Raising Blaze (17 page)

“Hi, Dr. S.,” Blaze says, marching happily into the inner sanctum. “Are we going to fight the visitors?”

Dr. S. looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I cover my face with my hands in a gesture of mock exasperation. My father barks out a laugh. “Good luck,” he tells Dr. S.

“Oh, not to worry,” Dr. S. says, completely missing my father’s ironic undertone, “we’ll be fine.”

As they head into the office, I hear Dr. S. asking Blaze, “Did you think the visitors were in my office? Could you hear them?”

I wait until the door is shut behind them and then I ask my father, “Can you believe that kid? The
visitors
?”

My father just sighs and opens the newspaper in front of him.

Blaze is alone with Dr. S. for forty minutes. Through the wall, I can
hear peals of delighted laughter coming from my son. “What could possibly be going on in there?” I ask my father.

“Not a clue,” he responds.

“Well, at least he’s having a good time,” I say.

Blaze is still laughing when, later, Dr. S. ushers us into his office.

“Sounds like fun in here,” I tell Dr. S., giving him a tentative smile.

“Oh yes, we’ve been having a good time,” Dr. S. says and shakes my father’s hand. “Blaze,” he says, “why don’t you go play in that room over there for a bit so I can talk to your mother and your grandfather.”

Blaze willingly—surprisingly—acquiesces and bounces off to a small room filled with toys off the main office.

“I hope he finds something in there to amuse him,” Dr. S. says. “He didn’t seem to be interested in any of those toys when I was talking to him. He was focused on the balloon I had. I was making noises with it and he just thought that was hilarious. That’s what all the laughing was about.”

“I’m not surprised,” I say, too eagerly. “He’s always been interested in more…mundane kinds of things. Rolls of tape and things like that. You know, when he was a baby…”

“Yes,” Dr. S. says gently and I feel my cheeks flush. My father shoots me a warning look that says
Don’t talk so much.

“Well, I’ve had a chance to look this over,” Dr. S. says, referring to the detailed medical-history form I filled out and sent to him several days ago. “It’s very interesting. History of birth trauma…oxygen deprivation…”

“
Major
birth trauma,” my father says. “He wasn’t breathing.”

“Yes, I see that,” Dr. S. continues. “Any history of mental illness in the family?”

“None at all,” my father says.

“What about Mommy’s side of the family?” I ask my father.

“What about them?” my father says, slightly irritated.

“You know,” I whisper, “how
strange
they are?”

“What are you talking about?” my father says.

“What kind of strange?” Dr. S. pipes in, glancing at my father and smiling.

I review all I know about my family. I’m sure that it’s because I’m sitting here with a psychiatrist (who, it appears, even has a
couch
in his office) that I’m suddenly sure that I’m just part of a long line of crazy people. Perhaps it’s not a random twist that makes Blaze the way he is, I think. Perhaps he’s merely the product or distillation of generations of weirdos who’ve managed, one way or another, to get through life without major exposure. My mother’s family certainly fits this profile. Her parents gave odd nicknames to all the neighbors. Her uncle Eric lived with his married brother his whole life, and some fifty years after his brother had married her, he still referred to my grandmother as “my brother’s wife.” Uncle Eric was a bona fide eccentric if ever there was one. He witnessed bees praying and claimed to have met the devil. He never married nor even had a girlfriend that anyone knew about. He put on a hat to hand out chunks of fudge to his great-nephews and then replaced it carefully on the hat rack when he was finished. His brother, my grandfather, was no straight arrow himself. He was given to fits of pique and attacks of weeping. He didn’t want my grandmother to drive a car and she never did. I don’t drive, either, and that is perhaps the most damning sign of the lot. It’s not that I haven’t tried and it’s not for lack of desire. Every time I get behind the wheel of a car, I am clutched by a nameless, blackout-inducing panic. Like my grandmother, I have no problem being a passenger, but just the thought of driving myself induces a sickening terror. I break into a sweat thinking about it now and notice that Dr. S. is looking at me quizzically, still waiting for an answer about why I think my family is strange.

“Well,” I say, “none of them were actually committed.”

I detect a low hiss coming from my father.

