I haven’t allowed myself to miss Dylan … too much. I’ve concentrated on his successes at college – and there have been a bunch of those! And I’ve concentrated on Shane, and his successes, too. It’s been a pretty productive few months!
But today, Dylan is coming home for the first time since he left for college. He hasn’t been here since mid-August and he’s only staying for Thanksgiving.
But I have been out of my mind with excitement.
I have checked and re-checked his room. Nothing has happened in there since we cleaned it and changed the sheets right after he left. I’ve put some mail on his bed. But for the most part, it looks exactly like it did when he left.
I’ve been looking at it anyway. Expectantly.
I am making sure the fridge and the freezer have all the appropriate items. Mostly, he likes ice cream. We have LOTS of ice cream! I’m sure he has access to plenty of ice cream at college. But I wouldn’t want him to do without!
We also have frozen pizzas – lots and lots of frozen pizzas. Did I mention that he’s coming for Thanksgiving, when we won’t even be home, and that he’s only staying for three days?
I think about how lame everything is going to look to him. He’s going to see the house in a way he’s never seen it before: from the outside. He’s going to realize that it’s dirty and that we never clean up certain piles that just live, in piles, under desks and on tables. He’s going to realize that the house has a smell – a home smell – and that his dorm room has a completely different smell – and he’ll probably think that smell is okay. And he’ll realize that he has to cook his own food here, or that someone will cook, and that his bed is giant and comfortable and he doesn’t have to climb up to get into it, like he does at college.
He’ll want to spend all of his time in his studio, making music, because he doesn’t have all that space at school. And I’ll want him to spend his time with me, so I can just sit and grin at him, soaking in his presence. Neither of us will get our way entirely.
Most of all, he’ll feel two things: stifled and relaxed. Simultaneously. He’ll remember how young he was, when he left, and he’ll want to get away from that immediately. And then he’ll remember how nice it is here, having people who love him doing the smothering.
And I will remember that I felt that way, too, and that it turned out okay – with my parents now being two of my favorite people in the whole wide world.
And I will remember that they let me have my space when I needed it. I will try to let Dylan have space. I already called him and asked if he would go with us to get a Christmas tree. This may have been too much to ask, but I couldn’t bear the thought of doing it without him.
And then, after we get the tree, he will go back to college. And I will miss him more than ever. But he’ll come home again in a few weeks, and I am already looking forward to that. Even though I know that our house will be lame. Our stuff will be lame. I will be the lamest of all.
And it will be okay. It will be okay. It will all be okay.
When Shane started therapy six months ago for his OCD, he was a basket case. I was a basket case. None of us knew what to do, or how to help him.
He couldn’t finish his homework because he couldn’t read a text book. He was obsessed with the idea that he was doing something wrong. He worried about hurting other people, making them sick, breaking the law, and not knowing what laws he was breaking.
We got him a therapist who took our insurance. This turned out to be helpful – but not as helpful as we hoped.
Two months later, Shane was in worse condition than ever. He couldn’t function at night without “confessing” things he thought he’d done wrong. He couldn’t enjoy his summer because he was constantly worried about breaking laws and doing things that might hurt people.
Worst of all, he wasn’t doing anything wrong.
We’d never heard of Responsibility OCD.
But when his therapist admitted that he was out of ideas, and suggested that Shane might need medication, we started looking for – almost accidentally – a new therapist.
We scoured the earth for someone who could listen to Shane, understand him, and prescribe medication. We ended up with a prescription that still sits on our shelf.
But by the beginning of September, we found someone who really understood Shane. And he understood OCD. He knew about Responsibility OCD – and he knew exactly how to treat it.
So he told Shane what to do to take care of himself – and Shane, being Shane, did what he needed to do.
After only two months with the new therapist, Shane “graduated.” The therapist said that Shane now knew how to tell the difference between his obsessions and his thoughts. And best of all, he was no longer stuck when he had an obsessive thought; he knew exactly what to do to move forward.
