Autism was always such a vague word with such a vague understanding. Misunderstanding. I often feel that so much is misunderstood about Pooka - about her life and her perception of the world in which she lives. I remember reading stories about "mutes" in High School and having a distant questioning of how one could ever be a mute. It was very hard for me to conceptualize this possibility; the possibility of a person not being able to speak. In some stories the muted character was a victim of abuse and made a choice not be speak. In other situations, there was some biological problem but usually the person inflicted in this way could use sign language to communicate, and I personally never viewed a person with the ability to use sign language as a mute. Still, there was something eccentric about this concept of being a mute. I could not understand how a person could not be able to speak. I had never known a person that was mute.
Having autism come into my child's life and subsequently into my life, I was introduced to this phenomenon of muteness. Pooka had developed the beginnings of language and was advancing according to all the milestone charts available. She was cheerful and eager to learn new things. After vaccination, when her behavior changed, she was no longer cheerful and when her eagerness transformed into fixations, she also became muted. She no longer spoke. I was now face to face with this mysterious phenomenon - this concept which always left me perplexed. I was the mother of a mute. My beautiful, cheerful little girl lost her ability to speak.
What once was, will be again...
It seemed as if it is that simple. What once was, will be again... Something within me felt an even stronger force, that if it was, then it shall be again. This was not something that seemed absurd or mysterious. This seemed like common sense, logic even...If Pooka has the ability to speak, how in the world could that be lost, forever?
Immediately, I set out on a mission to have Pooka get her ability to speak back. What once was, will be again. At two years old, it should be a piece of cake. Kids pick up everything. They learn with so much fierceness and they never forget. After assembling Pooka's team and having the program overseen by a local university, I realized, after days turned into months and months turned into years and years turned into more years, that what once was will not always be. My understanding of this disability and re-ability was not common sense at all. I stepped into attempting to solve an extremely complex equation, the human brain. I realized that the brain was a much larger puzzle to be solved and so little information was available. In a broader sense, there is so little known about the human body, period. There is so little known and so much to be solved from degenerative diseases and genetics to neurological disorders and autism.
I began to view Pooka, not as Pooka but as this project. She was no longer a child, she became something else. Something that needed to be fixed. She could never be alone and her fixations needed to be redirected at once if there was any chance for her to recover from this, this thing that overtook her mind. Being focused on Pooka's disability caused me to lose focus on the person, the spirit being that existed within Pooka. Since the focus was on full recovery, the small triumphs were were not significant enough. Every day that passed meant that Pooka was another day older and with each passing day, somedays with minimal or very little progress, I looked at it as another day lost. Another day that Pooka would be that much farther away from full recovery. I remember when Pooka's fifth birthday was approaching and how disappointed I was with her progress. I remember feeling lost and desolate, not knowing when and if we would ever see the light at the end of the tunnel. I remember weeping the day before her fifth birthday and questioning the universe, asking for understanding and direction. I also asked for forgiveness and resilience. I asked for triumph.
******************************************************************************************************************
I didn't know when or where or how progress would come. I really felt that this was my darkest hour. Watching Pooka grow up and realizing that in a very real way I was completely helpless in creating a support system that could permanently turn her situation around. I felt defeated but hoped that with effort, eventually, there would be victory.
© Heather Berg 2016
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Dear FDA, YOU made me this way! (Part Two)
After receiving her inoculations, Pooka recovered seemingly symptom free within a day or so. I was back off to Howard University in Washington, DC. Returning to complete the Spring semester of my sophomore year. I was fortunate enough to be able to leave the girls with my mother on the long commute from Washington, DC to upstate NY. I traveled this route every week, leaving DC on Thursdays and returning on Monday nights. Having been doing this commute for nine months, the drive was becoming easy...or at least the commute had become habitual.
Traveling back and forth had presented its own set of challenges. Over the course of nine months, I had seen so many accidents and had quite a few near death experiences. Every successful trip home proved to be a glorious victory. Coming home to be with my growing girls was exactly where I wanted to be. I knew if I wanted to provide the best life for them, I would need to finish college and I would need to make this sacrifice. There were other sacrifices that came with the commute from DC to NY. Time for one, suddenly became in extreme demand with a very scarce supply readily available. Every minute of every day proved to be of utmost importance. And my time to be "Mommy" for the three and a half days was so treasured that I often got lost in my longing to just stay in that space. The space of unconditional love and devotion that I gained from my life giving force and support. My children. Nothing feels so good as having these little girls that I so much adore and to know that the adoration and love that is returned is so pure, so unconditional, so perfect. Being in this space for three and a half days was such a dream, it was always hard to leave and return to the hustle and bustle - the road to success...
