The Screamer

My daughter wouldn’t stop screaming. It had been going on for so long that sometimes I marveled at the power it still had over me. Somewhere along the way shouldn’t I have become accustomed to it? Shouldn’t it have passed over into the category of white noise, like a roaring fan that drones on so continuously that you only notice how loud it was once you’ve turned it off? Yet the opposite was true. The longer her shrieks and wails continued, the more aware I became of them, and as I struggled to maintain my composure amid the howls that had become the soundtrack of my life, I could feel myself cracking.

It wasn’t long after she was born that the screaming started, and as a brand new mother I was quick to worry and clueless as to how to effectively respond. Advice poured forth like a never ending font from well meaning friends and relatives.

“You’re not nursing her enough.”

“She’s allergic to something you’re eating.”

“Supplement with formula.”

“Switch to soy.”

“Try solids.”

“She’s colicky.”

“You hold her too much.’

“You’re not holding her enough.”

And still she screamed.

She was still screaming when she was almost two and my husband and I sat wearily in our car at a Sonic, having left her with my mom, (the only other living person that was willing to keep her), for a few stolen hours away. As usual we could talk of nothing but this tiny, unhappy, person we had so cavalierly brought into the world. Pete was reading from one of the umpteen parenting books I consulted daily, in my never ending hope that one of them somehow held the magic method that would turn our girl into the smiling, peaceful cherub I had always envisioned my child being.

“It says here,” he stated slowly, ”that if your toddler has tantrums lasting longer than an hour, more than three times a day, that it could be the sign of a much bigger problem.” The silence as we stared horror struck into each other’s eyes hung heavily in the tiny car, carrying with it the fears in us that had already taken root, but had not yet been given a voice. It was broken by us both almost simultaneously.

“Something’s wrong with her.”

“She’s fine.”

My eyes surely revealed the fact that I, too, knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t say it aloud. Not yet. So I spent the drive home arguing my case for her normalcy, ignoring the evidence that we both lived with every day.

She’s fine.

She’s fine.

Except she wasn’t.

As she became a more verbal preschooler her screaming continued, although now it was also coupled with more articulate vocalizations of her misery. I had always dreaded taking her out in public, but as she grew it became more humiliating. Most fellow shoppers are understanding of a howling toddler, but a screeching preschooler is something else altogether. I braced myself every time we went out for the scornful, superior, faces that we were sure to encounter, and on the rare occasion that someone sent a sympathetic smile or a few encouraging words my way, it was all I could do to fight back the tears that a show of empathy inevitably brought forth. My daughterwas into her fourth year of life when I started actively searching for answers outside of my own library of parenting books. Because I was not ready to think otherwise, I assumed she must have a yet to be diagnosed medical condition. Was she diabetic? Could she have a food allergy? Was she anemic? Was she having migraines? Were these tantrums some kind of seizure? Perhaps her repeated bouts with strep throat were causing some kind of lingering problem. I began to take her to the doctor frequently, but I was not entirely honest when I explained what was going on. I focused only on the behaviors that I could present that would not shame me as a mother.

She’s so lethargic that she just wants to lay on the couch all day.

She doesn’t eat well.

She has trouble sleeping.

She never wants to play with other children.

She tells me her tummy hurts daily.

She gets a lot of headaches.

The symptoms I shared with the doctor were all true, along with anything else that cropped up, such as a fever or an unexplained rash, but I could not bring myself to voice the others, the ones that were the real reasons for my concerns, my alarm.

She has melt downs daily that last for hours.

She goes into rages where she physically attacks me and my husband.

She has extreme reactions to simple things, like a toilet flushing or an itchy tag on a shirt.

She has to have things a certain way, like toys lined up on the bed, or a specific order of nighttime lullabies. If they aren’t just right she melts down completely.

She has a long list of unending, irrational fears, like going blind or being attacked by wild animals.

She keeps developing new, persistent rituals, like stepping on each stair two times as she ascends and three times as she descends, or echoing the last word of every sentence someone else says.