So Shane has been released from therapy and is moving forward, no longer stuck, and happy.
I am so proud of him, of his bravery, of his ability to tackle his issues head-on and succeed. And I feel so blessed to have found the right therapist for him so quickly.
But most of all, I am happy for Shane, because all I ever wanted is for him to be happy.
Dylan was awake and ready to register for classes a full hour before registration started. This, in itself, was impressive. He texted me while we both anxiously awaited the opening bell.
(There was no bell, really. That was just a figure of speech.)
Dylan’s schedule had been set, reset, revamped, and reset again, resulting in – we hoped – a handful of necessary credits that Dylan was hoping to actually enjoy. Best of all, he was prepping for a semester of sleeping right through any 8 a.m. classes that might be offered.
“While you’re waiting, you should look through the course catalog and just make sure there are no prerequisites for your classes,” I said.
“What’s a course catalog?” he said. (I had obviously done too much.)
A few minutes later he said, “I need the CRN numbers for these classes.”
“What’s a CRN?” I asked. (I had obviously not done enough.)
We got the CRN numbers; he listed them and got ready to hit “submit.”
But five minutes after registration began, Dylan texted me. “I got into all of my classes except Copyright Law,” he said. “That one was full. So I put in Intro to Music History and it gave me an error message. Now I don’t know what I’m going to take and all of the Copyright Law classes are full.”
Dylan and I worked together on this. It took about 20 minutes and a rehashing of the requirements for graduation, but when I realized that Public Relations was a Social Sciences course, I was elated.
“There’s one spot left in Public Relations!” I nearly squealed. “Get it! It’s the same time as Copyright Law and it will fit in perfectly!”
“What’s public relations?” Dylan asked.
“Just get it and I’ll tell you after!” I was panicked that he would be shut out of that one, too. It was like buying concert tickets for Mariah Carey or trying to win an auction on eBay for something utterly unique.
Two seconds went by.
“I’m in,” he said.
“Yay! That’s great!”
“Yeah, I have a schedule.”
“You have a schedule.” After only a month of playing around with the course catalog, and after accessing the wrong one and fixing the issue, and after Dylan’s hopping from one course to another as they filled up before his very eyes… Dylan finally had a schedule.
“So are you sure I need to take Public Relations?”
“I’m sure it’s one of the best options in the list of Social Sciences,” I said – having also convinced him along the way that Sociology was not a bad “-ology” to take.
“Okay,” he said. “So what is it?”
“It’s something everyone uses and it will be good to take no matter what career you have,” I started. And then, since my dad was a superstar in public relations for about 50 years, I explained to Dylan – to the best of my ability – the meaning of “public relations.”
And then I exhaled for the first time in three days.
On the day before Dylan registered for spring classes, my choices for courses had grown to a ten-page, color-coded document with a variety of back-up choices. Since he’s a freshman, Dylan registered near the end of the week-long registration – and many of his favorite classes were filling.
“You’re going to need four sciences,” I told him, “and two maths.”
“Why do I have to take so much science?” Dylan whined.
“Because you’re getting a Bachelor of Science degree, remember?”
“Oh, right. And why am I doing that?”
“Because you didn’t want to take any foreign language classes.”
Dylan sighed. Over the course of the week, we talked several times. Twelve hours before registration, we worked together to find a schedule that would not only help him graduate, but it would make him less anxious.
“I don’t want to take anything that starts before convo hour,” he said. (Convo hour is at 10 a.m.)
Finally, with my ten-page document scrawled and re-done several times, and a new document called “schedule choices” – and then a final document called “FINAL FINAL FINAL I HOPE GOODNIGHT” … I was ready to go to bed.
And Dylan was ready to go back and work on his paper, which he needed to complete by midnight.
It was after 10:00, but I thought, Gee, I should just make a quick list of all the classes he needs for the B.S. degree and all the classes he needs for his major, so he’ll have it for next fall’s registration.
