I may have mentioned it over the years, but I am not sure I’ve ever fully given you the credit you’re due. My son, Dylan, was the lion in the second grade performance of The Lion and the Mouse about a million years ago. I think it was your first year teaching at his school. Dylan had a solo song. Here is the video link, as a reminder: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPDkCrjKFLA
That class of second graders graduated last year.
Every time I watch that video, I remember Dylan telling me about the audition process. Every week, he would come home and tell me about music class, about singing this song all by himself. And then he would say that you asked other kids to sing, too. Dylan had no idea why he was singing, but I figured out that he must be auditioning for something. And after several weeks, he was lucky enough to get the part of the lion.
At the time, I had no idea what a big deal it was – but Dylan had a tough run through elementary school. He has ADHD and most teachers didn’t understand him. Music became the one positive thing in his life and he started taking voice lessons in 3rd grade. Long story short, this is Dylan in 2017: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CrgZ-AsRBm0
He’s got lots and lots of videos online now. I’m not sharing so that you will respond – there really is no need. I’m sharing because Dylan’s school career was almost unbearable at times – but singing changed his life. He is now headed to Belmont University, a very nice music school, and he’s planning to work in the music industry.
If you had chosen someone else for that lion role, I’m not sure Dylan would have taken the same path. Maybe he would have – but maybe it was just the thought that someone cared enough to ask him to sing in front of the whole class that helped him on his way.
Now that I am a substitute teacher, I have a tiny taste of how much work you do for very little reward. But in this case, in Dylan’s case, your choices and your efforts made a sincere difference in his life, and I thought you deserved to know that. You gave him a spark of hope, that something good existed at school, that he could do SOMEthing well. And he’s carried that spark with him for 10 years.
So THANK YOU – for choosing him, for having some faith in him at the age of 8, and for teaching him. It HAS made a difference! Thanks so much.
For Family Weekend, we went to see Dylan. He was doing better than he had been when we rudely visited before he’d gotten his bearings. In fact, he was doing really, really well.
He’s taking 14 credits, including chorus and voice lessons. He’s registered for a study abroad program. He’s getting good grades and doing what he needs to do to keep good grades.
Dylan is not only completing his work on time, and talking to his professors, and keeping his room clean, and finding friends, and singing and jamming whenever possible. Dylan is actually happy!
It’s awesome to see him so happy. It’s the best thing about college so far – and there are a lot of good things about college.
But even though he’s feeling content, and even though he’s practically giddy in his independence, he is still over-the-top phenomenal when he’s on stage.
So during Family Weekend, we convinced him to get up and sing at Open Mic night. We enjoyed the vast talents – mostly girls with guitars who had written their own songs. (That would have been me in another life.) But we especially enjoyed Dylan’s performance.
He got up to sing and had a few mishaps. First, his phone battery was dying. Then a cord came loose, a mic was turned off, and he nearly knocked over the keyboard stand. He temporarily forgot the words to the song. And the tiny stage could barely contain his large presence.
Yet it was possibly his best performance ever.
So I’m sharing it here, in case anyone else wants to see it.
I watch it every day, because it makes me smile and cry at the same time. And as a mom, there’s nothing better.
Dylan had to get his own accommodations this year. Unlike high school, where I handled everything, Dylan was responsible for getting his own accommodations.
He learned that he got just what he had in high school: time-and-a-half for testing, a copy of class or online notes provided for each class, and access to a computer for lengthy writing assignments.
All Dylan had to do was to arrange a meeting with the student support services office. This is something that could only happen after classes started, when his parents were long gone from campus.
Dylan’s meeting took place during the first week of school. It happened at 10:30 on a Friday. I know. I remembered. I panicked all week long that Dylan would forget to go to the meeting, and thereby forfeit his accommodations.
But he went to his meeting. There’s a chance I asked him too many times if he was prepared, if he knew where it was, if he remembered what time it was taking place. But he made it.
Then they told him that he needed to meet with each of his professors, and have them sign a paper. He had two weeks to get the papers signed, and then he needed to return those papers to the student support office.
He didn’t tell me about this for a long time.