Hours of my life were wasted as test after test came back negative, and our pediatrician stopped even trying to conceal her annoyance at our repeated visits. In a practice with four doctors, they all came to know us well, and a quick peek into her chart one day confirmed what I already knew. I had been labeled as a parent who saw things that weren’t there, who looked for illnesses in a healthy child.

I don’t remember the exact circumstances that finally caused me to break, although I well remember the things that caused her to melt down during that time period. I am fairly certain that she was acting no differently than any other day. I know it was a school day for me, or supposed to be anyway. Around that time she was melting down nearly every morning on the way to my school for various reasons, but at that time it was usually because I wasn’t reaching back to put my hand on her knee in exactly the right place as I drove. Our drive took about 30 minutes and by the time we would arrive I was usually sobbing right along with her. My mother would meet us there to take her for the day while I taught, and I would usually not even attempt to get my daughter out of her car seat, instead choosing to get out of the van and collapse into my mother’s sympathetic hug before I disappeared into the classroom. I would then spend the few minutes I had before the bell rang, not getting my materials together for my lessons, but desperately trying to pull myself together enough to cheerfully greet my happy second graders, splashing water on my face to hide the splotchy redness, and resting a cold compress on my swollen eyes, hoping they wouldn’t still be red enough for the kids to notice.

That morning though, I guess I just didn’t have the strength to fake it anymore. When I pulled into the school parking lot, always at a distance from others so no one would hear her, I looked around at the teachers and students happily starting their day. It was in such stark contrast to my own anxiety ridden and misery filled morning that I found myself unable to get out of the car. I sat there, shaking, tears flowing, as my daughter shrieked and thrashed around in her car seat in the back, frantically exclaiming.
 “Mommy! Mommy! Please! Please! Put your hand on my knee! Put your hand on my knee! Please! I’ll be quiet! I’ll be quiet! Stop crying! Mommy! STOP CRYING! Stop! STOP! Take me back home! I want a redo! PLEASE! I want a redo! Start over! Please! I won’t scream! I won’t! I promise! Mommy! Are you listening? Mommy! Stop crying! PUT YOUR HAND ON MY KNEE! PLEASE! MOMMY!”
My mother knocked on the window of the van and I rolled the window down. Her look of love and concern pushed me over the edge.

“I can’t do it. I can’t. Please tell my principal I’m sick.”

“Let me take the baby. Please take her to the doctor. Please. I know that something’s wrong.”

I let her take my quiet, content one year old son, so that at least he could have a break from the chaos, and I drove off.

I remember feeling that I could not face another day without answers. I knew in my heart that something was terribly wrong and I was finally desperate enough to tell the truth to anyone who would listen.

Neither she nor I calmed down as I drove to the doctor, and we made quite a scene as I hauled her in. By now she was flailing her arms, hitting me in an attempt to get me to turn around, drive home, and let her start over. I can only imagine how we looked as I approached the front desk.

“Please. I don’t have an appointment. Please can we see the doctor? We need help.”

They were not quick to agree, but at last they did, telling me I should be prepared for quite a wait. I can only assume that they decided they were better off containing our little tornado to a room far from the eyes and ears of their other patients, because we hardly waited at all before we were abruptly led to an examination room where I could at last put her down and let her continue her tantrum without using me as a punching bag.

When the doctor came in, eyes already full of scorn and skepticism, I let it all out, every concern and worry, every symptom and abnormality. I hardly stopped for a breath as I listed everything I had tried to keep secret for so long. I became aware of how loud my voice sounded when my daughter at last stopped her screaming, as though she, too, wanted to hear the solution to our problems.

When I finally stopped talking, the doctor handed me some Kleenex to wipe my tears and began to methodically ask a few clarifying questions. I answered them with as much detail as I could, for now that I had decided to at last go public with my worries I had no desire to hold anything back. I had just finished answering the last of her questions and a silence fell as I looked at her expectantly.

“Could you excuse me for a moment?”