So I hopped online and started downloading information, and highlighting which courses he’d already taken… when suddenly, with an unpleasant lurching of my stomach, I saw something I hadn’t seen before.
At the top of the course catalog, on the upper right-hand side, was a little box with a drop-down menu that said:
Undergraduate Catalog 2017-2018 [ARCHIVED CATALOG]
I almost vomited.
Apparently I had – somehow – bookmarked the archived catalog from two years ago on my computer, and had been “helping” Dylan by determining his course requirements based on a catalog that was substantially different than the current catalog.
It was 11:00, my time, when I called Dylan who – at least – had another hour to start making changes to his course schedule. Meanwhile, it was way past my bedtime.
“You only need two sciences now,” I told him. “So that’s good. And to be honest, the classes you’re going to be taking now are way better!”
Then we spent another hour throwing together choices that, hopefully, would fix the problems I had created by reading the wrong catalog.
Eventually, Dylan had a schedule he liked – with all of his classes starting at 11:00 or later – and I could go to bed. Which I did.
I literally dreamed about course registration. People were in my way, when I was trying to register. Some woman kept blocking me from the table as I was trying to get to the computer. I woke up several times during the night, only to fall asleep and have another dream about being unable to register for classes.
I’m really not in college anymore, but that didn’t stop my anxiety.
I got almost no sleep, worrying about Dylan’s classes 700 miles away. And when I woke up, the real fun started.
While we were going through Dylan’s schedule to see what classes he might want to take, I did a little extra research.
I always like to do a little extra research.
His introductory class for his major was being taught by two different professors, and none of those classes seemed to be filling up. So I thought, I’ll just see what their bio’s look like. Maybe one will sound better than the other.
Poor Professor Schreiber never stood a chance.
The other professor’s name popped up all over the internet.
I clicked on a link that said, “Psychedelic pop singer Mark Volman …” and discovered that Mark Volman is one of the founding members of The Turtles. They sang his song, “Happy Together.” Coincidentally, Shane recently started singing this song on a regular basis.
But if that weren’t enough, Mark Volman also played in Frank Zappa’s band, Mothers of Invention, for ten years.
I started texting Dylan the way folks used to call people until the phone rang “off the hook.”
YOU CAN’T MISS THIS OPPORTUNITY! I scream-texted. YOU HAVE TO TAKE THIS CLASS WITH THIS GUY!!!!!
Eventually, Dylan – barely knowing the word “Zappa” but totally understanding the allure – signed up to take Mark Volman’s class.
After that, I read his entire bio on the Belmont website. He’s a Grammy-award-winning artist – but not for the Turtles or Zappa. He wrote children’s music! He sang with Linda Ronstadt and Bruce Springsteen! He is still touring, doing 50 shows a year! This man has done so much with his life, I wonder how he finds time to teach.
But he’s not just teaching; he’s the coordinator of the program in which Dylan is majoring.
Certainly, college is expensive. But gee whiz. There is nowhere else in the world where this guy could teach. He is music, and that’s what he’s going to teach to my music-loving son.
I love this college. I love this man. I love Dylan for landing in the right place. I love God for getting him there.
Amen.
Six months after my original request for a meeting to discuss Shane’s OCD accommodations, we met again – this time to determine what we could put on the 504, since Shane really only had one issue.
His issue was reading.
Over the summer, Shane was agonizingly stuck so often while trying to read – a fiction book of his choosing – that I’d volunteered to read to him, or to singlehandedly excuse him from the summer homework. Shane simply couldn’t read. The OCD was making it impossible.
Fortunately, though, with a new therapist and Shane’s hard work in therapy, Shane was having way less trouble in November than he’d had in July. In fact, he was hardly having any trouble at all.
“Sometimes I get distracted,” he said. “But I don’t really get stuck anymore.”