In addition to time, another sacrifice made was the gaps in space. Coming home in the middle of the night on a Thursday and staying until early Monday morning created gaps in my ability to recognize and monitor the development of my children. While I still felt connected to my girls, even when away, I was not able to discriminate between normal and abnormal behaviors. When I left home after Pooka received her most recent dose of inoculations, she was saying a few words. At some point over the next few months, it seems as if she stopped saying the words but because of the gaps in space, I can never seem to recall when it happened and the prerequisites leading up to the loss of language. I do remember that at some point she seemed to be growing and developing into a social, budding butterfly and within a few months, she began to develop into an isolated, antisocial little girl. It appeared that Pooka may have suffered a loss of hearing. This theory always proved itself false whenever we decided to watch a Disney video. As soon as a Disney movie was put into the VCR, Pooka would awaken out of a deep sleep from the top floor of the apartment just to make it in time as if it were the premiere. Seeing this occur numerous times over, we soon ruled out that hearing was a problem. But...there was definitely a problem.
Over the space of the next six months, Pooka wanted nothing to do with people. At some point, speaking to her seemed totally useless. It's like she was completely lost within herself. Her desire for small shiny objects, preferably in pairs left us baffled and confused. And her sleep schedule suddenly became totally and completely off course. Beginning at 15 months of age, Pooka suffered great bouts of insomnia. Regularly, I would wake at 3 am and find Pooka wandering around the apartment, climbing on the dining room table. Sometimes I wouldn't catch her awake, but after not finding her in her crib, or on the table in the dining room, I would find her sleeping on the cold tiled floor of the kitchen.
At 18 months of age, after putting Pooka to bed, and putting myself to bed, I was awoken by a loud thump, subsequently followed by shrieking screams of pain. Running into my girls bedroom, I found Pooka on the floor. She had apparently jumped out of her crib and injured herself. After bringing her into my bedroom and observing her for a while, when it seemed her moans of pain were not subsiding and with the development of a slight fever, her father and I decided to bring her to the emergency room. Following her check up and x-rays, it was discovered that Pooka had broken her elbow when jumping out of her crib. The idea of her crash landing was so absurd to the medical professionals on duty that they decided they were going to report the incident to Child Protective Services. Hysterical, I called my family members who rushed to the hospital. After seeing the rush of support, the doctor on duty had second thoughts about the report. Oddly enough, while in the ER, I got to know another family who claims they are in the ER every week with their son. This time, he was suffering from 2nd degree burns. Last week, he needed several stitches on his leg for playing with an ax while outdoors. The doctor on duty didn't think it was necessary to report this loving couple to Child Protective Services, despite their frequent visits to the ER for their 5 year old son.
I began to realize that this was just the beginning of a tumultuous journey regarding Pooka, misunderstandings and character judgments. As a young, unmarried, minority mother, I would soon learn that I would have to fight twice as hard for support services and be subjected to twice as much blame and prejudice.
Over the next six months Pooka continued to isolate herself. Speaking to loved one's and even the pediatrician about Pooka's dilemma, I was told that children "grow out" of these things and that I "shouldn't worry." Inherently, I knew something drastic happened affecting Pooka's life path.
I continued my commute from DC to upstate NY the next semester. During winter break, a long time family friend came to visit. He had a niece the same age as Pooka. As he observed her, he told me straight-forward, "you need to take her to see someone, her behavior is not normal." This was the first time my own feelings were confirmed by someone outside of myself. I welcomed his comment as a relief and was glad that he was able to identify that whatever Pooka was going through was not just growing pains. I scheduled the doctor's appointment for the next day.
We've been here before.
For some reason, Pooka isn't running away from the familiar, jolly pediatrician's office today. She has a pair of the shiny something in her possession so she seems contented. She doesn't seem fazed by the crowd of sniffling, sneezing youngsters and their doting parents. It doesn't appear that she even sees them. She is so consumed with her shiny pair of something, I wonder if she even sees me.
We're next to be called. I'm nervous. I don't think there is anything that could prepare me for what I was about to hear. I was prepared to hear that she needed speech therapy for loss of language - and I was pretty sure that would do the trick. I was not prepared to receive what actually came next.
As the nurse practitioner observed Pooka with her small shiny something's, she asked me several developmental questions. It didn't take her long to deliver the news. When she told me that Pooka probably has autism, I thought she was speaking a foreign language. I mean, I had heard of the word autism but I had no notion of what it was, what caused it, what cured it. She delivered this blow and left the room. But, she didn't leave before telling me that Pooka would have this for the rest of her life, there was no cure and that she would probably never speak. And she left me there, alone.
So alone...and lost...and...
What does this mean? How could this have happened? My budding social butterfly oppressed with an incurable brain disorder. How? Why?
I look up autism in the dictionary. The dictionary explains that it is a childhood version of schizophrenia. It's really hard for me to make the connection of Pooka being a schizophrenic. Unsatisfied, I turn to the world wide web. There's not much information available but with enough seeking, I am able to find some truly valuable resources. And the resources that I find, enable me to think. I begin to retrace time and gaps in space. I begin to retrace the sacrifices made over the past year. I am forced to fill in the gaps and use my valuable time to remember the events that took place leading up to the change in Pooka. Nothing is making any sense. I find articles on this growing surge of "regressive autism." Parent's dumbfounded at the negative development of their sprouting toddlers. That's me! That's us! I continue my search. So many people are pointing the finger at the MMR vaccine. Really? This cannot be. I can't believe this. I continue researching, more MMR, more autism. It really cannot be that simple. MMR = autism. No way. I've had all my MMR shots, my eldest daughter, my siblings, my friends - I mean everyone I know. There should be more autism than this if MMR = autism. And then I'm thinking, and filling in the gaps in space.