Without waiting for an answer, she left the room. My daughter and I looked at each other, both of us in that slightly sedated state that always followed one of her episodes. She picked herself off the floor and reached into my purse for her beloved baby pillow, snuggling it against her blotchy face as she climbed onto my lap. I stroked her hair as we waited, and I started to feel something I had not let myself feel before. I felt hopeful. Any minute now our doctor was going to walk back through that door and give me an answer. At last I was going to hear what was wrong with my child. I would be able to put a name to whatever it was that caused her so much suffering, and in naming it we could begin to treat it. For the first time this helpless mother would be able to do the one thing that all mothers have a deep seated desire to do for each of their children. I would be able to make it better. I could at long last help my little girl.

The door opened. It was our doctor along with one of her colleagues. They smiled at me and the first doctor spoke.

“I’m glad you came to us today and I believe we have something that will really turn things around for you and Naomi. It’s been helpful for many parents.” She extended her hand to give me something.

It was a discipline book.

“Some kids are just harder to control than others, but if you follow the advice in this book you’ll be just fine. There’s no charge! Good luck.”

She started to leave as the other doctor turned towards the worn out child on my lap.

“You be sure to listen to your Mama now! It’s time to be a good little girl and stop hurting Mama. You’re a big girl and big girls don’t have tantrums.”

They left and as they did my all hope vanished with them.

It is at this point that words fail me. How can I accurately express how I felt as I stared down at the discipline book they had gifted me, one that I had read myself over a year ago in my own desperate quest for help? To say that I felt myself to be a failure is but a weak representation of the feelings of inadequacy that flooded me. I felt light headed, sucker punched, and distraught. I gently put my daughter down to walk to the car, holding her warm little hand in mine as the tears welled up in my eyes. I don’t remember the drive home, or the call to my husband to explain what happened. He remembers it well, though, and tells me that that moment ranks as one of the lowest of his life. It is easily one of mine.

It would be another four years before we got the real answer to what was plaguing our daughter. The ensuing years leading up to that moment were every bit as difficult as the ones I’ve written about here. Were they made worse due to the fact that I had been told by an expert that nothing was wrong except my own failure to discipline? Indeed they were. I lived with the self doubt and anguish I felt on that day for years. Honestly, it has never really left me. Even though I know now that my little girl was suffering with undiagnosed OCD, anxiety, and depression, some part of me always feels responsible in some way, as though if only I had been a more capable parent she would not have suffered as she did.

Sometimes you can be the most involved, caring, parent in the world and be overwhelmed with the challenges of a mentally ill child. The difficulty in parenting these children compared to your average child cannot be underestimated. Out of my four children only my daughter has these special needs, so I do know of which I speak. I have also taught hundreds of children successfully over the years and have become known as a teacher with excellent discipline skills, yet still I was unable to meet the needs of my own struggling daughter.

So, if you happen upon such a child throwing a fit at the grocery store, or melting down at the park, please be kind, be caring, and be aware that the parents are in all likelihood doing the best job they know how to do. Be supportive, avoid placing blame, and above all keep in mind that these parents are suffering, and need your encouragement, not your scorn.

Author's Note

I welcome any and all feedback.

Reviews

[Beccy]

A broken arm mends; not so a broken mind. Love and patience are all we can offer and pray it is enough.

A very close member of my family has a child, well, not so much a child anymore, she's sixteen now, who suffers from both Aspergers and ADHD and regularly goes into meltdown and has the most heartbreaking mood swings.

Those who don't know her, will never understand.

Your story touched me deeply.

Beccy.

[Melissa]

Thank you so much for your thoughtful and well written review. I appreciate the feedback. Please let that family member know they are not alone.

[Christy the Poetic Hear..]

That's very inspiring!!!! Plus, the advice at the end is wise and altruistic.
Nice writing friend!!!!

[Melissa]

Thanks for your kind words.

[wordman]

every body is an expert,right

[Melissa]

Amen to that.

[KCthelastboyscout]

If patience was an over the counter drug how much of a supply would you need?
This is an incredible story to read.Others can read this and maybe relate to your experience.
The job youre doing as a parent is something beyond love...

[Melissa]

Between teaching and parenting I am constantly needing refills of that particular controlled substance. Thank you so much for the thoughtful review.

[KCthelastboyscout]

Welcome to the cafe😊

[Melissa]

Thank you. I have reached a point in my life where I am finally ready to get serious about writing. I'm hoping this site will be a good motivator for me.