“Let’s see what your teachers have to say,” Shane’s counselor said, and she picked up teacher referrals from every one of his teachers. Then she read aloud:
Shane is a great student. He puts 100% effort into all of his work. He has maintained an A for the entire quarter. Shane is polite, hardworking, and cooperative. His writing is very creative and his reading comprehension is excellent.
He sits in the front row with strong students and diligently stays on task. He is not very chatty and will proactively ask for help.
Shane is always attentive in class. He does not get distracted by other students.
Shane does not need any of the accommodations listed in his plan. He is fully independent and can perform wonderfully without them.
Shane’s counselor finally put down the pile of papers and looked up.
“You’re a rock star, Shane,” she said.
Shane, who regularly shows no emotion whatsoever, had just a tiny eye flinch – something that I have come to recognize as pride. His mouth even twitched, and I swear he almost smiled.
And deservingly so. For page after page, teachers had raved about Shane’s incredible ability to do exactly what was expected of him, and to excel both creatively and intellectually. With the quarter ending, we also knew that Shane got six A’s – including an A in his first-ever AP class – and one very high B.
My worries about OCD were over.
The counselor, whose job it is to make sure that Shane stays successful, told both of us that we would reconvene in a year to reevaluate Shane’s 504.
“Is there anything you think you’ll need then?” she asked him.
“Not really,” Shane said. “Sometimes I get distracted when I’m reading but I think I’m doing okay.”
He’s doing okay.
“How about a flash pass?” I suggested. “If you are ever too distracted to read, and you just need to get up and move around, you can walk to the counseling office and just sit until you’re ready to go back to class.”
“We don’t even need to put that on the 504 plan,” said the counselor. “We can just give him one. Do you think that would help you?”
“I could try it,” Shane said.
So Shane got a flash pass which, most likely, he’ll never use. The meeting was over in 15 minutes. And I got the feeling that we really weren’t going to need another meeting in the future.
But I sure did enjoy this one.
After questioning the therapist about the connection between hoarding and OCD, he called me into his office at the end of Shane’s session.
“There are different reasons for hoarding,” he said. “Sometimes it’s about needing to hang onto things just in case they’re needed later. Other times it’s more about a sentimental attachment. And sometimes it’s just about things being where they are, and feeling like that’s just where they go.”
He said that he thought Shane might have a few of those things going on, but not all of them, and that he thought Shane was willing to work on them. Then he gave Shane some homework to do.
“Maybe you could give away just a very few things every day for a week,” he said. “How many things do you think you can find?”
“I don’t know,” said Shane.
“Do you think you can find three? Three things a day?”
“I guess,” he said.
So Shane’s homework was to find three things a day, for a week, with which he could part.
One night, I got a pen, a pair of free sunglasses from the pediatric dentist, and a finger-sized rubber chicken. Another night, I got two rubber bracelets and a bookmark. More sunglasses and pens piled up. Some old CDs appeared. One day, I got some very old clothes.
After the homework had been in full swing for awhile, Shane said, “I’ve realized that I don’t have that much stuff that I want to give away. I just have a lot of stuff that needs to be in the garbage.”
I agreed.
But he didn’t actually want to put things in the garbage. Shane just wanted to point out that he knew that some of his stuff is garbage.
It’s been a few weeks now, and I still get the garbage. It just keeps coming – in teeny, tiny piles of three. The things sit next to the steps, where I collect them, and put them in a more appropriate place.
Shane’s room looks exactly the same.
Dylan scheduled a meeting with his advisor, a precursor for spring semester course registration.
Since I have so little to do for myself – what with working nearly full-time, doing the best I can with Shane and raising a puppy – I started looking at class options for Dylan.
I looked, and I looked, and I looked. Days went by. I kept looking. I checked the website for what he needs for his major, and what he needs for general education. I thought about Dylan’s likes and dislikes. I considered the number of credit hours, and looked into how many – and how few – he can take without changing tuition.