In fact, when I found out that there was something beyond the initial meeting, I was floored. How on earth would he remember to get papers signed in every, single class? And worse yet, how would he accomplish it in two weeks – and get it back to the office to finalize his accommodations?
I panicked again. But this time, I didn’t say a word. Dylan told me that he had to get the papers signed. It wasn’t my job anymore.
Yee-haw!
And Dylan mentioned that he’d gotten three out of four of those papers signed, even when I didn’t ask about it.
I wondered about that last paper, and I wondered about the looming deadline of “two weeks.” I didn’t keep track. I didn’t ask. And I didn’t know if he was handling it, or not.
Rather than drill Dylan about it for the entire two weeks, we visited him. And I casually asked him, over pizza, “So, you got your accommodations papers done and everything?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to turn them in tonight.”
It was well past closing time on a Friday, and we were at a restaurant off campus.
“Tonight?” I asked, trying to be calm.
“Yeah,” Dylan said. “Today’s the last day of the two weeks, so I have to turn in the papers before midnight. I got them all signed; I just have to turn them in.”
My mind flashed back to all of those times Dylan had spent hours on a homework assignment, and then forgotten to turn it in – for weeks.
“But it’s really late,” I said. “Won’t the office be closed?”
“No, I just have to drop it off,” he said. “The building’s always open.”
“Okay,” I said.
Trying. To. Remain. Calm.
Three days later, from my home ten hours away, I texted him: Did you ever turn in your accommodations papers?
Yeah, he texted back. The office was closed when I tried on Friday…
(Oh, SURPRISE! I thought.)
… but I turned it in on Monday and it was fine.
It was fine.
If I’d done more than I did, it probably wouldn’t have been fine at all. But Dylan handled it. He was late; but he did it all by himself.
I think my least favorite of all the food policies in the world is the one I discovered when I went to Potbelly Sandwich Shop.
Upon arrival at the made-to-order sandwich shop, I perused the menu. Since I am trying to eat well, and gluten is a huge factor in causing my ailments, a salad at Potbelly is a good choice for me.
And I was happy to learn that I had the option of having a monstrous, ridiculous salad that I can’t possibly eat, or half a salad: the perfect size.
“I will have the half house salad, please, with…” I began.
“You can’t get a half salad unless you get soup or a sandwich,” said the apathetic employee.
“But I don’t want soup or a sandwich. I just want a half salad.”
“The regular salad isn’t that much bigger,” he said, pointing to a giant plastic bowl that was clearly twice the size of the bowl for half of a salad.
“I have ordered that salad before,” I said. “And I threw half of it away.”
The employee shrugged.
And waited.
People mumbled behind me in line.
“What are my options again?”
“You can get soup or half a sandwich,” he said. He pointed at the board with all of my soup choices. They all had gluten or dairy overkill. He then pointed to my sandwich choices; there were a hundred.
“Do you have any sandwiches without gluten?” I asked, trying to save time.
“No…. I mean, you could get a sandwich without bread.”
“Well that’s not much of a sandwich, is it?” I was getting pretty frustrated. Soup was a lot less trouble. “Does your tomato soup have gluten?”
“Hey Charlie, does the tomato soup have gluten?” There was a long pause. “Yeah, it does.”
While waiting, I’d seen something that was just meat and mayo. “Chicken salad,” I said finally. “Just give me a scoop of chicken salad on a plate.”
He passed along my order – my salad and a chicken salad sandwich.
“No bread!” I nearly screamed.
“Oh right,” he said. “Make that sandwich with no bread!”
I love Potbelly salads. They are delicious. But is it really worth it?
Several months ago, my mother told me that Dylan could get accommodations in college.
“No,” I told her. “There’s no way! I’ve been researching it for years!” (Even at my advanced age, I think I am right about everything.)
“My friend’s husband does this for a living,” she said.
So I had to rethink. Maybe Mom was right after all.
Sure enough, Dylan could get accommodations for his ADHD at college. While on campus for orientation, I stopped in to see Student Support Services, the folks who handle such things.
“Sure,” they said. “He would just need to be retested if he hasn’t been tested in the past three years.”
