Tag Archives: progress

Del Sur V: Manifesto

Posted on by findingmykid
6

“Do you know?—maybe it’s possible that he never had autism?”

These words were spoken innocently, by a sympathetic party, and (I suspect) without forethought. It was late evening in South America. Martin was asleep. My mother-in-law and I sat in her kitchen, chatting, I with a glass of white wine, she with her pisco sour. We were discussing Martin and his progress; I mentioned that his official diagnosis had changed from ASD to ADHD with social/pragmatic language delay. My mother-in-law responded, “Do you know?—maybe it’s possible that he never had autism?”

My mother-in-law supports everything we do for Martin, and does her best to accommodate; we arrived from New York to find her fridge stocked with organic produce (still hard to procure in her area) and a cow knuckle and vegetables simmering on her stove, for Martin’s broth. That being said, I’m not sure she fully understands biomed, or our start point and desired endpoint. This is no criticism of my mother-in-law. I’m not convinced that anyone outside the thick of recovering a child understands autism or what healing requires. I’m not even convinced that I understand autism or what healing requires; I’m just a few paces farther down that road than others are.

Still, when my mother-in-law offhandedly suggested that maybe Martin never had autism, I bristled. I bristled because I think I will hear that suggestion a lot, as Martin continues to become more typical. Already I hear hints. A friend who has a mostly nonverbal seven-year-old and does not do biomed remarked recently about how “maturity” is resolving a lot of Martin’s issues. The friend meant no harm; in her mind, biomed doesn’t work, so she needs something else to explain Martin’s emergence from autism. (I didn’t pursue the issue further. I’m cautious, with other autism parents. We’re all doing what we think we can.) And remember the neurodevelopmental psychiatrist’s words? According to her, Martin developed functional language because he was “not destined to be a child with receptive or expressive language problems.” It’s not biomedical interventions. It’s destiny!

I know, from other blogs and on-line communities, that parents who manage to recover their kids from autism face skepticism that their children ever had autism. You may ask, why should they care? The opinion of naysayers doesn’t affect their children’s recovery. Why should I care if another autism parent wants to chalk Martin’s ongoing recovery up to “maturity,” or a doctor implicates destiny over hard work?

Well, I care, we care, everyone should care, because denying biomed has far greater implications than just adhering to ingrained misconceptions about autism.

It is possible to recover from autism. Not to learn to live with autism’s symptoms, which is what behavioral therapies teach, but to eradicate autism by treating the disorder’s underlying medical causes. I know this to be true, because my son is recovering from autism. I’m not deluded. I have the blood work and urinalysis evincing his medical issues. I have the series of neurodevelopmental psychiatric reports describing his detachment, his lack of language, his emotional instability. I witnessed too well his lethargy and physical discomfort. I endured his sleeplessness. I have watched, over five years, as his medical issues alleviated and the autism symptoms improved in tandem.

Every case of autism is different. Yet there are commonalities. The presence of autism points to an immune disorder rooted in the gut, where 70% of the immune system resides. A healthy gut biome has plenty of good bacteria to keep germs and infections at bay. When something depletes the good bacteria—say, antibiotics, or glyphosate—the bad guys start to party. Any further insult, like insufficient vaccine absorption or exposure to environmental toxins, can cause the whole immune system to jump its rails. When you’ve got no properly functioning immune system, you can find yourself with a host of secondary problems, like neuroinflammation, excess propionic acid, a struggling thyroid, glutathione depletion and methylation troubles, opportunistic infections, an inability to secrete heavy metals. And then? Neuron misfires. The endgame that manifests in autism.

Autism rates are on the rise. Stunningly. Think of those graphs that represent worldwide human population: Autism’s growth is similarly exponential, even according to conservative CDC figures. The epidemic is not the result of greater awareness, or expanded diagnoses; if it were, we would expect to see most cases clustered at the mild, almost debatable, end of the spectrum, where the merely “quirky” kids reside. Instead, new autism diagnoses litter the entire spectrum. Non-verbal, acutely affected autism is on the rise just like Asperger’s. Those who deny the rising autism rates are the willful ignoramuses and the irrational optimists. I am out of patience for either.

We don’t know, yet, what “causes” autism, though every day we learn more about factors that may contribute to the development of autism. I mentioned a few above: overuse of antibiotics, unsafe vaccinations, pesticides. Activists speculate about the role of pollution, about electromagnetic fields, about C-section births (or not) and the newborn’s chance to benefit from the vaginal biome. Genetics also play a role, such as the MTHFR mutation or UBE3A mutation.