After four days, I had a list of 28 color-coded course selections with five alternate one-credit courses, complete with days and times of each class and a sample schedule that I thought he should take. I even threw in the course literally titled, “Special Interest: Bob Dylan,” because I think he needs to know more about his namesake.
And of course, I didn’t want to share any of this with Dylan. He was at college, doing his own thing, keeping up with the classes he’s currently taking, and doing nothing on his own behalf to get ready for spring.
In fact, Dylan was in the midst of a four-day fall break with nothing to do, and he still didn’t find any time to look at the website and see about his options.
Meanwhile, I kept tweaking my version of his schedule. I texted Dylan every day and asked him to call me when he had an idea of what he wanted to take. And every day, Dylan didn’t call.
But eventually, something came up and Dylan had to call. So he did.
“So let’s talk about classes!” I said with excitement, pulling up my list.
“I knew you were going to say that,” Dylan said. “I knew you would want to talk about classes and I absolutely HATE looking at classes.”
I couldn’t believe it. I’d been having so much fun finding classes for Dylan! How could he not enjoy – even revel – choosing his course selections?
“I HATE IT,” he said. Dylan doesn’t hate much, but apparently choosing classes is a thing he hates.
“Well,” I said. “I sure had a lot of fun with it.” I started asking him questions, to see if he’d done anything at all.
He hadn’t.
So I talked about the things I knew, about his requirements for graduation, about what’s left that he’ll want to get out of the way – and what he needs to take to pursue the major he chose.
Eventually, I just caved.
“Why don’t I just send you the list of the classes I found? They are all classes you need, and you can decide what you want to do.”
“That would be great,” he said. So I did – and as far as I know, he never even looked at a course catalog before choosing his spring semester classes.
I know what I did was wrong. I know, in my heart, that I have done him a disservice by cutting through all the crap for him. I sincerely wonder how he will ever get along in the world – and how he will graduate from college – if he doesn’t know exactly what he needs to do so.
And yet, I had so much fun! And I don’t have to take a single class! It’s like making travel arrangements for someone else: I get to do all the planning, but I don’t have to spend any of my own money!
I know it was wrong. But I really enjoyed it.
WHEN: Halloween Night
SETTING: A pitch black, windy night; the driveway is dimly lit.
The body of an evil clown is flopped lifelessly in a chair, its immense, angry eyes and garish teeth belying its intent. A full bowl of candy sits on the ground between the clown’s feet.
SCENE 1: Two 13-year-old trick-or-treaters approach the driveway
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know. It looks like a clown!”
“Is it real? I don’t want to go near it.”
“Nah, it’s not real. See?” Lifts one gloved hand, which flops back down onto the armrest
“Did it move? I think it’s real.”
“No way!” Stares hard into clown’s face which is solid and still; lifts the hand, which flops again
“Wait, stay there. I want to get your picture with it!”
Trick-or-treater puts arm around back of clown’s chair and smiles; second trick-or-treater takes a quick photo with cell phone
“Hey! Look at this candy! There are huge bars in here!”
“I don’t want to go near it; it’s creepy. Get me a couple.”
Trick-or-treater squats down to reach into bowl, grabs a handful of full-sized candy bars; the clown’s head shifts slowly toward the squatter by the bowl
“TAKE ONE”
Trick-or-treater leaps to his feet, screaming, dropping candy bars
“Wait, maybe that was, like, a recorded message or something!” Stares at clown’s face again, still unmoving
A huge gust of wind blows, causing hundreds of leaves to fly at the trick-or-treaters; the clown’s body flops and rolls out of its chair and into the yard next to the driveway
“See? I told you! It’s not even real! What kind do you want?” Starts to pick up dropped candy bars from driveway
“I SAID TAKE ONE!” The clown suddenly rises from the grass and starts walking toward the trick-or-treaters, who throw the excess candy back into the bowl and run screaming up the sidewalk; one boldly snaps a photo from a safe distance.
