Celebrating the birthdate of our son John: 10-03-80

John John John

Sleepyhead. Nocturnal fellow.  Shower-adverse, noisy, SPD-expressing boy:

“Aaaaaaaaaaa!!!!”!

“NO!”

“You are not my father!”

Heart-breaking son o’ mine.

Prematurely pushed into this world, your birthing accelerated by pre-eclampsia, you arrived in your good time, sunny-side up, eyes and fists squeezed tight against the bright delivery room lights. Everything functioning just fine, you went back to sleep, nestled in your little crib while coach Kathleen finally went home for a well-deserved rest, pondering a career in nursing and Mom began the long climb back from utter exhaustion.

Why didn’t they mention toxemia in birthing education classes?

Handsome, tall, unkissable, inquisitive, intelligent, kind, sensory-defensive, strong, talkative, friendly, reactive, you were a challenge for our culture’s formal education system. Home-schooled for Kindergarten, because you hadn’t yet, and in fact never did accept the behavioral norm of stopping to use the bathroom when “the call” came.  When you were 3, then 4, then 5, we were told by confident, experienced friends, “Oh, don’t worry; nobody starts school without having mastered these skills.” 

Apparently, they were wrong.

But, you learned to read that year, and never stopped.  In high school, you’d get your textbooks the first day they were available.  Carrying them all home, you’d close yourself in your room and proceed to read them through, cover to cover.  The rest of the school year, consequently, was a drag: the teachers in front of the class saying, in your words, “Blah, blah blah….”  Too bad they weren’t open to the idea of you “testing out” of some classes after you’d devoured the texts.  You’d have done great.  But, it never happened.   WTMC didn’t yet exist. You went to school when you could manage, and as I understand it, rather than attend classes, you spent a lot of time in the main office, fixing telephone and computer equipment for the staff, and sometimes wandered the halls, chatting with the on-site policeman.

When you did go to class, it wasn’t always a good outcome.  We learned from Joe, after the fact, that he was sometimes called from his classroom to “help deal with John.”  For the finale of your second senior year, you actually earned a 180-day suspension for zero-tolerance behavior.  It seems that you were exasperated because the teacher could not get the classroom under control, so you stood your tall self up in the back of the class, holding up something (a pencil? or allegedly, a randomly-appearing screw driver?) as a weapon, and used threatening, “If you don’t, I will,” words.   Oh, John. 

How was the principal to understand your intent? Of course, the school called me to come ‘deal’ with this incident.  “Oh, here we go again.” 

I’d been called to the schools periodically, most of your 12 years of formal schooling, with a possible exception of the middle-school years when you were housed in a self-contained AI classroom, with some very able teachers and aides.

In elementary school, the principal and I worked out a communication system of phone calls: “He’s left home now; you should expect him in 15-20 minutes,” so we could track your progress.  She was worried about your safety. I wasn’t. I knew you’d come home eventually. But the school’s liability for your well-being demanded that she know your whereabouts during school hours. 

You liked being home.  I tried to explain that to the various administrators who ‘punished you’ with in-home suspensions. “Please don’t do this.  It’s as if you’re giving him a reward for misbehaving.  It’s not going to help.”  Well, they couldn’t work out how a student could behave non-compliantly without intending belligerence.

This last day of your public education, the principal pulled herself into an “authoritative” posture behind her desk, and glancing at me periodically while nervously shuffling papers in front of her, informed me what my son had done. You were there with us in her office.  But, when you stood up after awhile and walked out, she was undone.

 “What should I do now?” she asked, looking me in the eye. 

Incredulous, I kindly asked, “What do you normally do in this situation?” 

“Well, we call the police.” 

“So, go for it!” 

Of course, John, you were already with the school officer, walking the halls with him as was your custom. 

Following that incident, you somehow arranged to finish school, by special permission, since you weren’t old enough, in the evening GED program.  With the assistance of a creative, understanding teacher, and proving once again that it wasn’t for lack of intelligence or intention that you did poorly in your high school classes, you aced the GED, finishing in the top 3% of the nation.  You even got a special commendation for that.  Nice work, John. Then, off to Washtenaw CC, and the Residential Construction program.

John, you taught us things about life, perspective, love, patience, tolerance, education, intelligence, ASD, justice, loyalty, disabilities, videogames, ADHD, with or without hyperactivity, homeschooling, public school, private school, the food network, popcorn, biological rhythms, medication, encopresis, friendship, faith, serving others in love, perseverance, resiliency, creativity, thinking “outside the box,” and of course, the four food groups:  pizza, ice cream, cereal and root beer. 

Just being you, John, with no intent to harm, most of the time, you stretched our combined intelligence, resources, energy, creativity, inventiveness, education, strength, faith in ways that threatened to shatter our foundations.  When you fired up, angry as all get-out about some perceived injustice and contemplating harming the perpetrator (us), you scared the begeebers out of me. More than once, I called a help line while cowering in a corner, asking,  ‘Please, what should I do now so that I don’t get hurt?”

“Hide all the knives.”  “Leave the house.”  Oh, my.

But, when the next day “dawned,” sometimes not before 1pm, with unbounded enthusiasm, you arose, threw open your bedroom door, tossed your size 13’s ahead of you:  Crash!       Bam!!!,  and thundered down the stairs, ready to take on the day. 

A tireless, creative problem solver, you were the guy who showed up on time for a neighborhood leaf-raking service project with a rented backpack leaf blower at the ready.  Tools. You loved them.

Bear’s very good friend, you showed him the streets of Ann Arbor, sometimes deep into the early morning hours, his collar tags jangling an amiable accompanying rhythm, alongside your ongoing interpersonal monologue: processing this enigmatic world aloud.

The last week you lived, we’re told that you a rented a mid-size truck, backing it right up to the front porch so you could help a friend move. You weren’t old enough to rent a vehicle; I guess the company never carded you.  A disheveled 6’5”, some people might have found you a bit intimidating.  After cheerfully and ably assisting with the move, continuing to enjoy the Ride, you drove out to Dexter to do some visiting.  Unlimited miles?  Perhaps.

AEA took you out.

My fury at the injustice of it insisted that I hit the road, campaigning against the lack of information about this often unrecognized, highly stigmatized, sometimes, as in your case, fatal addiction. How could the team of professionals who worked with you not have named this, and intervened on your behalf, even after we called a special meeting about the recurring welts around your neck, long before you died.  “Oh, we find nothing here to be worried about, Mrs. OC.  He’s not suicidal; it’s ‘just a sexual thing.’” 

Nothing to worry about?!  Wrong again.

I could imagine making impassioned speeches to ..? “groups.”  But, the energy for that has not yet surfaced.  I can begin to write about it though, apparently: twelve years later.

Here we are.  And, there you are: safe now.

I love you, John.  Always have and always will. 

God rest your soul.