Chapter 20
TWENTY
LYNETTE
I chose to go to the emergency room. Better stated, once my vision cleared after falling, Mama drove me when I refused to go by ambulance.
Despite Mama and Justus insisting I had, I wasn’t certain I’d fainted.
In my mind, I’d experienced severe vertigo or impaired equilibrium mimicking a loss of consciousness.
Either way there was no arguing with a son on the verge of a meltdown, my California ex, or a retired nurse who’d lost a husband to hypertension.
Sitting in the ER with other impaired people would be my Friday night experience.
I felt terrible for frightening everyone even while stressing over whatever was going on.
I was cold. Jittery. And had a blazing headache.
Subsequently, I wasn’t very talkative. Still, I entertained my mother’s questions as she went into nurse practitioner mode, listing and reviewing my symptoms. I told myself to be tolerant, knowing she was managing her fear.
Then there was Justus.
My beautiful son had shut down. He was withdrawn and non-communicative.
Even with his dad (who was threatening to find an emergency flight if I wasn’t okay).
I wasn’t sure if I preferred the silence to my son stimming or even screaming.
What I did know was that he was scared. That weighed on my psyche.
“I’m going to be fine, baby.” I repeatedly offered consolation without knowing what I was dealing with. I simply chose to trust I was speaking truth while comforting him.
“I apologize in advance for the wait. It’s a Friday night and the start of the weekend equals chaotic. The triage station will call you back as soon as possible to take your vitals.”
I thanked the receptionist when checking in, unsure if ER personnel were always so nice, or I was shown extra courtesy because Mama had retired from there and still had friends on staff.
Either way, I was grateful for the kindness as well as the apple juice and warm blanket provided during the hour-long wait.
I see why Mama only did three years in ER before transferring.
I lost count of the number of gurneys wheeled down the hallway but took notice of one escorted by two police with the patient handcuffed to the frame.
The overhead paging system constantly announced codes and conditions, even a GSW—a gunshot wound—as well as frequent arrivals of ambulances in the ambulance bays.
I considered those about me, many in obvious pain—including a teenager holding a bloodied cloth over one eye—and decided I couldn’t complain even when another hour passed after my vitals were taken.
My vitals showed low blood pressure and an elevated heart rate. That had Mama pushing for me to be seen ASAP. Staff was already stretched, and priority had to be given to newly arrived victims of a multi-car accident and someone in cardiac arrest.
“Mama, I’m okay.” Comparatively speaking. I wasn’t a trauma patient experiencing a life-threatening crisis. I was tired and past ready to be seen but knew my only choice was to wait.
I managed to get Mama to stop acting agitated.
My hints that her disposition might trigger Justus penetrated her bubble of worry.
She resorted to deep breathing even though she wanted “to snatch somebody.” Glad for her quasi calm, I glanced at the clock above the check-in desk and saw it was nearly eleven.
“Sorry for having you out here like this.”
I whispered to avoid waking Justus. He’d sat in sentry mode, mostly silent the entire time, watching my every move with hawk eyes until he finally leaned against my mother and dozed off.
Mama frowned as if I’d spoken a foreign language. “Where else would I be when my child’s falling out on me?”
My inner teacher was tempted to argue semantics. I wasn’t falling. I’d fallen. Past tense. None of that mattered to Mama Bear. She wasn’t flinching when one of her cubs was in need. “I dislike burdening others.” We’d been there two hours, and I had yet to be seen by a doctor.
“I’m your mother. Not an ‘other.’ I’ll let you know when I’ve had enough. That hasn’t happened yet but keep talking crazy and it may.”
I looked from Mama to Justus, knowing I would sit endless hours in vigilance for him—God forbid—if ever needed. I prayed whatever my health challenge he’d be minimally impacted. That it wasn’t catastrophic. And his world wouldn’t be upended.
What if it’s beyond my capacity to manage and he has to live with his dad?
I stroked his hair and shoved that notion over a make-believe cliff to focus on the present. “Nichelle’s on her way.”
“Good. Baby J needs to get to bed.” Mama’s wide yawn suggested sleep was summoning her as well.
I ignored my own exhaustion, took a deep breath, and reminded myself that impatience was useless. It was impossible to estimate how much longer the wait or the night might be, so I’d silenced the idea that calling Nichelle was an imposition and called Bestie.
She didn’t hesitate. Immediately, she’d offered to come get Justus.