And then I remember. I remember that I could not have my final MMR vaccine at 17 years old because I was pregnant with my first daughter. I remember after having her I still could not comply because she was nursing. I remember after weaning her I was still non compliant with my University's mandates. I remember having my final MMR at 18 years old. I remember speaking to my daughter's pediatrician about side effects. I remember him saying not to conceive for at least three months after being administered the vaccine. I remember conceiving three months later. I remember wondering if this shot would effect my growing fetus. I remember thinking that it wouldn't since it's been three months. I remember a healthy pregnancy. I remember a smooth, quick delivery. I remember a strong healthy baby.
And then I remember bowel dysfunction of a newborn baby. How does a 100% breastfed infant have constipation? I concentrate the focus of my research on bowel disorders of infants. That leads me to bowel disorders and measles. But Pooka hasn't had the measles vaccine - at least not a birth. Ahhh - but I did. Three month prior to conception, I had a measles vaccine.
And then I remember thinking that Pooka may not need the vaccine herself, since she may already have immunity from me. I remember asking the pediatrician if her immunity can be tested prior to vaccine administration since I had already had the shot shortly before conception. I remember him saying that she needed the shot herself. I remember not pushing the issue. I remember the eerie feeling I had the day that Pooka received her shot. I remember her crying and running toward the glass doors. I remember feeling that I should put it off for some time in the future. I remember testing my judgment and following doctor's orders. I remember feeling that I did the right thing. I remember Pooka recovering from the inoculation.
And then I remember, my recent memories of loss of language, loss of self. My budding social butterfly evolving into an antisocial, isolated little girl. This connection with MMR = bowel dysfunction = autism seems so abstract, so unreal. But it also seems very real. I often wonder if I had not given Pooka that shot that day, if I had waited until she was a few years older and her own immunity were stronger - I wonder if the result would have been the same. I wonder if my budding butterfly would have continued to spread her butterfly wings or if without the shot, she would have still climbed back into her cocoon.
Given the opportunity to relive this - I would have followed my feelings and I would have listened to Pooka. I would have listened to the pleading that I saw in her eyes. I would have listened to her running towards the glass doors. I would have given her more time. I would have run from the safety threshold of the pediatrician's office and safely wrapped her in my arms. I would have run towards doubt and shied away from confidence. I would have...
Science is an amazing thing. It's amazing how what is perceived to be true can change in an instant under the right conditions, with the right controls and proper variables in the testing environment. It is absolutely astonishing how what is thought to be can change if any of the factors of the testing environment change and science has to adapt a new truth, until someone else disproves that truth. The fact that we base our whole lives on experimentation amazes me. Laws and regulations are set up and based upon scientific experimentation. Scientific experimentation that can change in an instant. I believe wholeheartedly that Pooka became autistic from exposure to the MMR vaccine. I believe her immunity was compromised prior to birth and inoculations were not in her best interest. I believe there is a good chance that she would not be "autistic" if she had not received the MMR vaccine at such a young age. And as a result,
I don't have to defend what I believe to be true;
I don't have to vaccinate;
I don't have to buy into pharmaceutical propaganda;
I don't have to debate with those that choose to follow FDA/CDC protocol;
I don't have to believe that things can't change;
I don't have to accept that Pooka can't grow;
I DON'T HAVE TO!
Because no one, not the FDA, not the CDC, not government lobbyists, not pharmaceutical manufacturers, not the President of the United States - no one can change the events that lead up to Pooka's diagnosis. So...
I don't have to.
© Heather Berg 2015
Traveling back and forth had presented its own set of challenges. Over the course of nine months, I had seen so many accidents and had quite a few near death experiences. Every successful trip home proved to be a glorious victory. Coming home to be with my growing girls was exactly where I wanted to be. I knew if I wanted to provide the best life for them, I would need to finish college and I would need to make this sacrifice. There were other sacrifices that came with the commute from DC to NY. Time for one, suddenly became in extreme demand with a very scarce supply readily available. Every minute of every day proved to be of utmost importance. And my time to be "Mommy" for the three and a half days was so treasured that I often got lost in my longing to just stay in that space. The space of unconditional love and devotion that I gained from my life giving force and support. My children. Nothing feels so good as having these little girls that I so much adore and to know that the adoration and love that is returned is so pure, so unconditional, so perfect. Being in this space for three and a half days was such a dream, it was always hard to leave and return to the hustle and bustle - the road to success...
In addition to time, another sacrifice made was the gaps in space. Coming home in the middle of the night on a Thursday and staying until early Monday morning created gaps in my ability to recognize and monitor the development of my children. While I still felt connected to my girls, even when away, I was not able to discriminate between normal and abnormal behaviors. When I left home after Pooka received her most recent dose of inoculations, she was saying a few words. At some point over the next few months, it seems as if she stopped saying the words but because of the gaps in space, I can never seem to recall when it happened and the prerequisites leading up to the loss of language. I do remember that at some point she seemed to be growing and developing into a social, budding butterfly and within a few months, she began to develop into an isolated, antisocial little girl. It appeared that Pooka may have suffered a loss of hearing. This theory always proved itself false whenever we decided to watch a Disney video. As soon as a Disney movie was put into the VCR, Pooka would awaken out of a deep sleep from the top floor of the apartment just to make it in time as if it were the premiere. Seeing this occur numerous times over, we soon ruled out that hearing was a problem. But...there was definitely a problem.