“I think what Debra means is they’re a little eccentric in some
ways,” my father says. “My wife’s father threw his tea into the fireplace when he didn’t like it—that kind of thing. Nothing big—no mental illness.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Every family has its eccentrics,” Dr. S. says. I wonder what the doctor thinks. Does he often encounter families whose members argue about whether or not they are insane? Is this very argument a mark of insanity—and denial of it? I hate trying to second-guess professionals in the field of human psychology. I’m too suspicious to trust any of them completely. And yet, here I am, almost begging one of them for his expert opinion on my son.

“Well, Blaze and I had a good conversation,” Dr. S. says. “He was very cooperative. He certainly is different, there’s no question about that. He has a…unique way of filtering information. I can see why this would hinder him in the classroom.”

“Yes,” I say, leaning forward in my chair, “that’s exactly right.”

“He has a great sense of humor,” Dr. S. adds, smiling. “I would even say an advanced sense of humor. But then there are the other things that you’ve noted on the medical-history form and that I saw evidence of when I was talking to him. The perseveration, hypersensitivity to noise, anxiety…”

“What do you think caused these…
things
,” I say, lacking a better word.

“In my opinion,” Dr. S. says, “Blaze’s birth trauma is probably to blame for some of his developmental anomalies. Oxygen deprivation at birth can have serious effects that sometimes won’t appear until later. And in Blaze’s case, we don’t know how long the cord was around his neck
before
he was delivered.”

“Nobody ever mentioned that to me when Blaze was born,” I tell Dr. S. “None of the doctors said anything about oxygen deprivation.”

“Sometimes it’s a liability issue, unfortunately,” Dr. S. says. “Was Blaze born at an HMO?”

“No,” I say distractedly. “It was a teaching hospital.”

“Oh, uh-huh?” Dr. S. adjusts his position in his large leather chair.

“So, is there a diagnosis for this kind of thing?” my father asks. “We’ve heard a few different ones.”

“The last psychologist I took him to said that he was clearly autistic,” I say indignantly, still angry about Dr. C.’s report.

“Blaze is definitely not autistic,” Dr. S. says with authority. “I would gladly stake my reputation on that. And I’ve been around a while.”

“What is it, then?” I ask.

“My diagnosis for Blaze would be PDD-NOS,” Dr. S. says, “which stands for pervasive developmental disorder, not otherwise specified.”

“Not otherwise specified?” I ask, bewildered. “What does that mean?”

“Well, for example, autism is considered a pervasive developmental disorder as is Rett’s Syndrome—have you heard of that? No? Well, regardless, the ‘not otherwise specified’ add-on means that the child has some of the behaviors or issues of other pervasive developmental disorders, especially problems in communication and in the social arena, but doesn’t fit the profile of any of those disorders.”

“So, basically, that diagnosis includes a whole bunch of random stuff thrown together. It could be anything and it includes everything.” I give a short laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “It tells me nothing.”

“Yes,” Dr. S. says. “Unfortunately, we in the psychiatric profession feel compelled to label everything, even that which we don’t understand.”

“This isn’t even much of a label,” I say. I appreciate his candor, but I’m frustrated by what seems like a
non
-diagnosis.

“What do we do about this?” my father asks. “What’s the treatment, if there is a treatment?”

“Well, he doesn’t need psychiatric therapy,” Dr. S. says. “Although I suspect that Blaze is becoming more aware of his differences. There’s a possibility that he’ll get depressed when he realizes fully that he isn’t
on the same academic or social level as his peers. It might be helpful then to have him see somebody—a counselor or somebody similar—who could help him with those feelings.”

“Is there a special school for kids like Blaze?” my father asks. “Maybe if he were in a better school, one that was designed for kids like him?”

Dr. S. shakes his head. “There really aren’t any schools specifically for kids like Blaze,” he says. “There aren’t really very many kids
like
Blaze.”

My father and I both nod assent at this. From the small toy room, we can hear the sound of things crashing to the floor. I make an instinctive move to stand and Dr. S. motions for me to sit. “It’s okay,” he says, smiling, “that’s what that room is for.”

“What do you think about medication?” I ask him. “I keep hearing that I should give Blaze drugs.”

