Loving & living with a special needs child


When Tears Fall

by Denyse "domynoe" Loeb


September 1996

Sullen and quiet, a remote island in a constantly busy waterway, he lives outside the family which surrounds him. His silence is ominous, broken only by shrill screeching when his desires are denied; or by the persistent drone of humming as he spins an object, any object, under his concentrated stare.  Either sound continues for unending, unbroken hours. Then silence. He does not see the joy or care to join the dance of children as his sisters play merrily. Solitary, words unspoken, he wraps up within himself in a world of his own.

He is four years old. He is my son. My son . . . I don’t feel it. Beyond a physical resemblance, no one would know it. An invisible wall keeps me from reaching him. Every effort is rejected, gently loving touches ignored, kisses refused. Hugs become imprisonment, only sometimes, rarely, tolerated for mere seconds before arms and legs drop, back stiff as a board. His head turns away. My beautiful boy wants none of me.

A peaceful moment lost: my son is not in the house. We search, calling and calling, knowing there will be no answer. Finally found by his father a block away, a woman accuses this unknown man of irresponsibility and neglect. How could she know my son would be brought home and left by my ex-husband. Wild with excitement, he evades all contact, climbs counters and tables, wrecking havoc on home and spirit. Once in his room, the screaming begins. A toy flies, crashing into the closed door. All I can feel is exhaustion and despair. There is no hope for me and my son.

My girls are nothing like this. They are bright and beautiful, sweet pictures of success. Articulate and well-behaved, though they still participate in the antics of any child.  Normal. They demand my attention in a hundred little ways. Hugs, kisses, stories, gentle touches, immeasurable support. They even try to help with their brother. But too much and too quick for me, he’s impossible for girls nine, seven and not quite three. His wall remains for us all, high, hard, impervious.

I stare at accusations: black ink on white paper with a blue letterhead. Nothing is wrong, they say. Yet my son is unsocial and unspeaking, quiet and still one moment, active the next. I see no end, no hope. Well meant advice comes unbidden to my mind . . . since when have I needed advice? My girls are everything a mother could hope for. Empty reassurances, hospital letterhead not withstanding, mean nothing. I have failed my son. My beautiful four year old boy is shut away from the world. Success crumbles to dust as tears fall, smearing a beautiful blue scripted name.