SCENE 2: A large group of children, teenagers and adults approach the clown, who has now flopped lifelessly into his chair again
“Oh. My. God. Look at that!” Two teenagers approach the clown; a terrified youngster grabs a mother’s hand
“Don’t touch it!”
“Why not? It’s not even real!” Takes a tentative step toward the candy bowl
“There’s a banana in here!” Three kids step a little closer
“And there’s candy, too!” A teenager looks closely at the clown’s face, and reaches out a hand to touch his arm
“Seriously! Don’t touch it!” Takes two steps backward
“Well they want us to take the candy or it wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah but I don’t want to go near it.”
“I just touched the arm. It’s not even real!” Five kids encircle the clown; the adults and younger children stay near the street; one adult films on his cell phone
“Well it looks real. Grab the banana and see what happens.” Tiptoes to the bowl, grabs a banana, then nearly dances backward, away from the clown, holding a banana above his head.
“Grab me a candy bar!”
“Yeah, get me one!”
“No! You grab it!”
“I’ll just take the whole bowl!” Steps forward and reaches down toward the bowl
The clown stands up.
Entire group erupts in high-pitched screeching; cell phone filming stops; children race for the sidewalk; kids look at each other, scream, run, jump around; the clown stands still in the driveway
“OH MY GOD IT’S REAL IT’S REAL!”
Trying to be brave, two tiptoe back to see test their bravery; one speaks breathlessly:
“Excuse me, Mr. Clown? Could I have a candy bar?”
The clown takes a step toward the teen, who screams again and runs. Another dashes behind the clown and stretches, reaching into the bowl, grabbing a handful of candy, then runs for the sidewalk. The clown takes another step toward the crowd, and they flee, screaming, cavorting, laughing.
The clown sits back down in the chair. Within moments, another group rounds the corner … with no idea what awaits.
EPILOGUE: From inside the garage door, I clutch my gut with almost painful, silent laughter. Whereas I once dreaded Halloween, Shane now makes this night an absolute delight.
In my research about OCD, I discovered a concerning connection between OCD and hoarding.
I thought about Shane’s bedroom. I thought about the way things pile and pile and pile up, never to be disturbed. I thought about his inability to part with even the smallest of toys, no matter how impractical.
I thought about the multitude of times that I walked into his room and said, “Shane, I just can’t stand it anymore. You’ve got to clean up the floor, at least, so I can walk in without falling on my face.”
I also thought about the photo book.
When Shane was a baby, we created a photo book for him, so he could learn the names of people in his family. We used a pre-made, all-cloth book – something soft, so it would be comfortable for those tiny baby hands. We slid real photos into the slots, showing Shane with various friends and family.
“And who’s this?” we would say, in that high-pitched baby squeal.
“Din,” he would say, meaning “Dylan” – and he would be right, so we would continue to squeal with delight.
Shane was about four when I suggested that we change the photos in the book.
He wailed. Shane was not much of a crier, so this reaction was quite unexpected.
After much questioning, it seemed that Shane was sad because he’d already grown up so much that he couldn’t bear to look at the book anymore – let alone change it.
“I am too old!” he choked, sobbing uncontrollably.
At the tender age of four, he was upset because he would never be young again. And he realized, even at that age, that changing the book in any way would be taking away something that was rightfully his – a baby book filled with his memories, the people he loved.
So he put the book away on his bookshelf, and he never wanted to look at it again.
“I am too sad,” he said, his giant blue eyes welling with tears.
That book is still on his bookshelf. In eleven years, he hasn’t changed his mind. He doesn’t want to look at it – or get rid of it.
And while he has definitely gotten rid of most of his “little kid” books, there are still a number of toys and things in his room that he will never use again, but that he’s not willing to give away.
So the piles keep piling and the room keeps getting worse, and I really didn’t think too much about it – until I read about the connection between hoarding and OCD.
We will have to see if there’s a connection in Shane’s brain – or if he’s able to tackle the hurricane clean-up on his own.