Over the space of the next six months, Pooka wanted nothing to do with people. At some point, speaking to her seemed totally useless. It's like she was completely lost within herself. Her desire for small shiny objects, preferably in pairs left us baffled and confused. And her sleep schedule suddenly became totally and completely off course. Beginning at 15 months of age, Pooka suffered great bouts of insomnia. Regularly, I would wake at 3 am and find Pooka wandering around the apartment, climbing on the dining room table. Sometimes I wouldn't catch her awake, but after not finding her in her crib, or on the table in the dining room, I would find her sleeping on the cold tiled floor of the kitchen.
At 18 months of age, after putting Pooka to bed, and putting myself to bed, I was awoken by a loud thump, subsequently followed by shrieking screams of pain. Running into my girls bedroom, I found Pooka on the floor. She had apparently jumped out of her crib and injured herself. After bringing her into my bedroom and observing her for a while, when it seemed her moans of pain were not subsiding and with the development of a slight fever, her father and I decided to bring her to the emergency room. Following her check up and x-rays, it was discovered that Pooka had broken her elbow when jumping out of her crib. The idea of her crash landing was so absurd to the medical professionals on duty that they decided they were going to report the incident to Child Protective Services. Hysterical, I called my family members who rushed to the hospital. After seeing the rush of support, the doctor on duty had second thoughts about the report. Oddly enough, while in the ER, I got to know another family who claims they are in the ER every week with their son. This time, he was suffering from 2nd degree burns. Last week, he needed several stitches on his leg for playing with an ax while outdoors. The doctor on duty didn't think it was necessary to report this loving couple to Child Protective Services, despite their frequent visits to the ER for their 5 year old son.
I began to realize that this was just the beginning of a tumultuous journey regarding Pooka, misunderstandings and character judgments. As a young, unmarried, minority mother, I would soon learn that I would have to fight twice as hard for support services and be subjected to twice as much blame and prejudice.
Over the next six months Pooka continued to isolate herself. Speaking to loved one's and even the pediatrician about Pooka's dilemma, I was told that children "grow out" of these things and that I "shouldn't worry." Inherently, I knew something drastic happened affecting Pooka's life path.
I continued my commute from DC to upstate NY the next semester. During winter break, a long time family friend came to visit. He had a niece the same age as Pooka. As he observed her, he told me straight-forward, "you need to take her to see someone, her behavior is not normal." This was the first time my own feelings were confirmed by someone outside of myself. I welcomed his comment as a relief and was glad that he was able to identify that whatever Pooka was going through was not just growing pains. I scheduled the doctor's appointment for the next day.
We've been here before.
For some reason, Pooka isn't running away from the familiar, jolly pediatrician's office today. She has a pair of the shiny something in her possession so she seems contented. She doesn't seem fazed by the crowd of sniffling, sneezing youngsters and their doting parents. It doesn't appear that she even sees them. She is so consumed with her shiny pair of something, I wonder if she even sees me.
We're next to be called. I'm nervous. I don't think there is anything that could prepare me for what I was about to hear. I was prepared to hear that she needed speech therapy for loss of language - and I was pretty sure that would do the trick. I was not prepared to receive what actually came next.
As the nurse practitioner observed Pooka with her small shiny something's, she asked me several developmental questions. It didn't take her long to deliver the news. When she told me that Pooka probably has autism, I thought she was speaking a foreign language. I mean, I had heard of the word autism but I had no notion of what it was, what caused it, what cured it. She delivered this blow and left the room. But, she didn't leave before telling me that Pooka would have this for the rest of her life, there was no cure and that she would probably never speak. And she left me there, alone.
So alone...and lost...and...
What does this mean? How could this have happened? My budding social butterfly oppressed with an incurable brain disorder. How? Why?
I look up autism in the dictionary. The dictionary explains that it is a childhood version of schizophrenia. It's really hard for me to make the connection of Pooka being a schizophrenic. Unsatisfied, I turn to the world wide web. There's not much information available but with enough seeking, I am able to find some truly valuable resources. And the resources that I find, enable me to think. I begin to retrace time and gaps in space. I begin to retrace the sacrifices made over the past year. I am forced to fill in the gaps and use my valuable time to remember the events that took place leading up to the change in Pooka. Nothing is making any sense. I find articles on this growing surge of "regressive autism." Parent's dumbfounded at the negative development of their sprouting toddlers. That's me! That's us! I continue my search. So many people are pointing the finger at the MMR vaccine. Really? This cannot be. I can't believe this. I continue researching, more MMR, more autism. It really cannot be that simple. MMR = autism. No way. I've had all my MMR shots, my eldest daughter, my siblings, my friends - I mean everyone I know. There should be more autism than this if MMR = autism. And then I'm thinking, and filling in the gaps in space.
