Thanksgiving, again

Not five days after my last post about my dad, he had a stroke.  I bulleted down to Florida and was in the Neurology ICU before that day's end.  Shortly after the stroke, before I boarded my flight,  my sister put the phone to my dad's ear.  He told me he loved me and cried.

Luck, or divine Intervention or both has my dad back to normal and at home in his bed, and I in mine, tonight just three days after he said goodbye to me.  My sister, a nurse, just happened to be standing near my dad when she saw that he was acting oddly...she called 911 within the first minute...the ambulance arrived and transported him to the hospital within the next 15 minutes.  The stroke intervention, TPA, must be administered within 35 minutes of the event.  He got it within that window.  TPA only works on 50% of clots and it worked on his.  

My dad is extraordinarily lucky and we are immeasurably grateful.  We love you Popi.

                                     

Thanks to Popi

My Dad flew up from Florida to join us for Thanksgiving.  I am grateful that my dad was here with us.  He is unflappably positive and the role model for all of us about how to love.  My husband is fond of saying that when he grows up he wants to be just like Popi.

Popi and Cesare have a special bond.  Popi and Cesare are exceedingly silly, for one.  This is one of my favorite shots that capture my dad the muse/photographer and Cesare the protégé.:

Ces and Popi had some nice moments together last week.  I worry that each will be our last.  

Growing Pains

Such slippery territory is this young adult phase in my son's life.   Newly 18 and a six month post graduate from high school,  my son needs to learn to shape his own life.  Thus far the shape he has chosen is sitting cross legged in front of the XBOX.  Cesare does work three afternoons a week interning in a local manufacturing plant.  I am proud of him for sticking with this, even on days he doesn't especially want to go.   His paychecks acrue in the checking account I helped him open a few weeks ago.  He doesn't spend his savings: he wants for nothing...except to play his video games.

And so I, as I find many parents do, ask myself how much is too much?  If left to his own choices Cesare will play 10 hours of video games without so much as a pause.  I think any reasonable person would agree that this is excessive.  Why?  Because, as experts in the UK, Australia, the US and many other countries will enthusiastically tell us excessive gaming is bad for children.  It interferes with their social lives, and their school work.  It can lead to health problems..obesity and, in surprisingly not rare cases, blood clots resulting in death!

But for my son, as for so many of the young men I work with at my Alternative High School, this is their opiate.  And this is their platform for social connections.  This is the arena in which they excel.  This is the one arena that is manageable and utterly under their control.  I've read articles written by mothers of sons with Aspergers who feel that the XBOX (and XBOX Live) has given their child social connections that are free of judgement and in which their sons can feel competent.

The amount of time that my son spends playing games on his XBOX is worrying me.  It isn't the shear uninterrupted hours that is the most concerning, it is that there seems to be so little else in his life that draws his interest. It doesn't take the therapist in me to suspect depression, any parent can see when their child is withdrawing from life.  My concerns about how Cesare spends his time is rolled up in equally wavy territory concerning his newly emerging status as an adult.  Just weeks into this eighteen year old variety of adulthood, I have curbed, considerably, the number of edicts I hand out.  I make "suggestions" and I express "concerns".  Just a mere six months ago my 17 year old twins lived by rules that included small doses of XBOX in order to make room for homework, chores and life.  That's not so easy now.  And it shouldn't be.  Disability or not, Cesare must begin to make decisions for himself.  

And so I've been tip toeing around him a bit this week looking for an opportunity to bring him into a meaningful conversation about how he spends his time and his life in general. No small undertaking.  

I decided that this conversation could wait no more.  He had a good day at his part time job, he was freshly showered (under duress) and seemed amenable to an interruption in his game play.  

My brilliant and sensitive son patiently explained to me that he feels the need to find ways to deal  with his life.  "It's my coping mechanism, Mom."  Coping with epilepsy, I asked?  "No" he says emphatically, "I don't have to cope with something that has always been there and will always be there.  I've never known anything else."  It is his brother's absence that causes him such grief, he said.  Griffin had just returned to college the day before and won't be home for another three weeks for the Winter Break.   "It's like watching a conveyor belt going by in front of me.  And it's always empty.  But then suddenly someone puts a big pile of candy on the belt, that I'm not allowed to touch." (Referring to his anticipated return of Griff)  It just keeps sliding by in front of me, and since I can't touch it I have to distract myself...I can't think about it."  Ces is teary now, talking about his candy-brother.

Cesare rarely talks about his feelings and I foolishly had no idea he missed his twin so much.  But, of course I should have.  But I read more into what he's telling me.  I read that he is also mourning the emptiness of his "conveyor belt".  How vividly dark that seems to me.  The imagery also reminds me of life literally passing him by.

I've written in the past about offering whatever opportunities for fun and social engagement I can think of in this semi-rural town in which we live.  Cesare has declined each offer.

I don't think this state of mind, or state of life,  is endemic to only those with epilepsy.  I know that many young people don't see the world before them as laid on a silver platter.  I think too many see a conveyor belt squeaking by them as empty as Cesare's.  What these images have in common, though, is a world view where life and all of its opportunities come to you.  Perhaps these views also have a parent behind the curtain who is guilty of cranking the conveyor belt out before their differently-abled child filled with arranged playdates, arts and crafts offerings, hot and cold running meals, and activities for sunny Sundays.

My wish for Ces is to see opportunities as waiting for him to come and get them.  He'll have to venture out into territory that isn't comfortable or familiar to him.  I think it's called growing up.  [We] parents have a shift coming too.  To support but not enable.  To point them in the right direction, but then get out of the way.  Wow.  Is that easier said than done.