February, 2010

The Statue of Our Lady of Angels, originally uploaded by palewire.

Eliza had Croup. I know she had Croup. She’s had it before and it’s hard to miss – that cough. I did what I was told to do when she was a baby and gave her moist air to breathe. I got out the cold air humidifier and took short strolls outside in the evening with her all bundled up. I knew it wouldn’t last too long and I was okay with the sleepless nights holding her while she slept. I was actually quite proud of the calm way I was handling it. The entire incident occurred without a frantic call to either my parents (who are in the medical profession), 811 (our provincial nurses hotline) or a medical clinic visit. Considering the way our fall went with H1N1 and the bilateral pneumonia, I thought I did pretty good.

Wednesday morning she woke up with a bloody nose. Wheezing, lethargic and with blood smeared across her face. That was the picture of my daughter I was left with as I took Franklin to school and went to work for the day. This image was burned into my brain all day.

As a result, Dickson took her to the doctor on Wednesday afternoon. Although the Croup cough had subsided, she was straining with that horrible high wheeze and sucking collar bone – all the signs that they tell you don’t want to see. Her breathing was taking up all of her energy. When you know what she is truly like, and understand how much force she can give, it is frightening to then see her like she was on Wednesday.

Why?!?
Why do all colds seem to affect her so strongly? My friend Hayley reminded me that Franklin was very much the same and he is fine now – hardly ever sick – but this trial by fever I do not appreciate.

I was sitting watching Franklin’s Aikido class on Wednesday afternoon when Dickson called to tell me that Eliza no longer had Croup as her cough was too wet. In fact she had Bronchitis and early onset Pneumonia. He was on his way to track down inhalers, aero-chambers and antibiotics.

That moist air I was so readily providing her with? That was most likely the trigger of all of this. This certainly isn’t the case for most kids but as she’s so susceptible… the damage from the previous pneumonia… her little body…

ah, crap. I feel horrible.

It’s Friday night and she’s had a few good days with my mother here. Yet, as I write this the monitor next to the keyboard is on full blast and I can hear occasions of laboured breathing and fits of coughing. I’ll probably be sleeping in her room on the floor again tonight.

With Eliza, I always feel that it’s only a matter of days before something goes horribly wrong. We went through similar episodes with Franklin but I never felt that I was fighting for his health like I feel I need to do with Eliza. Why is this? Why am I filled with such foreboding? Why do I worry that the mere act of posting this thought will bring this omen to light?

I’m posting this to try to get rid of my dread. Sometimes, when you actually voice your fear, you realize how crazy it actually is. I’m hoping to get this result. Stay tuned.

Sunday night, the night she started with the Croup cough, I started to sing a song to her that I had not sung since I attended Camp Morice as a kid.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you.
Blessed are you among women, and
Blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners now,
And at the hour of death. Amen.

Gentle woman, quiet light, morning star
so strong and bright,
gentle mother peaceful dove
teach us wisdom; teach us love.

You were chosen by the Father:
You were chosen for the Son,
You were chosen from all women
and for woman shining one.

Blessed are you among women
Blessed in turn all women too
Blessed they with peaceful spirits
Blessed they with gentle hearts.

It is a soothing song. Eliza falls asleep to it almost immediately, even on those nights that are full of coughing and fevers. I sang it to her tonight as well, although she was asleep well before the first verse was finished. I sang it over and over again because I wasn’t singing it for her this time, I was singing it for my friend Emily who died this morning after a long fight with cancer.

Because no matter how crazy things get in my life and how scared I am of what “might” happen to Eliza or in an earthquake, I know that am a very, very lucky person to have everyone in my life for the time that I have them.

I will miss you, Emily.

Albert_Einstien, originally uploaded by SaYeD AllAM.

It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.
Albert Einstein

There was a parenting moment when Franklin was a toddler that clicked for me. He was in that stage of rebellion where he was testing the limits and I was trying my best to be as consistent as possible. It seemed that everyday he would try the same thing, whine about the same require or ask the same questions. I wasn’t sure how long it was going to last but after a while his insistence on doing something like throwing his trains off the balcony was getting a bit old. There was quite a collection down there and the whining when I didn’t run down to get them was grating on my nerves.

Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. He got it. He understood. The dreaded balcony phase was finished. Thank God and all his minions.

It was around that time that many other of his precious little annoyances stopped. He put on his coat without issue. He didn’t insist on buying a toy or a book when we went into a store. He even began to understand the concept of leaving. Those 5 minute, 4 minute, 3 minute, 2 minute, 1 minute count down warnings were working.

The parenting light bulb?
Consistency works.

What doesn’t seem to work?
Giving up.

And this brings me to my present frustration: Star Wars.
My world is completely immersed in George Lucas’ fictional fantasy. What I would give for Franklin to move out of this phase. Even his teacher has mentioned that the Star Wars has gotten to be a bit much.
A mother told me this morning that for many kids, this isn’t a phase like trains, dinosaurs and sharks. This one is for keeps. I don’t know why I thought differently. My brother-in-law still plays with Star Wars toys.
Nevertheless, Lego Atlantis looks promising. I don’t want to discourage the building so with the new line of Lego right now being The Lost City of Atlantis (a little colonial subjugation seems to be the norm with these themes but it’s not the story that interests him so I let it pass) we’re headed to the library this weekend to get out some NON-Star Wars related books.