Oh no, I thought. Dylan hadn’t been tested since the fourth grade. And even back then, it cost $2,300.
I broke the news to Dylan, and we gave up. This was long before he went to college, and we just figured he wouldn’t get accommodations. After all, we hadn’t been expecting them. He would have to survive.
Then Dylan got an email from the National Institutes of Health.
Dylan has been participating in an NIH study since he was in elementary school. Every couple of years, he visits them for a couple of days and they pay him a bucket-load of money to take quizzes and get an MRI.
So Dylan went back to NIH this summer, and pocketed some easy tuition funds.
A couple of weeks later, Dylan got a letter from NIH. It was a report, summarizing his visits – and announcing to the reader that Dylan definitely has ADHD, that he has been studied for many years, and that he still requires some accommodations with school work.
The NIH report solved everything. Dylan didn’t need to be retested. And his “recent report” came from the most prestigious research institution in the United States.
Dylan had to acquire his college accommodations on his own. He had to look through almost a decade’s worth of IEP paperwork, and was quite surprised at its relative uselessness.
“None of this even means anything!” he said. “And why would they need this? Or this?”
“You have no idea, Son,” I said. “I’ve been doing this for ten years!”
Eventually, Dylan got them what they needed, scanned it into the computer, and emailed it off.
A few weeks later, thanks mostly to my mom and NIH, Dylan had a letter assuring his accommodations.
All he had to do was go to a meeting on campus after he arrived – which he did – and have the documents signed by his professors.
My recent outburst about Shane and Dylan not having any meaningful memorabilia in their own homes was directed entirely at Shane, since Dylan is at college. They’d both been asked to do a school project about a meaningful item – and they’d both chosen food at their grandparents’ house.
“There has to be something in your own house that has meaning to you!” I shrilled.
Shane said repeatedly, while I was screeching, that if he’d had more time, he would almost certainly have been able to find something with value in his very own room.
Having seen Shane’s bedroom, and heard his excuses, I doubted he’d have found anything. But an hour later, I found a pile of stuff in the hallway, outside of my bedroom door. There were nine specially chosen items, with a note handwritten in pencil, in Shane’s unique scrawl. It said:
Stuff I got from you in this house that I would’ve totally picked over a gift card if I had more/any time to look
There was not just “something” with meaning. There was everything.
There was a poster with Shane’s preschool face enlarged in its center, surrounded by adjectives that described Shane: angelic, careful, lovable, fast, sweet, intelligent – and two dozen more. There was his all-time favorite book of bedtime stories, written so long ago that I’d read them when I was a child. There was an antique Fisher Price toy, a video game, a Gameboy, a CD set of his favorite Christian radio show.
Then there was a photo frame that said “Me and My Big Brother” – a gift to me when Shane was born – with their first photo together. On one end of the pile of stuff was his very first stuffed pug – the one he got in place of a real one – and on the other end was his well-worn ping pong racquet, rough around the edges from all the paddling.
I looked at the pile, so neatly arranged, and realized that Shane’s understanding of sentimental value is even better than mine. He not only has a slew of things he loves and values, but he found them from every chunk of his young life, and put them together like a work of art that described his very essence.
Sure, there’s probably plenty more in which he finds meaning. And yes, he did his creative writing paper based on a gift card because he forgot to think about the assignment when he was at home. But in a few short minutes, Shane showed me that he knows – he understands the value in his childhood possessions.
And he showed me that I should never have doubted him at all.
After a three-week wait, we went to see a new therapist for Shane.
Shane’s first therapist was fine. He took insurance, which made him free to us for a long while. That was a huge plus. But sometimes it felt like he was reading his treatment plans from a book – like he didn’t really know Shane. He just kept forcing Shane to do uncomfortable things related to germs.
The treatment concepts were correct. But OCD isn’t just about germs. In fact, while Shane does have some issues with germs, the entire base of his OCD is unrelated. Shane has an illogical sense that everything he does could inadvertently hurt someone else.