(Note this: Accepting that genetics play a role in development of autism is not saying that we “can’t do anything about” the autism epidemic. The genetic predisposition to autism has probably been around many generations; only now do new environmental triggers spur the subsequent development of the disorder. Plus, more and more we have to speak not of genetics proper, but of epigenetics, mutations with the capacity to arise or dissipate between generations, or even within a single generation.)

Which brings me to many people’s resistance to accepting the notion of biomed. If we accept that we can reverse autism by resolving the factors that caused it in the first instance—then we admit that something is causing autism. Based on the exploding autism numbers, whatever is causing autism is getting worse. In an over-hygienic world devoted to unlimited consumption, exploitation of animals and the environment, a pill for every ailment, and the temple of convenience, we are doing something wrong. Disastrously wrong. In that regard, progress has stopped. Unless we change course, each successive generation will pay a higher bill for our abandonment of what is natural.

Unfortunately, almost no one seems to want to change course. So people deny that autism is on the rise, or that autism has causes, or that autism can be treated.

This is why I bristle to hear that maybe my son never had autism, or that he’s moving off the autism spectrum because of something other than biomed. It is also why I do not support the “neurodiversity” movement. Don’t get me wrong: I support the goal of inclusion and accommodation for persons living with autism. Did someone insult or exclude your family member with autism? Call me. I will gladly rush over and go Brooklyn on the jerk. But do not hand me acceptance of autism itself as a policy for dealing with skyrocketing autism rates. Do not tell me that autism is “just how some people are” and should not be addressed, because I will respond that schizophrenia and depression—other disorders with medical underpinnings—are also “just how some people are,” and give lie to how misguided neurodiversity is. People with autism should be accepted. Autism itself can, and should, be fought.

We can learn to live with just about anything. City dwellers learn to live with constant light and noise pollution. Our world may be on the verge of learning to live with catastrophic climate change. This ability to adapt does not mean that we should fail to recognize and correct our own mistakes.

My son had autism. My son still has ADHD. One day my son will be neurotypical. Treating his disorder biomedically has made this progress possible.

Full stop.

Why Can’t We Cross the Finish Line, the Nonexistent Finish Line, Together?

Posted on by findingmykid
5

Bobby [a pseudonym] is eight years old and, according to Martin, his best friend. Bobby and Martin met in special-needs preschool four years ago, when Bobby was four years old and Martin was three. That’s also when I met Bobby’s mom, my friend Stacey [a pseudonym]. Bobby also has autism, and Stacey started biomed with him the following year, when Bobby was five.

When we all met, Bobby and Martin were superficially alike, with corresponding language limitations, emotional dysregulation, and lack of joint attention. They both had been classified “mild-to-moderate” on the autism spectrum. Beneath the surface, however, Martin and Bobby have entirely different health issues. Martin, simplified, has gut dysbiosis, mitochondrial processing issues, recurrent candida overgrowth, and suspected viruses hiding in biofilm. His immune system used to exist in overdrive, so that he was “never sick.” Bobby, simplified, has persistent mycoplasma pneumonia, environmental allergies, parasites, and PANS. His immune system is so depressed that he is “always sick.”

Stacey is given to panic. That is, she remains more susceptible than I am to the rollercoaster ride that is autism recovery. It is therefore possible that I did not completely, wholly, 100% believe her when, during the past few months, she’s said that Bobby isn’t doing as well as Martin, and that she’s not even sure they are still making progress in resolving his health issues.

Two weeks ago, Martin and I had a rare opportunity to hang out with just Stacey and Bobby. After a few hours together, and with regrets, I had to agree with Stacey that Bobby is not doing as well as Martin. At the restaurant, Bobby impulsively put his hands in others’ food and bolted from the table. When we walked in town, he disappeared into store after store and cried about having to go to school the next day. On the playground, he couldn’t swing by himself, aggressively hugged strangers, and melted down when it was time to leave. Martin, meanwhile, was perseverating a lot but otherwise looking pretty typical.

Know that I discussed all this with Stacey, and she gave me permission to write this post. I would not blindside a friend on-line, pseudonyms or no.