And then I remember. I remember that I could not have my final MMR vaccine at 17 years old because I was pregnant with my first daughter. I remember after having her I still could not comply because she was nursing. I remember after weaning her I was still non compliant with my University's mandates. I remember having my final MMR at 18 years old. I remember speaking to my daughter's pediatrician about side effects. I remember him saying not to conceive for at least three months after being administered the vaccine. I remember conceiving three months later. I remember wondering if this shot would effect my growing fetus. I remember thinking that it wouldn't since it's been three months. I remember a healthy pregnancy. I remember a smooth, quick delivery. I remember a strong healthy baby.
And then I remember bowel dysfunction of a newborn baby. How does a 100% breastfed infant have constipation? I concentrate the focus of my research on bowel disorders of infants. That leads me to bowel disorders and measles. But Pooka hasn't had the measles vaccine - at least not a birth. Ahhh - but I did. Three month prior to conception, I had a measles vaccine.
And then I remember thinking that Pooka may not need the vaccine herself, since she may already have immunity from me. I remember asking the pediatrician if her immunity can be tested prior to vaccine administration since I had already had the shot shortly before conception. I remember him saying that she needed the shot herself. I remember not pushing the issue. I remember the eerie feeling I had the day that Pooka received her shot. I remember her crying and running toward the glass doors. I remember feeling that I should put it off for some time in the future. I remember testing my judgment and following doctor's orders. I remember feeling that I did the right thing. I remember Pooka recovering from the inoculation.
And then I remember, my recent memories of loss of language, loss of self. My budding social butterfly evolving into an antisocial, isolated little girl. This connection with MMR = bowel dysfunction = autism seems so abstract, so unreal. But it also seems very real. I often wonder if I had not given Pooka that shot that day, if I had waited until she was a few years older and her own immunity were stronger - I wonder if the result would have been the same. I wonder if my budding butterfly would have continued to spread her butterfly wings or if without the shot, she would have still climbed back into her cocoon.
Given the opportunity to relive this - I would have followed my feelings and I would have listened to Pooka. I would have listened to the pleading that I saw in her eyes. I would have listened to her running towards the glass doors. I would have given her more time. I would have run from the safety threshold of the pediatrician's office and safely wrapped her in my arms. I would have run towards doubt and shied away from confidence. I would have...
Science is an amazing thing. It's amazing how what is perceived to be true can change in an instant under the right conditions, with the right controls and proper variables in the testing environment. It is absolutely astonishing how what is thought to be can change if any of the factors of the testing environment change and science has to adapt a new truth, until someone else disproves that truth. The fact that we base our whole lives on experimentation amazes me. Laws and regulations are set up and based upon scientific experimentation. Scientific experimentation that can change in an instant. I believe wholeheartedly that Pooka became autistic from exposure to the MMR vaccine. I believe her immunity was compromised prior to birth and inoculations were not in her best interest. I believe there is a good chance that she would not be "autistic" if she had not received the MMR vaccine at such a young age. And as a result,
I don't have to defend what I believe to be true;
I don't have to vaccinate;
I don't have to buy into pharmaceutical propaganda;
I don't have to debate with those that choose to follow FDA/CDC protocol;
I don't have to believe that things can't change;
I don't have to accept that Pooka can't grow;
I DON'T HAVE TO!
Because no one, not the FDA, not the CDC, not government lobbyists, not pharmaceutical manufacturers, not the President of the United States - no one can change the events that lead up to Pooka's diagnosis. So...
I don't have to.
© Heather Berg 2015
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Dear FDA, YOU made me this way! (Part One)
I vividly remember the day that Pooka received her MMR vaccine. It was a sunny May day. My bumbling little toddler just began walking - what a milestone! Pooka was so strategic in almost everything she did. So much determination, unimaginable determination of a little person, trying to find their way in this world. Beginning at eight months old she could be seen climbing up and down the stairs. But she wasn't trying to climb the steps; she was trying to walk up and down the steps. She would practice over and over again. I wasn't sure if she just had some fascination with climbing or if she felt that by walking up or down in an upright position - it meant that she was that much closer to being like the giants amongst her. Climbing or should I say, walking up the steps was just one of the traits she showed that told me she did not want to be left behind. Her verbalization and object association also seemed slightly advanced at eight months. I can recall her picking up the telephone, screaming out "TeeTee," an endearing term used for her Aunt. She was so interested in people, always delighted to be shared with strangers. Never flinching at an unfamiliar face or crying when left with someone she didn't know. At eight months old, she was a miniature social butterfly. Pooka loved people. She loved watching people, she loved being around people. This is why on this sunny day in May, as we approached the familiarity of the pediatrician's office, I was completely baffled at her response.
