Oh, the Unpalatable Food of Parents of Special Needs Children

I did not think I would have time to blog tonight/today, but it appears that I do since I am up "eating," following a phone call. The call came right in the middle of the night as I snoozed away here in Germany. Donnie, the husband. Well, Donnie would not have called me at this hour had there not been a dramatic need, and there was.

Doah, our mentally retarded youngest, had had an altercation with someone at work and had become violent (tried to bite). So, the staff, together with the owner of Doah's group home, was asking to increase his epilepsy medication. This is a considerable set-back since we had only two weeks ago convinced the doctor to begin weaning Doah from this medication based on the fact that he does not have epilepsy, has never had any kind of episode remotely similar to epilepsy, and does not have a violent nature. In fact, we were quite persistent about making the attempt to wean him from the medicine once we found out that the doctor had tried no alternatives to addictive medicine. Her reason: He is on MediCal insurance (state insurance for handicapped individuals in California -- no other insurance company will take him because he is a definite risk), which allows only 15 minutes a visit and a limited number of visits. So, she told us that all she has ever had time to do is measure the amount of medicine in his blood and re-prescribe and that is all she ever plans to do. (You have to admire the doctor's honesty.) If we want alternatives, they take time, and we would need to find another doctor. However, she could not recommend one because none that she knows is willing to work with MediCal patients because the payment is so low. Fortunately, she was willing, reluctantly, to try to lower the dosage of one of the addictive medicines Doah is taking.

I am not a doctor although sometimes I joke that given all our kids and grandkids with serious birth defects that I have earned an honorary medical degree. Well, obviously not so. I have no idea whether the fact that Doah has had this medicine in his system has caused some changes that show up in violent actions as a side-effect of withdrawal or whether Doah with age (now nearly 30) has become unable to handle some of his emotions. Whenever he is with us, he is happy-go-lucky, and the times that he has been frustrated, he has generally released a 20-second flash flood of expletives that dries up as soon as I look at him and say his name sternly or with disappointment, depending upon the circumstances.

Here is a new wrinkle, and from half a world away I have no way to analyze the situation accurately. Reluctantly, I agreed to have him return to full medication. Frustrated, I complained to God about it and heard this little voice say: "He is my child." Oh, yeah, that's right. I am not in this alone anymore, like I was when I was an atheist. I have a Helper, a Supporter who actually loves both Doah and me. I felt a comforting stroking which I don't know how to explain: sensation without sensation. But that reinforced my understanding that God will take care of this one way or another.

Now, though, I cannot go back to bed. I am ravenous. I rummaged around my emotional refrigerator and found what I am hungering for: a huge piece of humble pie. I will finish that, and then I can get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another day. Meanwhile, I don't have to worry about Doah. God is doing that.