The afternoon’s low point, for me, came when Bobby was sitting on the sidewalk biting his own arm and I asked myself, “Is Bobby still the right best friend for Martin? Should Martin spend time with friends who challenge him more?” I would never want a mother to question whether Martin is the right friend for her child. I want Martin to be accepted by all kids, typically developing or otherwise. I was shortsighted and cruel to consider, even for a moment, directing Martin toward a higher-functioning friend. I recognized immediately that I was wrong and tried to turn the situation positive by asking Martin, “Your friend is having a difficult time. How can you help?” Still, there was no denying what I’d felt.

There are plenty reasons why, even though Stacey works just as hard as I do, Bobby’s recovery might be lagging behind Martin’s. I had the advantage of starting biomed when Martin was just two-and-a-half; by the time he met Bobby six months later, they were developmentally akin, even though Bobby is a full year older. Stacey didn’t get to start biomed until Bobby was five years old. The boys’ underlying issues are so different. Not all kids respond well to biomed, and Bobby may be one who doesn’t.

Three years ago, I wrote on this blog:

When I hear about other ASD kids making more progress, or faster progress, than Martin, it gives me hope. It also makes me angry and resentful. Why not our turn? Why not yet? What more do I have to do?

I ask myself, Is that still true? Do I still feel angry and resentful when other kids make more progress?

No. I don’t think so. Consider my friend Lakshmi and her son, Partha. I’ve written about Lakshmi before. Partha suffered a regression (lost all language) following a vaccination. We first met a few years ago when Lakshmi contacted me through this blog, and Partha was developmentally at about Martin’s level. Partha is recovered now, except for minor quirks; his mainstream classmates don’t know he had autism. That is much further along than Martin. When I see Partha and the progress he’s made, I feel happy for Lakshmi and inspired by what she’s accomplished. No resentment. No anger. Only the desire to continue sharing ideas over a cup of coffee. The same goes for my feelings about the other three recovered boys I know, as well as the kids I “know” through on-line chatter but have not met.

I’ve reached my current sanguinity, likely, because Martin has made clear, significant, and undeniable progress toward neurotypicality. In the same post as the “angry and resentful” admission, I mentioned that I became frustrated with Martin for spectrum behaviors like skipping, chewing on a straw in the corner of his mouth, and letting himself fall slack. In a later post, I wrote about Martin whining continuously oh mommy oh mommy oh mommy for 30 minutes, and screaming all the way from our apartment to JFK because Adrian suggested that he change jackets. We are nowhere near that place anymore. The spectrum behaviors that frustrate me today are more like talking too loud in church, laughing at the wrong time, and taking too long to finish breakfast. Almost every day, my confidence increases that we will achieve something like recovery.

I asked Stacey how she feels when she sees Martin or Bobby together, or when she sees Partha. (She knows Lakshmi and Partha too. We biomed moms all end up pals.) Stacey said that children who are recovering faster than Bobby make her depressed and anxious. She worries that she isn’t exploring the right treatments, and asks herself what more she can do (as I once asked myself, and sometimes still do). She fears that a mythical window will slide closed, separating Bobby forever from recovery.

And how does she feel when she sees a child who’s made no progress, who hasn’t taken any steps toward recovery, whose behaviors are more pronounced than Bobby’s, who lacks all language? She said, “I try not to assume the emotional burdens of others’ journeys. I want the best for them. I focus on Bobby.”

I admire Stacey for being hopeful for other kids while not letting their condition tint her outlook. I still tie myself to others’ children. Bobby’s performance at our play date has upset me terribly. I can’t feel as good about Martin’s recovery when I know not everyone is doing as well.

Kind of a funny shot of Martin, acting pretty typical while enjoying calamari in a restaurant.

Kind of a funny shot of Martin, acting pretty typical while enjoying calamari in a restaurant.

Once upon a time, it was more difficult for me to witness biomed kids passing Martin. Today, I think, it has become more difficult to see the ones who lag.

The Bad Nights Aren’t So Bad

Posted on by findingmykid
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Martin’s had two nighttime disturbance in the past two weeks.

Last Tuesday I heard him crying at 10:40 p.m. Crying usually signals a nightmare or some other fright, and such was the case. He had fallen out of bed. He was plopped on the hardwood floor, clutching his stuffed elephant, confused. I lifted him back into bed, checked for damage, reassured him while rubbing his back, then returned to the kitchen as he dozed back off.

