I Don't Know What to Do

A journey through grief

As the nearly full cup of sugar-free lemonade went flying through the doorway into the dining room, a primal scream escaped my lungs surprising my son as much as it surprised me. Clearly, I had had enough and hit a tipping point in my ability to hold my shit together. So as the bright orange cup was still spinning in circles after landing from its frustration-induced flight, I told my son (sternly) to take a seat at the table.

These are the parenting moments of which I am least proud. Typically my anger resides so deep within my being that by the time it makes its way to the surface it’s nothing more than an eye roll or a passive aggressive remark. That’s not the case today. Today, it is on full, fiery display.

And when I allow myself to take a few thoughtful breaths, I quickly come to the conclusion that the eruption of anger manifested in me shouting loud enough that my throat now hurts has little to do with my son converting his drinking cup into a projectile and more to do with overall circumstances of my life.

I never would have screamed like that when Peter was alive.

I wouldn’t have to. We shouldered the parenting of our three boys and the navigating of their varied diagnosis and disabilities together. And a yoke shared across four shoulders feels far less weighty than across only two.

This morning I, and my two lonely shoulders, collapsed under its weight.

What got me here? What caused our son to bat his full cup of lemonade off the kitchen table? What has me sitting at the keyboard processing not only this morning but the last year and a half?

Here’s how my morning went up to this point…

Some time in the night, our eldest son made his way downstairs to the bathroom and didn’t even come close to hitting the toilet when he vomited. Imagine my surprise when I flipped on the light and was about to enter in.

He hadn’t yet emerged from his bedroom when I made my discovery, closed the door and walked away. A mix of concern and frustration beginning to grow.

And when I opened the door to his room, his greeting; “It puked” caught me less by surprise than that which I encountered as my eyes scanned the room. “It puked,” alright. And as I took him to get cleaned up and dressed, I did as I had already done with the bathroom door downstairs, I closed the door to his room and walked away.

Seeing that our son was no worse for wear, it was only frustration that continued to ratchet up. And no, I don’t believe that when he says; “it puked,” he is referring to himself as “it.” I think, in some miraculous way, he’s garnered enough cognitive ability to scapegoat the blame for the condition of his room.

And this is not the first time I have found our son’s room this way when entering in the morning to start his day. And it won’t be the last. And as much as it absolutely sucks to name that… it’s just part and parcel to what we deal with here in the Sylvia household.

For instance, just yesterday, our son’s greeting as I opened the door was; “It peed.” This wasn’t the first time. And again, it won’t be the last. And let’s just say that that greeting is far more welcome than the one accompanying the literal shit show I encountered last week.

Once our son was dressed and downstairs, I got him his medicine and his breakfast and sat him down at the table to eat. It was some time later, after our other boys had left for school, that things escalated.

I honestly can’t recall what I was doing, which speaks to the mental state I am in. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago when this all occurred and I’m sitting to write about it now with little recollection.

Whatever it was that I was doing, our son was doing something that he shouldn’t have been. And when redirected… he was set off. Now, it is not unusual for him to exhibit frustration when things don’t go his way. I’m sure I was the same way when I was his age. However, with the deficit in expressive language skills with which he lives, frustration comes more frequently for our son. And as of late, that frequency has increased.

Perhaps it’s hormones… or a chemical imbalance due to ongoing adjustments to medication levels. Maybe it’s grief. Whatever it is, our son’s behavior has shifted significantly so that frustration, anger and aggression have become steady visitors… as this morning has shown.

A failed attempt at redirection led to our son’s frustration level spiking, his anger becoming visible and a plastic drinking cup full of lemonade soaring through the air.

And it led to my response which I’m not proud to claim.

How am I not having a nervous breakdown? I’ve asked myself this question numerous times… especially as of late. And the truth is… I don’t have time for a nervous breakdown. I really don’t even have time to sit here and write about it. Though writing seems to be the one thing these days that herds together all of the scurrying thoughts in my mind. I’m sure my meds help, too.

I have far too many things vying for my attention. There is so much more to which I have to tend now without Peter. And it seems I’ve not only reached a limit… I’ve gone over it. And I am currently unable to see a way back.

I place a bucket in the sink and turn on the hot water while I go upstairs to strip our son’s bed, being very careful where I place my feet as I move around his bed.

I begin by mopping up the mess on the floor of the dining room… and the various places the lemonade splashed. I then mop the bathroom and our son’s bedroom. I’ve put the first load of bedding in the washing machine… the same bedding I just washed yesterday.

I do my best to move past what has occurred and to restore a sense of calm to my life and to our home.

I haven’t even been able to take the time to jump in the shower. And now that our son is up and about… and dysregulated… I don’t see that I’ll be doing so anytime soon. Though after cleaning up what I’ve had to clean up… it will be beyond welcome.

Now I know that someone will read about my morning and quickly land in the place that has them saying something like; “Why didn’t you tell me it had gotten so bad?” Or “Why didn’t you ask for help?” To which my beyond-frustrated, unfiltered self might say; “Why the hell don’t you just shut up?!?!” And yet, I know better.

I know that those who ask these poorly-worded question mean no ill will. I know they want to be helpful and just don’t know how to be. They don’t know what to do. And, that makes two of us. I don’t know what to do either.

I don’t know what to do to lessen our son’s frustration.

I don’t know what to do to keep myself from getting overwhelmed.

I don’t know what to do to ensure that I won’t be screaming once again.

I don’t know what to do to regain my ability to focus and organize my time.

I don’t know what to do to.

So I write. I sit in my recliner, laptop before me. I forgo the shower. I try to do as little as possible to provoke our son. I contemplate having a cigar.

A headache has now joined with my sore throat, and emotional exhaustion is making it very difficult to keep my eyes open. God, how I’d love to have a nap.

Instead, I’ll look over the laundry list of things I was supposed to be doing today and see if there’s anything I can salvage. And if not… tomorrow’s another day. Hopefully one without a need to re-wash bedding or re-mop floors. Hopefully one where “it sleeps” and wakes up in a better mood.