuned, when next week Boy and crew may actually leave their own property.