One of my biggest frustrations about Star Wars (much of the good outweighs the bad so I have few issues in total) is the famous (infamous) quote from Yoda on Dagobah when he’s training Luke Skywalker to be a Jedi:

“Do or do not. There is no Try”

See how Luke gave up there?
Force Shrmorf

What does that mean? What message does this send? As Franklin and I work through his math and he gets frustrated at his inability to master it right away, I tell him that it’s his trying that counts. He retorts that he just can’t do it. “But there IS no try, Mom.” Apparently, his inability to do it now means that he will never be able to do it.

Argh.

So, it’s a quote battle? Franklin with his fictional myth of omnipotent trolls and fundamental faith tests against me and my Albert Einstein.

That quote from Einstein at the start of this post intrigued him, actually. Einstein was a physicist and Franklin’s dream is to study physics. As a result, he kept on trying that night.

I no longer congratulate him on a “job well done” but on the process, the effort of trying. It’s hard for me though. I’m a results kind of person. Last week, when I asked him about his spelling test he only said, “Good!”. It was so hard to resist asking him his actual result but I didn’t succumb. The result isn’t what matters, it is how hard he tried – whether he tried his best or not. I’m glad he was satisfied with it. At least it was a change from “HORRIBLE! I got a word WRONG!”

Last night, while we were doing the math practice, he got very excited. Things were clicking and strategies were working. His bulbs were going on and he was beginning to realize that “trying” may be a good thing after all.

The same went for me. My worry of watching my 7 year old son give up on a dream because of his assumption of math being too difficult was starting to ease up. Keep working at it and yes, it will click. It is not the math bulb that made me relieved but that his understanding of effort being more important than the final result.

Thanks, Albert.

Secret #23 I Have Synesthesia; 15 Questions- Question 10, originally uploaded by Diogioscuro.

For quite a while now, I’ve known that Franklin sees the world in a different way. I don’t really talk about this in any specifics other than mentioning the odd interest or personality trait but the world around him just moves at a different pace. It’s not a faster or slower pace, it is hopping and swerving and prancing around him in circles. He lives in a wonderful world.

Many times, as someone who can get quite caught up in her own world, I haven’t stopped to marvel at how wacky and wonderful. I mean, sometimes it’s hard to capture what he is seeing unless you know him really well. He’s an open kid but the things he mentions when he talks about how he is observing the world are in side explanations of grand stories. He’s too busy living in his bright reality and not really understanding that other people see things in a much duller light. It is actually one of my future concerns, the day he realizes this, because I think it will sadden him and in some ways darken him.

We all learn when we are children that everyone sees things differently. We learn that my red is not necessarily your red. What I see and call red could actually be what you see as blue, green or purple. The coolest thing about this thought is that I will never, ever be able to see the red that you see. I will never understand that part of you and, in turn, you will never understand this part of me. My perspective in completely inaccessible no matter how many diagrams I draw or discussions we have. That part of you is the most private thing you can have. It is the most private thing I can have.

For some reason, the way I felt about things and my opinions about the world were closely guarded when I was growing up. I would rarely talk to people about the things I felt the most passionate about. I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve talked to about music. Until I was 35 years old, that number could be counted on a single finger and no, it wasn’t my husband. A nun who taught me piano when I was in grade school was the only person who knew the kind of experiences I have when I hear music. Now I also count my husband and one other friend.

However, Franklin is different. He doesn’t guard his ideas closely or fears talking about them. If he doesn’t let you in on his thoughts it’s because he very often thinks you are right along side him. It is both an incredible honour and incredibly frustrating to be in that position. Everyday can result in a misunderstanding and/or a feeling of wanting to hold him tight and never let him go.

A few months ago, Franklin told me that his numbers were colours. It was a cool insight into his brain that I thought was one more journey he was on – like the one where he knew how to fly and the one where his house is made of lego bricks. In actual fact, he gets a sense of colour with every number. Some of the numbers have the same colour and others are the same colour but in a different shade. His shapes take colours as well.

Franklin has something called “Synesthesia“. Which, in science speak, means he has “a neurologically-based condition in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway”. However, this makes it sound ominous and disorder/disease-like so I prefer the more casual definition, that basically says it is a condition in which one sense (for example, hearing) is simultaneously perceived as if by one or more additional senses such as sight. Franklin’s form joins objects such as letters and shapes with a sensory perception of color. It is “joined perception” and it is not something a doctor needs to diagnose or treat.

Of course, there are drawbacks right now as he takes on the challenge of learning the basics of math. It’s not so much that synesthetes are hampered by math if they have a joined perception with numbers. In fact, in many ways it can help you memorize or create patterns that others don’t see. However, just as some synesthetes will eat ice cream with chicken in order to create the sensation of a wonderful shade of blue, Franklin feels that some numbers just can’t combine with others as the colour sensation is not agreeable. I know he will eventually get over this and understand math in a way that will be more functional but a part of me feels like I’m suppressing this wonderful part of him while we practice his drills.

As I’m learning more and more about the science behind Synesthesia I’m fascinated by the fact that this kind of perception is hereditary. In fact, the mere ability to easily verbalize the condition means that it is easily traced through families and one day may be isolated in a gene. The concept that the way we perceive the world, the way our realities are constructed could be more than the way we are nurtured but are actually part of our nature…. well, it all blows me away.

As does this incredible stop animation short film, Synesthesia.