This Tuesday he woke me by calling “Mommy! Mommy!” at 1:10 a.m., from his bed. That’s a worse sign; calling for me indicates that Martin is fully awake, and going to be up for a while. I went to his room and said, “Martin! It’s still nighttime. Go back to sleep until morning.”

“I want you to get in my bed,” Martin replied.

“No. I’m going to sit outside your door. You go back to sleep.”

“I want you to sit in the rocking chair,” Martin said. The rocking chair is in his room.

“No. But I’ll be right out here,” I said and exited his room, leaving the door ajar. I stepped into my and Adrian’s room—our door is only four feet from Martin’s, across a small landing—to retrieve my iPad.

Martin started to cry. “Mommy! Mommy! I want you to come inside.”

“Martin!” I said from just outside his door as I powered up the iPad. “You’re fine. I’m right here. Go back to sleep.”

He cried a little more, called, “Mommy! Mommy!”, and fell silent.

I sat down and scrolled through my friends’ Facebook statuses. Since I’d also done that right before I fell asleep 90 minutes earlier, there wasn’t much to read.

Martin started up again. “Ah, Mommy! Ah, Mommy!”

“Martin! Don’t be silly. It’s sleepy-time. Sleep.” I closed Facebook and called up a Scrabble game I had in progress against “CPU.” CPU was beating me by 95 points.

Ten minutes passed. I shut off the iPad, to gauge whether Martin would react when the glow disappeared from outside his door. Nothing. I waited another couple minutes, then quietly rose and returned to bed. It was around 1:30 a.m. I fell asleep.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

2:02 a.m. He was at it again. I stayed in bed and called, “Martin, it’s sleepy-time. Sleepy-time!” Next to me Adrian groaned and flipped onto his stomach.

“Ah, Mommy!”

“Martin, stop it! Go to sleep.”

Silence, then sudden crying. Martin was going to push the point. I got back up, grabbed the iPad again, and returned to my perch outside Martin’s still-ajar door. “I’m sitting right here,” I said. “Sleepy-time.”

Martin stopped crying and started chatting to himself: “You’re right there. Mommy is sitting right there. Mommy is right there.”

No new Facebook status updates. More Scrabble for me. Big defeat to CPU. I’ve got to stop setting the Scrabble difficulty level to hard, at least when I’m playing half-asleep. I shut the iPad off and listened for a reaction from Martin. Nothing. I snuck back to bed and dozed off.

“Mommy! Ah, Mommy!”

2:54 a.m. Martin was still awake. I called to him from my bed, eliciting more rumblings from Adrian. This time Martin didn’t push the point. Without crying, he said, “You’re right there.”

“Yes. I’m right here.” I didn’t leave my bed. I fell back to sleep.

Martin woke me at least twice more; the last time I recall was around 3:40 a.m. Each time I was able to quiet him without getting up again. Finally I heard no more from Martin, and I slept until my 6:00 a.m. alarm.

I estimate that, in total, Martin was probably awake for three hours. I entered his room just once. About 40 minutes of the three hours I spent crouched outside his door with my iPad. The remainder of the period I slept, albeit with interruptions.

I would not describe this as a good night. Not by any means. But it is progress. We aren’t so far from the time when Martin routinely woke for three-, four-, and even five-hour stretches during the night, and either Adrian or I had to be in his room every minute until he returned to sleep. Sure, he was up this Tuesday night, but (1) it was an unusual occurrence, (2) for the most part he stayed alone, and (3) eventually he got himself back to sleep.

Sure, I had to be up, too, and my calling out from our bed bothered Adrian. But for the most part, I remained horizontal, in my own bed. Anyone who suffers chronic lack of sleep will tell you—horizontal rocks.

Go to sleep, little man. Seriously. Sleep. Please.

Something Is Different

Posted on by findingmykid
2

Sorry that this post comes so late. I started writing it ten days ago, then got delayed because Martin has been home sick from school. (A common childhood virus got him—for a change, nothing to worry about.) I return now to the blog with an enthusiastic update:

We’re in one of those “something is different” times, when Martin seems to be achieving some new skill every day.

I love the “something is different” times.