I scoured the internet trying to find information about Shane’s particular malady. The diagnosis of OCD definitely fit, but Shane isn’t all about hand-washing and checking to be sure the oven is off.
The OCD stereotype doesn’t fit Shane. That’s not his kind of OCD.
Shane feels guilty for things he doesn’t do. He feels guilty for things he thinks he might do. He feels guilty for things he thinks he might have done that haven’t even actually happened. And he spends a lot of time confused as to if he should feel guilty, because his brain is telling him that he is guilty as sin.
I found the term “scrupulosity” on the web. It’s a form of OCD where the sufferer believes he must atone for every sin in some sort of religious atonement. That was as close as I could get to “diagnosing” Shane’s particular OCD – but Shane really didn’t have a religious component to his thoughts. And his first therapist didn’t help when I mentioned “scrupulosity” to him. He changed nothing about treatment.
We spent two hours with the new therapist – not the old lady who didn’t listen to Shane, and not the writer of Shane’s prescription.
We spent two hours with a man who listened to Shane, who heard what he said, who wrote down appropriate notes, and who actually understood what Shane was doing. He understood what Shane was saying. He got Shane.
About 20 minutes into the session – which included me – I practically saw a light bulb go off above the psychologist’s head. I think the new therapist recognized that Shane was bright, and that he was going to understand more than some kids might. He started talking to Shane like the young adult that he is, and Shane responded in kind.
Sometime during that two hours, the new therapist said two terms that struck me: “hyper-responsibility” and “responsibility OCD.” I had never heard either, from any other licensed person, or in all of my internet research. So I typed those terms into my phone for further investigation.
I liked the new guy, but I wanted to see what Shane thought. So at the end of the session, I texted Shane when the therapist stepped away for a moment.
This guy? Or the one you’ve been seeing? I asked.
This guy, Shane texted. There was no hesitation.
As we were leaving, the new therapist said, “Sometimes it’s difficult to transition from one therapist to another, so…”
Shane – who rarely interrupts – interrupted. “I felt more comfortable with you in five minutes,” he said, “than I felt with the other guy – ever.”
So Shane got a new therapist.
When I went home, I studied Responsibility OCD online. Everything I read about Responsibility OCD describes Shane’s ailment impeccably. It’s exactly what Shane has.
And it’s exactly – now, finally – what we’re going to treat.
My mother makes a fantastic chocolate pudding-based delight that wows the grandkids for every special occasion. So Dylan wrote a five-minute speech about the special meaning of Mimi’s Oreo dessert in his life.
At virtually the same time, Shane had an assignment for his creative writing class.
“We had to write about an object that meant a lot to us,” he said. “But I just looked in my backpack and saw a Ben & Jerry’s gift card. So I decided to write my paper on how we eat Ben & Jerry’s at Mimi’s house on Christmas.”
And that’s when I started to feel … hurt. Mimi’s Oreo dessert, and now ice cream at Mimi’s house. We have ice cream at our house!
After 19 years of desperately trying to provide everything my children could ever want or need – not one single thing matters to either of them from inside our own home.
To be fair, I loved my grandmother’s M-n-M cookies and Lemon Blennd, so I should have been more understanding.
Instead, I laid into Shane.
“It’s not really about ice cream,” Shane said in his own defense. “It’s about spending that wonderful holiday with all the people I love.”
“But you’re telling me that there is absolutely nothing in your own home that means more to you than a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream!”
“What would you have said?” Shane countered.
I looked around. There was the orchid that Bill got when we were first dating – a once single-stalked plant that grew into a monster over 25 years. Nearby is a photo of my children watching fireworks at Disney World; that photo’s story is a full book waiting to happen. On my desk sits a stone rabbit that is profoundly meaningful to me.
“The orchid,” I said, and told Shane the story.
“But what about when you were a kid?” he countered.
I thought back to my childhood: the myriad of stuffed animals, some of which were made by my own grandmother; the baseball cap I got during my first season of softball; those black, leopard-print pillows on our couch; my first camera; the picnic table in our breakfast nook; my butterfly collection; my rock collection; my banana-seated bicycle; my purple velour jacket; our giant spool-style tables; even the green plastic cup from when my parents worked at a plastics factory. I could have written essays on all of those, and then written a hundred more.