Pooka had no interest in approaching all the children and adults that could be seen on the other side of the glass door of the doctor's office. She had no interest in the smiles of strangers and absolutely no interest in spreading her butterfly wings in this very social atmosphere. She was in fact, repelled by the thought of even walking toward the office door. Pooka's behavior was so odd and off on this May day that I actually paused before entering into the familiar setting. In that moment of pause, I wondered what exactly she was trying to demonstrate to me...my little bumbling toddler that can only successfully say up to five words. What was being communicated here on the steps of the peditrician's office - me nudging my bumbling toddler forward while she screams and runs the other way? Should I not allow our kind, jovial doctor to inject toxic chemicals into my baby's body? Should I wait or cancel this procedure? I mean since Pooka has been alive, all of fifteen months, she's probably been to the familiar pediatrician's office more than a dozen times. More than half of the visits have been for vaccinations. This was routine, a routine that even at fifteen months, she knows all too well.
I never had many doubts about the administration of vaccines. As far as I know, vaccines are necessary. They keep our children safe from disease and infection. I had all of my shots as a kid. I cannot tell you one single person I know that has had mumps or measles. I'm an 80's baby, we've all gotten vaccinated. In fact, the only childhood illness that I recall everyone having is the chicken pox, and I never even contracted that as a child. Now with the varicella vaccine, kids won't even contract chicken pox. This is a good thing, right? No, this is a GREAT thing!
Further quelling any doubt that may have erupted surrounding the safety of vaccinations are the government mandates related to vaccine administration. Yes, I realize my girls tend to get a little sick shortly after they've been given a dose of infectious chemicals but vaccination is a REQUIREMENT. A government mandated REQUIREMENT! I mean, how will I be able to register my kids for school without vaccinations. And really, I don't want my kids to DIE from mumps or rubella because, they can die from these diseases, can't they? I haven't bothered to look up the instances of death or total incapacitation related to catching one of these diseases. What's the point in researching vaccine side effects? Vaccines have saved the entire world from deadly diseases. Mankind has come a long way and has made this magical solution available to children everywhere. And I live in the USA. The United States of America is the best, brightest country in the world. Here in the USA, we have an FDA and the FDA would never, EVER recommend and promote products that aren't overall beneficial for their fellow Americans. I'm an American. My daughter is an American. America takes care of American's.
And here I am, standing with my bumbling toddler, who is running away from the doorway of safety. As I glance at her, trying to get a clue, I don't see frustration in her eyes...I don't see anger or defeat...I don't see hatred in the eyes of Pooka...I see fear. As I pick her up and make my way across the safety threshold, I feel as though I've made the right decision, the smart decision, the healthy decision for the best future for my baby. Pooka doesn't know any better, she's only 1 year old. I sit waiting with slightly unsettled anxiety, my bumbling toddler weaving her way out of my arms and dashing toward the glass doors with tears in her eyes, crying...pleading. If she could only tell me what was troubling her. I begin to feel that maybe I shouldn't pursue this today. But then again, what could go wrong? My three year old has had all these shots and she is absolutely fine. I am confident in my choice to stay and wait for our turn to meet our destiny.
© Heather Berg 2013
Pooka had no interest in approaching all the children and adults that could be seen on the other side of the glass door of the doctor's office. She had no interest in the smiles of strangers and absolutely no interest in spreading her butterfly wings in this very social atmosphere. She was in fact, repelled by the thought of even walking toward the office door. Pooka's behavior was so odd and off on this May day that I actually paused before entering into the familiar setting. In that moment of pause, I wondered what exactly she was trying to demonstrate to me...my little bumbling toddler that can only successfully say up to five words. What was being communicated here on the steps of the peditrician's office - me nudging my bumbling toddler forward while she screams and runs the other way? Should I not allow our kind, jovial doctor to inject toxic chemicals into my baby's body? Should I wait or cancel this procedure? I mean since Pooka has been alive, all of fifteen months, she's probably been to the familiar pediatrician's office more than a dozen times. More than half of the visits have been for vaccinations. This was routine, a routine that even at fifteen months, she knows all too well.
I never had many doubts about the administration of vaccines. As far as I know, vaccines are necessary. They keep our children safe from disease and infection. I had all of my shots as a kid. I cannot tell you one single person I know that has had mumps or measles. I'm an 80's baby, we've all gotten vaccinated. In fact, the only childhood illness that I recall everyone having is the chicken pox, and I never even contracted that as a child. Now with the varicella vaccine, kids won't even contract chicken pox. This is a good thing, right? No, this is a GREAT thing!
Further quelling any doubt that may have erupted surrounding the safety of vaccinations are the government mandates related to vaccine administration. Yes, I realize my girls tend to get a little sick shortly after they've been given a dose of infectious chemicals but vaccination is a REQUIREMENT. A government mandated REQUIREMENT! I mean, how will I be able to register my kids for school without vaccinations. And really, I don't want my kids to DIE from mumps or rubella because, they can die from these diseases, can't they? I haven't bothered to look up the instances of death or total incapacitation related to catching one of these diseases. What's the point in researching vaccine side effects? Vaccines have saved the entire world from deadly diseases. Mankind has come a long way and has made this magical solution available to children everywhere. And I live in the USA. The United States of America is the best, brightest country in the world. Here in the USA, we have an FDA and the FDA would never, EVER recommend and promote products that aren't overall beneficial for their fellow Americans. I'm an American. My daughter is an American. America takes care of American's.