Here are some participants in the ongoing parade of firsts:

Blowing bubbles. After more than a year of trying—grabbing the bubble wand and sticking it in his mouth, yelling “phew!” but barely aspirating, and so forth—Martin has mastered the art of blowing soap bubbles. Doesn’t sound like much? A year ago Martin couldn’t pucker; his “kisses” consisted of bumping his wide-open mouth into my cheek. As of last week, he’s combining a solid pucker, ocular focus, and breath control in one task. He even unscrews the bubble container top and holds the wand himself, steady. This is huge.

Stepping off the escalator. This relates to our old foe, proprioceptive awareness. As City denizens, we’re on escalators constantly, most often in subway stations. The end of an escalator used to involve me yelling, “Okay, Martin! Now! Now! Step now!”, then holding him up by the arm when he inevitably stumbled. I’m down to chanting softly, “And. Here. We. Go!” as Martin lifts his foot and we step off together.

Imitating. Martin’s imitation skills are in full swing. We traveled recently, for a visit to Martin’s doctor. Martin likes to flush the toilet in the airport bathroom, and until now he did so with his hand. This time, at LaGuardia, I watched him trying to hoist his little leg high enough to flush with his foot, just like Mommy does. I hadn’t told him to use his foot; he was just imitating what he’d seen me do. Later, as we waited for our ride home (“Adrian”), Martin picked up a pay phone and asked, “Hello? Hello?”

Imagining/associating. For a while now, Martin has been creating a musical instrument out of anything he can get his hands on. “I’m playing the suitcase like a bass!” “I’m playing my shoelace like a flute!” “I’m playing George’s tail like a saxophone!” (May God bless George the cat.) Even an actual musical instrument can have multiple functions; a toy piano turned sideways is an accordian, and a guitar under the chin makes a violin. Now he’s categorizing less and free-associating more. In the doctor’s office was an air purifier, about 18 inches tall, which blows air through an angled top. Martin tried to sit his behind onto the angled top and said, “I’m using the tushy-dryer!” He also told me, when he saw some rain, that the clouds were “going potty.”

Finding humor. Once upon a time, Martin was upset by anything unexpected. Last week he flipped open the top of his drinking Thermos. Because I had mixed “naturally effervescent” kombucha with the filtered water inside, the beverage rushed up the pop-up straw and squirted Martin’s face. Startled, he looked at me for my reaction. (That’s an achievement in itself.) I laughed; I couldn’t help myself. To my surprise, Martin started laughing, too. Later, on the airplane when we were traveling, Martin asked for an ice cube from the club soda I was drinking. (That’s a no-no for Martin, of course; who knows what kind of water is in an airplane ice cube, which was floating in my aluminum-canned drink. Ugh, and double-ugh. But we live in the real world, and do the best we can with what’s on hand, so he got an ice cube.) I tried to deposit the ice cube into Martin’s mouth but missed and somehow rubbed melting ice all over his face. No tears. More laughter. I capitalized on the ice-cube moment and reminded Martin, “Remember when the kombucha squirted you? Squirt!” The kombucha memory kept the giggles coming. We two managed to crack ourselves up for a good five minutes.

Drawing inferences. Because his babysitters are taking summer classes of their own, I’ve been picking Martin up at school more often. In the lobby of his school last week he watched me read his teacher-correspondence notebook and peek inside his lunch container. He said, “I ate all my lunch.” Which means: He got it. Martin inferred that I was opening the lunch container to check for leftovers, he recalled his own lunchtime performance, and he provided me relevant information.

Expressing emotion. This is just, just starting to happen. Martin talks a lot about falling in a pool, which refers to an event that occurred some months ago at my parents’ home. I’ve heard the story a million times, but last week Martin added a new detail: “When I fell in the pool, I was scared.” Two weeks ago Martin visited Adrian’s office. He ran from conference room to conference room, peering through windows at the tops of skyscrapers, then declared, “I am happy.” Finally, we had a guest musician at church, who played guitar and sang an original song. Martin told me afterwards, “I liked the guitar player at church.” These were the first times I’ve heard Martin make original expressions of emotion.

Yes, something is different. And I am happy.

Martin takes in the City.

The Ineffable

Posted on by findingmykid
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Sleeplessness visited Martin again last night, the third time in a week. He was up from 1:00 until 4:30 am.

I’m tired.

Yet I’m not freaking out. To the contrary, I sense that Martin is doing well, that he’s back on the upswing.