He could stay the night at her house, and she’d drop him off in the morning.
She was a bonus aunt to him and one I trusted wholeheartedly.
Her youngest son, Brendan, being one of Justus’ best buddies was an added blessing. “She’ll be here soon.”
A multicolor whirlwind blew in within minutes of my declaration.
Describing Bestie’s outfit would require more adjectives than my headache permitted. Suffice it to say she was a walking paint splatter boasting a plethora of glittery neon colors and patterns on black, velvet-looking fabric.
“Hey, Mama V.” Nichelle and Mama embraced.
“Hi, honey. We appreciate you coming to get Justus. Are you wearing light-up shoes?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s dark outside and divas deserve visibility.”
Mama laughed before reaching for Nichelle’s son. “Brendan, you’re getting so tall!”
My bonus nephew hugged Mama before treating me to the same. “Hey, Auntie. Hey, J.”
Awakened by their arrival, my son pressed a palm to Brendan’s and allowed Nichelle’s hug but remained silent.
Nichelle dropped her keys in the Doc McStuffins fanny pack about her waist. “Any idea when you’ll be seen?”
“Nope. Still waiting.”
“Only thing fast about a hospital is the billing process. No offense, Mama V.”
“I’m retired so none taken.”
“Let’s take this handsome guy home with us so he can rest.”
“I can’t, Aunt Nichelle.” It might’ve been brief, but it was the first full sentence Justus uttered since arriving.
“Of course you can, nephew. You’re always welcome at our place. Uncle Clay made pizza for dinner. There’s plenty left. You and Brendan—”
“No! I can’t! I have to stay.” His volume increased with every word.
“Baby J, we don’t know how long it’ll be before—”
He jumped up, interrupting his grandmother. Loudly. “Nana, no one’s listening! I have to stay so nothing happens to Mom. If I’m not here, she might leave!”
A lightning-quick flashback slapped me into the center of the worst meltdown Justus ever had. The one prior to diagnosis and treatment. Back when I was either in denial or inexcusably ignorant. Three years ago. When Rodney relocated back to the west coast.
We’d done everything to prepare him for his father’s relocation.
We talked, honestly answered his questions.
Explained the new dynamic and how his life would change.
We consoled him when he cried, made sure he understood the move couldn’t interrupt his father’s love.
Rodney was that dad, involved, and connected; and he spent even more time with Justus those months prior to relocating.
Still, prepping wasn’t the same as a lived experience.
I missed some things.
The social awkwardness I mistook for shyness.
Repetitive hand movements that became his own unique rhythm.
His seeming off balance whenever a regular routine was interrupted.
An aversion to bright lights. Signs were there.
And I’d ignored them. Conversely, there were no developmental delays, rather advancements.
He knew the alphabet at two, could count to one hundred when he was three, and knew shapes and colors and loved reading.
Still how had I, an educated educator, missed the fact that my son was autistic? Why had it taken him falling out crying, endlessly screaming, “You can’t leave!”, and urinating in his pants in the airport lobby for me to see that his “quirks and differences” were indeed neurodivergence?
Shame still stung my conscience for freezing in the face of my child’s explosive distress.
And Rodney’s having to pick Justus up from the floor and carry him into the men’s room, kicking and screaming so badly that airport security got involved, as if we weren’t his parents and it was a child abduction.
It was a whole mess!
Rodney delayed his departure to be present at our son’s appointment with a pediatric neurologist who referred us to a child psychiatrist who confirmed the pediatrician’s diagnosis.
Our son was on the spectrum.
And just like that we were thrust into a new world requiring patience and showing up for our son in a different way, educating ourselves, and working through our emotions.
Funny how I questioned their efficiency but never blamed Justus’ regular pediatrician or even his teachers for not seeing. Or seeing and saying nothing. I carried all the feelings. Regret. Remorse. Guilt. Shame. They wrecked me daily.
I worked hard to forgive myself for not seeing the differences there in front of me. What hurt more was the lateness of the diagnosis meant Justus had gone without valuable resources longer than necessary.
When Rodney finally left Texas a month after his originally scheduled flight, we decided it was best he do so without our son present. That first experience was still too fresh. We chose not to re-traumatize Justus, or ourselves.
“My daddy left because I wasn’t there!” Back then Justus blamed himself and me for his father’s absence. “I’m not talking to you ever again!”