Shane pointed out that it was his family that mattered, not the material possession he chose. But I guess I see things differently.
To me, everything I keep, even only in my memories, represent more than just “stuff.” They represent my family – who we are, who we were, who we want to be. Through them, I can tell the stories of how we lived, who we were, what I love most about my life. It’s not about the objects, but I find value in what so very many objects represent.
It’s all tied together – for me, at least.
For my kids, apparently, there’s no value in the things around them. And probably, that’s my fault. Maybe I never showed them how much they can appreciate things for what they say about us as a family.
Or maybe they just never learned to connect emotionally with stuff because they were too busy connecting emotionally with people, especially their beloved grandparents.
During that time, I researched medication. I learned more about side effects. I kept thinking, Gee, this is for depression. Why are they using it for OCD? Is it the only thing they have?
Of course, having gone to the nightmare nurse practitioner who didn’t care at all about Shane, and who didn’t impress me as “knowledgeable,” I had no one to whom I could direct my questions.
Meanwhile, we started looking for another therapist. The search for medication had inspired me to look for an OCD expert, not just a therapist who put it on the page as “something he treated.”
Having been to Shane’s original therapist several times, including during the group family session, I felt a bit like Shane was receiving treatment from someone who had never treated OCD before. All of the answers he gave me were identical to the things I’d read on the internet – nothing more. So after a recommendation from a friend, and another recommendation from a psychologist, I made an appointment – three weeks in the future – for Shane to try a different therapist.
The pharmacy called me last week: “You have a prescription waiting to be picked up.”
“Sorry,” I said. “That’s my fault. I will get it.”
Then I waited another week. When I showed up, finally, on my way to somewhere else and in a rush, the prescription had been cancelled.
“Cancelled?” I fumed. “I said I was going to pick it up!”
“We’ll fill it,” said the very pleasant pharmacist. “Just give us ten minutes.”
I waited three weeks. I’m not waiting another ten minutes, I thought. So I left.
“We’re open until 9:00 tonight!” they yelled as I left.
That night, Bill picked up the prescription. He put it on the top shelf, with all of the old ADHD supplements that haven’t been discarded yet.
And that’s where it will stay, probably. Because Shane doesn’t need it anymore.
Shane had a few friends over last week, and he was responsible for all of the host duties.
“Get your friends something to drink,” I said, as I left the teens alone with their pizzas. I went to my computer, and they went out to our garage refrigerator, where the soda is kept. Moments later, they were back in the kitchen.
I heard Shane say, “Do you want a breakable cup or a non-breakable one?”
There was a pause; I couldn’t hear the response.
“Do you want a big cup, a small cup, or a medium-sized cup?”
Another pause. Then: “Do you want ice?”
Pause. “Okay, do you want cubed ice, crushed ice or a mix of cubed and crushed ice?”
At that point, one of his friends laughingly said, “Shane, why are you so specific? Why don’t you just get a cup and put some ice in it?”
And while it was funny… from the other room I thought, Because he wants to do it right.
I totally understood why he was asking all those questions; he wanted his guests to be happy. And because Shane cares about the little details for his own cup, he asked his guests about details for their cups.
I think there are a lot of people who wouldn’t understand this tactic.
But I do, because I care about my cup, too. In fact, I drink almost exclusively out of a water bottle, even when I go out. I carry it with me everywhere I go; I feel naked without it. It’s not breakable, which means I can toss it around without worry. And it’s just the right size.
I absolutely detest ice, but if I have to use it to make something sufficiently cold, I prefer the crushed style.
But my point is: Shane grew up with someone who is particular. And he’s always enjoyed even the smallest opportunities to choose what he likes best.
So of course, when his friends came over, he treated them the way he wants to be treated. Shane lives by The Golden Rule.
Best of all, his friends were laughing about this peculiarity. They weren’t laughing at him; they were laughing because they understood that Shane is just … Shane.
That’s when I realized that he has some good friends. They totally get Shane; he gets them. And that is what matters the most in friendship.