“Like I said, Blaze might experience depression or anxiety when he becomes fully aware of his differences. In that case, you might want to try some of the newer antidepressant medications that are available now, like Prozac, but you’d be experimenting. There isn’t much data available on how helpful these drugs are in cases like this.” Dr. S. shrugs. “But we’re learning more all the time.”

“Forget it,” I tell him. “I would never experiment with my child. Do you have any suggestions for what I can do to help him?”

“Behavior modification,” Dr. S. says. “More of what you’ve already been doing with him. You might want to consider having him evaluated by an educational specialist. We’re somewhat out of my area of expertise there, but I know of somebody who’s quite good.” He mentions the same woman that Dr. Roberts has been recommending for some time. I have a moment of utter paranoia, wondering how it can be possible that both Dr. S. and Dr. Roberts have come up with the same person. Is it possible that there is only one educational specialist in the county or are they in cahoots? I decide on the former and realize that Dr. S. isn’t
going to be able to give me any sweeping, miraculous answers. I am convinced, however, that he has come closer to the genesis of Blaze’s differences than anybody else. My father gives voice to this very thought as it passes through my mind.

“I really think you’re right about the birth trauma,” my father says. “It’s so important. Maybe if he hadn’t been rushed out of the womb…” He gives me a vaguely accusatory glance, but I shrug it off. This isn’t anything I haven’t heard before, after all.

“Dad,” I say, “I’d still be pregnant if I hadn’t had labor induced. He didn’t want to come out. He’d have stayed in there forever.”

After a few more minutes, our session is finished and we take our leave. Dr. S. doesn’t think that it’s necessary to see Blaze again, but he says he’ll be happy to share his thoughts with the school staff if I feel it would be helpful.

In the car, on the way home, my father asks Blaze what Dr. S. talked to him about when they were alone together.

“He asked me what I was afraid of,” Blaze says. “He asked me about my friends at school and my teacher.”

“What else?” my father prods.

“I don’t know,” Blaze says with finality, signaling that he won’t be giving up any more information. The three of us are silent for a while, digesting our own thoughts as we glide through the lovely scenery of palm trees, ocean, and blue sky. My father adjusts the rearview mirror, giving Blaze a long look in the process.

“I’m not giving him drugs,” I say quietly. “Why would I want to experiment with him.
That
would be insanity.”

“Absolutely,” my father says. “And we don’t want to change him, anyway. Why would we want to make Blaze a different person than he is?”

I look back at Blaze who returns my gaze with a steady one of his own. It’s true, I don’t want to change Blaze. But I do want to help him. As I turn away from Blaze and stare out the window once more, my
one hope is that these two desires won’t collide, conflict, and cancel each other out.

Sunday begins with seeds. Sesame and poppy.

Blaze sits in the living room watching TV and eating bagels, scattering seeds into the carpet. He has an unusual method of consuming the bagels, first peeling them and then eating the outer, seeded crust.

When I emerge from my bedroom to join him, I see the doughy carcasses of at least three skinned bagels lying on his plate. The smell of onion flakes is in the air.

“I had a bad dream last night,” he tells me.

“What was it?” I ask.

“I dreamed there were a whole bunch of garbage trucks lined up at the school and they were all making a very loud noise and I had to cover my ears. How loud was it, Mom?”

“I don’t know, Blaze, it was
your
dream.”

He considers this briefly before he says, “Just tell me how loud it was. Give me a number.”

“I can’t give you a number for how loud something was that you dreamed about.”

“Okay, then how loud do you think it would be?”

“How loud what would be?”

“How loud if a whole bunch of garbage trucks were lined up in front of my school?”

“I don’t know. And I told you I don’t want to keep doing this thing with assigning numbers for every noise, remember?”

“Okay, this is the last time.”

“No, I’m not doing it.”

“Just give me a number.”

“Blaze…”

“Any number how loud it would be.”

“Okay, twenty-five, but that’s the last time—”

“Only twenty-five? Don’t you think it would be louder?”

“Blaze, that’s enough.”

Blaze gives the questioning a rest for a moment, but he’s still processing my responses. I hear him mumbling something about trucks, school, loudness. After a while, he says, “Mom, that couldn’t really happen, could it? There couldn’t be so many garbage trucks lined up at my school, could there?”