And here I am, standing with my bumbling toddler, who is running away from the doorway of safety. As I glance at her, trying to get a clue, I don't see frustration in her eyes...I don't see anger or defeat...I don't see hatred in the eyes of Pooka...I see fear. As I pick her up and make my way across the safety threshold, I feel as though I've made the right decision, the smart decision, the healthy decision for the best future for my baby. Pooka doesn't know any better, she's only 1 year old. I sit waiting with slightly unsettled anxiety, my bumbling toddler weaving her way out of my arms and dashing toward the glass doors with tears in her eyes, crying...pleading. If she could only tell me what was troubling her. I begin to feel that maybe I shouldn't pursue this today. But then again, what could go wrong? My three year old has had all these shots and she is absolutely fine. I am confident in my choice to stay and wait for our turn to meet our destiny.
© Heather Berg 2013
Saturday, November 5, 2011
The Dance of Life
What I would give for a few more moments in time, moments for sleeping or silent reflection before starting another day. I thought Saturday's were for resting. The first day of rest after five straight mornings of the hustle and bustle of boxed lunches, book bags, school buses, and finally arriving at work seven minutes after check in time. I know, I know, I'm trying to get the kids out earlier but there's always some unexpected crisis in the morning. There's always someone that doesn't want to wake up. Then there are morning tantrums and there is always that someone that refuses breakfast, or doesn't like their outfit, or doesn't want to brush their teeth. Thank God for Saturday! A day of rest, or at least that's the way I imagine it the few moments before reality hits and I realize that Saturday's in this household are as busy as a weekday. Saturdays are for grocery shopping, house cleaning, washing clothes, and weekend dinner preparation. Saturdays are for running miscellaneous errands and taking young daughters to weekend activities and possibly a park or two. After rolling out of bed with some defiance and much resistance, I set up a mental plan of our activities for the day.
About an hour later, we're all together, dressed and fed and ready to march out the door, myself with two little girls in tow. One is dressed in a pretty pink leotard with a sparkly tutu, the other in a plum sweatsuit and graphic tee. The latter is only three years old and it has already been established that her favorite color is anything in the purple family. She's got everything you can imagine in purple - purple sneakers, purple socks, purple coat, purple toothbrush, purple boots, purple book bag, purple, purple, purple! I'm always amazed how her face lights up every time I pull out the purple item of the day. It really doesn't matter what the item is, it could be purple tights, or a purple hair bow, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, the sight of purple never fails to ignite the spark of contentment that's seen all over her face from the glint of a smirk to a slight sparkle in her eyes that's oh so evident once the purple item is revealed. At the moment, she is entirely happy in her plum sweatsuit, while her sister can't be happier in her pink tutu and matching leotard. It has always surprised me how different children can be from each other. Each has their own personality and unique quirks that make them individuals regardless of their genetic predisposition. I've learned that genetics really don't impact personality traits. The pink leotard and tutu are really just reflections of the personality of the five year old girl that feels like a princess every time she puts them on. She happens to be the perfect embodiment of a girl, or what we expect of girls from their behavior to the type shoes they pick out to wear. Today, her tutu is perfect for the occasion, our first stop on our list of the days activities. As we arrive, we are just in time for warm ups. I take a seat as the pink tutu disappears through the door leading to a room filled with little girls, all wearing pink tutu's and leotards. The three year old, Pooka and I sit in the waiting area. We'll be here for about an hour. There's one small observation window where those in the waiting area can observe our young daughter's plies and pointed toes. I prefer to sit quietly, catching up on some casual reading or homework for my financial management course. My three year old, Pooka is occupied, manipulating some preferred activity that typically keeps her busy and for the most part, quiet so as not to disturb observers consumed by the visions on the other side of the glass observation window.
Pooka's preferred activity typically keeps her quiet - today I'm sensing a bit of frustration. As she is manipulating her stimulation toy, her tone elevates and it seems that her preferred activity has begun to irritate her. She's not yelling or crying, just slightly annoyed. I reach out to her to offer some support, I give her a gentle rub on her thigh. She gazes up at me, looking through me, it looks like she's looking right into my eyes, without looking at me at all. Not a look of judgement, mostly a look of observation, almost like she's looking at her own reflection roll off the darkness of my iris. It seems as if she hasn't noticed my gentle strokes on her thigh based on the continuous elevation of her grunts and shrieks. I hadn't paid much attention to the scene around us, as my focus had been on resolving Pooka's internal conflict. When I did finally realize there were indeed other observers of Pooka's distress, my focus changed to seek out an immediate remedy to her elevating discontentment. As I reviewed my surroundings I began to notice other's judgment and interpretations of what was unfolding. In this room filled with family and extended family members of the young performers, I almost forgot about judgement and prejudice, especially judgement of children. Yet here, in this environment, judgement prevailed. I look up and catch the eyes of some young girl's grandfather, and his constant staring, in a questionable glare, almost hateful, beaming - carried with the confidence of faulting me, the mother. I try to ignore him and continue to offer some level of tangible comfort to Pooka. As much as I would like to, I can't ignore his expression as he stares at Pooka and looks upon her, as if she is inhuman, deranged. The other mothers in the room have watchful eyes that are more of a concerned wonder, as the level of comfort is interrupted and forced smiles and giggles replace the initial confused response. And here I am, trying to replace the comfortable atmosphere that was just lost, but it's too late. I want to scream out "SHE HAS AUTISM!", instead I make a botched attempt to grab the child's attention and redirect her away from doing the tensing gestures and loud "Grrrs" like a bear, but the child resists and resumes the behavior that has created the uneasy atmosphere. I am left, now also staring, but not at the child. I'm staring at the dark faces of parents and grandparents that are staring boldly back at me. I try to hide the tears that are swelling up in my eyes, but it's too late - they're falling now. The tears are almost comforting as the stares are lowered and the attention of the onlookers is redirected to something else... Dance class. Yes, of course, dance class. It's over now. Time to gather up their own children and go on with their day.
