professional side of my life took off, my home life was about to slip into
quicksand. Tammy was anxious about the growing chasm between the two girls. “Something’s
off,” she said. I chalked it up to her vigilant nature and refused to put it on my
“to worry about” list. Nevertheless, my wife began exploring play groups that would
be ideally suited to both girls. Taryn needed the stimulation to match her extroverted
personality; Carly needed it to pull her out of her sluggishness. For the next year,
the months between the girls’ first and second birthdays, they went to what was clinically
termed an “integrated early intervention program.” For several hours, several days
a week the girls would go to a center resembling a cross between a kindergarten room
and a kid’s birthday party. There they would encourage Carly to use her hands, paint,
and play like the “integrated kids”—those more like Taryn. There are still pictures
of Carly, smiling, covered in finger paint festooning a wall in our basement. But
these playful pictures captured only moments in time. As soon as Carly was home, she
would sit on the floor ofour den rocking back and forth, humming to herself, and ignoring the world around
her. Play was not something that came naturally to our daughter.
One of the instructors at Carly’s program told us, “You have to stay in her face.”
Specialized workers, originally paid for by insurance and then later out of our own
wallet when benefits ran out, would arrive at the house with jangly toys and oversized
Raggedy Ann dolls. For hours they would sit on the floor of our den or the playroom
with an exaggerated cheerfulness, encouraging Carly to follow instructions, take items
from one hand and pass it to another, and play like other two-year-olds. Carly mainly
stared up at them with a look that was a mixture of wonder and boredom. Taryn, on
the other hand, was already off to play dates with friends.
After mornings at preschool, Tammy spent the afternoons making the rounds at medical
facilities and hospitals. Sometimes I would take time off work to join her. The next
four years would feel like an incarceration in a house of mirrors. One doctor unable
to explain Carly’s lack of progress would send us on to another, who then pointed
us in another direction.
Step 1: Wait in beige-and-gray waiting room filled with toys you don’t want child
to touch for fear of infection by flesh-eating disease. Little worry for us, however,
as Carly ignored pretty much everything. Depending on the type of doctor (neurologist,
audiologist, geneticist, developmental pediatrician), exchange sympathetic looks with
other parents of kids who appear equally (but seldom as severely) out of step with
the world as Carly. Note: If at doctor such as ear, nose, and throat, avoid sidelong
glances of other parents who stare at Carly secretly thanking God their child is playing
with flesh-eating-diseased-Playskool-firehouse while Carly sits on the floor and rocks
back and forth.
Step 2: Admission to claustrophobic examining room with the assurance that doctor
will be along shortly (what’s the medicaldefinition of shortly ?) and the taking of medical history by the resident or intern (“Can’t you just read
the notes from the previous eight doctors? You tell me what’s wrong.”).
Step 3: Repeat the medical history when the specialist finally arrives just as Carly
is completely losing it, screaming at the top of her lungs and attempting to fling
herself from the stroller, tethered by a waist strap; stare up at the pensive, twisted
face of the doctor as he/she reads through a four-inch-thick chart.
Step 4: The perfunctory physical examination of eyes, ears, pelvis, back, limbs, and
joints while Carly writhes and screams, making said examination even more perfunctory.
Think to self, “What can poking at our daughter uncover that the millions of
quicksand. Tammy was anxious about the growing chasm between the two girls. “Something’s
off,” she said. I chalked it up to her vigilant nature and refused to put it on my
“to worry about” list. Nevertheless, my wife began exploring play groups that would
be ideally suited to both girls. Taryn needed the stimulation to match her extroverted
personality; Carly needed it to pull her out of her sluggishness. For the next year,
the months between the girls’ first and second birthdays, they went to what was clinically
termed an “integrated early intervention program.” For several hours, several days
a week the girls would go to a center resembling a cross between a kindergarten room
and a kid’s birthday party. There they would encourage Carly to use her hands, paint,
and play like the “integrated kids”—those more like Taryn. There are still pictures
of Carly, smiling, covered in finger paint festooning a wall in our basement. But
these playful pictures captured only moments in time. As soon as Carly was home, she
would sit on the floor ofour den rocking back and forth, humming to herself, and ignoring the world around
her. Play was not something that came naturally to our daughter.
One of the instructors at Carly’s program told us, “You have to stay in her face.”
Specialized workers, originally paid for by insurance and then later out of our own
wallet when benefits ran out, would arrive at the house with jangly toys and oversized
Raggedy Ann dolls. For hours they would sit on the floor of our den or the playroom
with an exaggerated cheerfulness, encouraging Carly to follow instructions, take items
from one hand and pass it to another, and play like other two-year-olds. Carly mainly
stared up at them with a look that was a mixture of wonder and boredom. Taryn, on
the other hand, was already off to play dates with friends.
After mornings at preschool, Tammy spent the afternoons making the rounds at medical
facilities and hospitals. Sometimes I would take time off work to join her. The next
four years would feel like an incarceration in a house of mirrors. One doctor unable
to explain Carly’s lack of progress would send us on to another, who then pointed
us in another direction.
Step 1: Wait in beige-and-gray waiting room filled with toys you don’t want child
to touch for fear of infection by flesh-eating disease. Little worry for us, however,
as Carly ignored pretty much everything. Depending on the type of doctor (neurologist,
audiologist, geneticist, developmental pediatrician), exchange sympathetic looks with
other parents of kids who appear equally (but seldom as severely) out of step with
the world as Carly. Note: If at doctor such as ear, nose, and throat, avoid sidelong
glances of other parents who stare at Carly secretly thanking God their child is playing
with flesh-eating-diseased-Playskool-firehouse while Carly sits on the floor and rocks
back and forth.
Step 2: Admission to claustrophobic examining room with the assurance that doctor
will be along shortly (what’s the medicaldefinition of shortly ?) and the taking of medical history by the resident or intern (“Can’t you just read
the notes from the previous eight doctors? You tell me what’s wrong.”).
Step 3: Repeat the medical history when the specialist finally arrives just as Carly
is completely losing it, screaming at the top of her lungs and attempting to fling
herself from the stroller, tethered by a waist strap; stare up at the pensive, twisted
face of the doctor as he/she reads through a four-inch-thick chart.
Step 4: The perfunctory physical examination of eyes, ears, pelvis, back, limbs, and
joints while Carly writhes and screams, making said examination even more perfunctory.
Think to self, “What can poking at our daughter uncover that the millions of
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