I “sense” that he’s back on the upswing. That’s my way of saying I can point to nothing major. Martin has not ceased all echolalia, or started maintaining extended eye contact, or become graceful. In some respects, major signs point downward. Sleeping, for example. I can’t pretend that’s going well. Or keeping things out of his mouth. Objects are still finding his way into Martin’s mouth at an alarming rate. Fingers. Shoelaces. Lotion bottles. George the cat’s ears.

On the other hand, dozens of micro-signs point to improvement. I’ve witnessed the following:

•      Martin ran from the parking lot next to our building to his school bus without turning his head from side-to-side. I cannot remember seeing him run an extended distance looking straight ahead.

•      Martin was tired, so I let him ride to the store in his stroller instead of walking. We stopped at the organic restaurant for green juice. Martin climbed purposefully out of the stroller and mounted the stairs to the restaurant without pause. No dawdling, no tripping, no fussing. He looked like a neurotypical preschooler.

•      Adrian has been traveling this week. Out of the blue, not immediately related to any discussion of Adrian, Martin said, “I want Daddy to come home.” He was not repeating. He was expressing a wish about an absent person.

•      Two weeks ago we visited Martin’s friend Walter at his apartment. Martin observed that Walter still sits in a booster chair. Martin, who for months has ignored his own booster chair, has decided to imitate Walter. Now he’s sitting every home meal in the old booster chair. (He also runs and jumps in every available rain puddle. Thanks, Walter.)

•      Martin has taught himself to buckle the T-formation “seat belt” on that booster chair. That’s initiative and manual dexterity.

These types of developments can be easy to miss. Indeed, they’re nearly ineffable. But they add up.

They add up to a sense that I need not freak out.

Home Again. Not Perfectly 100% Spot-On

Posted on by findingmykid
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We’re home, since Wednesday evening.

We were overjoyed to see Martin, who seemed to share the emotion. He spent Wednesday evening running excitedly around the apartment, pointing alternately to me and Adrian, exclaiming, “That’s Mommy! That’s Daddy!” He showed off some new skills, too. He’s riding a bicycle, an upright model with training wheels that my mother puchased while we were away. Martin pushes the pedals and steers and calls, “Help! Help!” when he gets himself stuck. He’s also taking pills without assistance. If I hand him a capsule and ask him to swallow it, he pops the thing into his mouth and obliges. Pretty cool stuff.

At the same time, I can’t deny that, in some areas, he’s “off.” I have to call his name several times to get a response. When he does finally answer, he maintains eye contact only briefly. He’s unfocused and difficult to control. He’s thrusting his lower jaw forward, grinding his teeth again. And he’s taken to wearing a too-small winter vest, even in the house. Even to bed. He started this while Adrian and I were in Israel. Samara speculates that he may have been associating the vest with us and therefore finding reassurance in it. I (being Debbie Downer, as I am prone to) suspect that its something more like the weighted vests often recommended for autistic kids, to help them feel secure when their senses are processing haphazardly. In any event, it’s a new behavior, and one with which we are not pleased. He just does not seem to be doing as well as before we left.

I’m asking myself what all this means.

Clearly, my mother did an outstanding job with Martin while Adrian and I were vacationing. She followed his supplement routine scrupulously, taught him to ride a bicycle, and generally loved the heck out of him. One of my brothers was here from Boston too, playing with Martin and—to needle me, his New Yorker sister—taking pictures of Martin in Red Sox apparel and posting them on Facebook. So inadequate care has nothing to do with Martin’s slight backslide. Other possibilities I’m considering are anxiety at not understanding when his parents would return; a stale supplementation routine (he’s due for some changes, which we were waiting to implement until after vacation); and the change in routine, i.e., lack of school for a week-and-a-half.

I’ve promised repeatedly not to let the day-to-day ups and downs of the process get to me. But I do, of course. Yesterday, with Martin’s attention AWOL, I tripped and stumbled into the doldrums. I blamed myself, for being gone. I felt hopeless, for losing some of our great recent progress. I … whatever. There is no sense re-hashing a bad day. Samara works late on Fridays, so Adrian and I went grabbed dinner and went to see The Iron Lady. I fell asleep half an hour into the movie and woke to the closing credits. I felt better.

Does this mean I’ll never go away again, until Martin is recovered? No, probably not. Adrian would never stand for that, anyway. He’s my sanity check. More likely it just means it will be a while.

Now is the time to figure out what’s going on with my little man. Head up. Done with feeling sorry for myself.