© Heather Berg 2011
About an hour later, we're all together, dressed and fed and ready to march out the door, myself with two little girls in tow. One is dressed in a pretty pink leotard with a sparkly tutu, the other in a plum sweatsuit and graphic tee. The latter is only three years old and it has already been established that her favorite color is anything in the purple family. She's got everything you can imagine in purple - purple sneakers, purple socks, purple coat, purple toothbrush, purple boots, purple book bag, purple, purple, purple! I'm always amazed how her face lights up every time I pull out the purple item of the day. It really doesn't matter what the item is, it could be purple tights, or a purple hair bow, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, the sight of purple never fails to ignite the spark of contentment that's seen all over her face from the glint of a smirk to a slight sparkle in her eyes that's oh so evident once the purple item is revealed. At the moment, she is entirely happy in her plum sweatsuit, while her sister can't be happier in her pink tutu and matching leotard. It has always surprised me how different children can be from each other. Each has their own personality and unique quirks that make them individuals regardless of their genetic predisposition. I've learned that genetics really don't impact personality traits. The pink leotard and tutu are really just reflections of the personality of the five year old girl that feels like a princess every time she puts them on. She happens to be the perfect embodiment of a girl, or what we expect of girls from their behavior to the type shoes they pick out to wear. Today, her tutu is perfect for the occasion, our first stop on our list of the days activities. As we arrive, we are just in time for warm ups. I take a seat as the pink tutu disappears through the door leading to a room filled with little girls, all wearing pink tutu's and leotards. The three year old, Pooka and I sit in the waiting area. We'll be here for about an hour. There's one small observation window where those in the waiting area can observe our young daughter's plies and pointed toes. I prefer to sit quietly, catching up on some casual reading or homework for my financial management course. My three year old, Pooka is occupied, manipulating some preferred activity that typically keeps her busy and for the most part, quiet so as not to disturb observers consumed by the visions on the other side of the glass observation window.
Pooka's preferred activity typically keeps her quiet - today I'm sensing a bit of frustration. As she is manipulating her stimulation toy, her tone elevates and it seems that her preferred activity has begun to irritate her. She's not yelling or crying, just slightly annoyed. I reach out to her to offer some support, I give her a gentle rub on her thigh. She gazes up at me, looking through me, it looks like she's looking right into my eyes, without looking at me at all. Not a look of judgement, mostly a look of observation, almost like she's looking at her own reflection roll off the darkness of my iris. It seems as if she hasn't noticed my gentle strokes on her thigh based on the continuous elevation of her grunts and shrieks. I hadn't paid much attention to the scene around us, as my focus had been on resolving Pooka's internal conflict. When I did finally realize there were indeed other observers of Pooka's distress, my focus changed to seek out an immediate remedy to her elevating discontentment. As I reviewed my surroundings I began to notice other's judgment and interpretations of what was unfolding. In this room filled with family and extended family members of the young performers, I almost forgot about judgement and prejudice, especially judgement of children. Yet here, in this environment, judgement prevailed. I look up and catch the eyes of some young girl's grandfather, and his constant staring, in a questionable glare, almost hateful, beaming - carried with the confidence of faulting me, the mother. I try to ignore him and continue to offer some level of tangible comfort to Pooka. As much as I would like to, I can't ignore his expression as he stares at Pooka and looks upon her, as if she is inhuman, deranged. The other mothers in the room have watchful eyes that are more of a concerned wonder, as the level of comfort is interrupted and forced smiles and giggles replace the initial confused response. And here I am, trying to replace the comfortable atmosphere that was just lost, but it's too late. I want to scream out "SHE HAS AUTISM!", instead I make a botched attempt to grab the child's attention and redirect her away from doing the tensing gestures and loud "Grrrs" like a bear, but the child resists and resumes the behavior that has created the uneasy atmosphere. I am left, now also staring, but not at the child. I'm staring at the dark faces of parents and grandparents that are staring boldly back at me. I try to hide the tears that are swelling up in my eyes, but it's too late - they're falling now. The tears are almost comforting as the stares are lowered and the attention of the onlookers is redirected to something else... Dance class. Yes, of course, dance class. It's over now. Time to gather up their own children and go on with their day.
© Heather Berg 2011
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