Mom Overjoyed To Raise Neurodivergent Son — 'His Senses Are Far More Powerful Than Mine'
She couldn't be more proud of him.
Miljan Zivkovic | Shutterstock One November day in the late 1990s, I picked up the phone with dread, expecting the usual complaints. Junior high had become another nightmare of teachers calling me to complain about my son. I came to hate the sound of the phone ringing. Instead, I heard the gentle sound of a school secretary on the other end.
“Mrs. M., your son asked us to call you. He would like you to bring his jar of change to school to donate for the homeless drive.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said. I grabbed Patrick’s large, full jar of coins and drove to the school.
Turns out, some of the popular kids at the school had led a drive to raise money for the homeless during the Thanksgiving season. They received media publicity for their efforts. Then, some students stole the money that they raised during a fire drill. Patrick (not his real name) heard about this and decided to give all the money he had been saving over several years to take its place.
He never received any publicity for his generosity.
Though teachers and students continued to deride him, this was who he was. My beautiful, brilliant neurodiverse son.
This mom was overjoyed to raise her neurodivergent son.
When I was seven months pregnant with my first child, my in-laws called to accuse me of convincing my husband, their oldest son, to live three hours away from them in the area he had been stationed while in the Navy. We liked the area and decided to build a house there. To them, I had taken their son away, as the rest of their adult children lived nearby. I was furious that they would attack me when I was heavily pregnant. And my husband became angry at me. We didn’t speak for two days. But we had friends scheduled to visit on Sunday, so had to reconcile in some way.
That Sunday afternoon, I hiked with my husband, my best friend, and her husband in the woods behind our home. I recall mentioning to Denise, “It’s weird. Usually, Braxton-Hicks contractions are no big deal. But I’m finding I need to stop when they are happening today.”
When we returned to our home, I felt challenged to cook us all dinner, but I wasn’t going to spoil the party. At 10 pm, I was feeling very uncomfortable. But it was a Sunday night, and I didn’t want to disrupt my obstetrician’s weekend. I had no idea I was in premature labor. By 5 am the next morning, I was in terrible pain. I filled the tub with warm water and submerged myself. It seemed to ease the pain, but I finally decided to call the OB’s office.
“It’s probably a flu. I’ve had several calls this morning. Call the office when it opens at 9,” was the response I received. By 9, the pain had increased.
This was in the 1980s when natural childbirth was the expected choice for delivery. I recall saying to myself that if the flu could hurt this much, there was no way I’d make it through an unmedicated labor.
The office gave me an appointment for 10:30 am. By 10, I couldn’t walk on my own. My husband guided me into the car. When we got to the office, he was not enough to help me — a nurse saw us struggling and came outside to take one side, with my husband on the other.
The OB who examined me was very young. “You’re 8 centimeters dilated,” he told us. “Can you make it to the hospital?”
It was a 10-minute drive.
At 11:30 am, I delivered a 3-pound 4-ounce baby boy who I did not get to hold, as he was rushed into neonatal care and an incubator.
It was so painful for me to receive my husband’s parents to meet their first grandchild. I blamed them for the stress that caused the premature birth. I was healthy and doing fine until that dreadful phone call and the ensuing fight with my husband. I still wonder, how different might my son’s life be now if I had been able to carry him to term.
My son spent five weeks in neonatal care. Hospital personnel told me to stay at home and rest, but I couldn’t. I spent most of those weeks sitting by his incubator. So I ended up an exhausted mom when he was finally released from the hospital as a five-pound baby.
This was also a time in which La Leche women were making all new mothers feel like the most loving thing they could do for their infants was to breastfeed them. Unfortunately, I bought into the message completely. When my son was in the hospital, I pumped my milk for him. But after all those weeks in an incubator, Patrick never gained a sucking reflex. I felt like such a failure.
Around the time that Patrick was around six or seven months old, I recall saying his name to get his attention. He was lying under a toy mobile.
He never turned to me when I called his name. At that point, I felt sure that something was not right.
As Patrick grew, problems grew with him. He was quick to anger, and when his sister was born 18 months later, he seemed to hate her.
When he was a preschooler, I tried a therapist whom I was told was excellent. The man told me I just didn’t know how to play with my son. Right. This guy played with him for an hour a week. I played with him every day. He was a waste of time and money.
I tried to get some respite by bringing my children to daycare for a few hours/week. Ultimately, the caregivers would tell me they would not watch my son anymore, and it was clear to me that they wondered what kind of a monster mother I was to have such a difficult child.
Elementary school years were a trial. I know that Patrick felt left out and alone.
He would sometimes lash out when he felt confused, or he would leave the classroom and attempt to run away. Teachers didn’t know how to respond with support and kindness. The phone calls I got could fill a book.
But my son was not unmanageable. He was just different in his ways of behaving from other children.
He was highly curious and intelligent and incredibly interested in nature and science. There were times when his teachers were amazed because he knew so much more about things like electricity and natural science than they did.
Patrick had a wonderful fifth-grade teacher. After years of frustrated teachers and problematic behavior as a result, Patrick finally had a teacher who was kind enough to care. He did so well under her tutelage.
In the spring, the class raised painted lady caterpillars and watched as they created their cocoons. When they emerged, the class rejoiced as the butterflies spread their wings and flew away. All except for one. It had one deformed wing and could not fly. Patrick asked his teacher if he could take it home. Of course, she agreed.
Patrick created a home for the butterfly in a Kleenex box that stayed next to him as he slept. He mixed up hummingbird nectar for its food, and we watched and learned how it would use its proboscis to draw in the nectar. He would also take it into my flower garden daily and put it on the flowers to get fresh nourishment.
Painted lady butterflies typically live 2–3 weeks. Patrick’s deformed butterfly lived four weeks. We mourned her passing. After that, for several years we would collect monarch caterpillars and provide them with safe spaces to transform into a cocoon and then metamorphasize into brilliant orange and black butterflies. They would often flutter back to us before flying away.
Patrick was fascinated with insects when he was a young child. In an attempt to get him involved in the typical activities of young boys his age, my husband and I enrolled him in the community soccer league. He wasn’t a great player, as when he saw an interesting bug in the grass during a game, he would stop to examine it. The second year he was in the league, miraculously, his team won the championship. There was cake and ice cream and much celebrating.
Patrick, however, was not a part of it. He was immersed in locating insects in the grass. And this was a kind of awakening for me.
I recall thinking, “I will never have what all these parents have with their ‘normal’ kids doing the usual things parents do and experience with their children. But — they will never have what I have, sharing with my unique son all that he can teach me through his remarkable ability to observe.”
By the time Patrick reached junior high, his father and I divorced. He and his family refused to recognize that Patrick had challenges that required extra resources to help him succeed in school.
As I mentioned, I got frequent phone calls with complaints from teachers. I recall dealing with a Shop teacher who was very frustrated with Patrick (do they still have that subject? I don’t know. It was the typical one boys took while girls were funneled into home economics). He was angry when Patrick insisted on completing a project more quickly and efficiently than the teacher required of his students.
At one point, the school moved Patrick into an educational setting intended for highly noncompliant adolescents.
I was terrified, as these students often included youth who were violent and angry. To my surprise, they came to view him as a leader, and he excelled there. Ironically, we were both sad when he was brought back to the regular setting. But he graduated with his class and was accepted into the marine biology program at a New England university where he lived in a dorm with several roommates.
I could — and perhaps I someday will — write a book about so many more issues and adventures we have faced in my son’s lifetime. In brief, he completed his bachelor’s degree in marine science, though he has never been able to get a job in this science that he loves so much and is so good at.
He has dealt with people disrespecting him and treating him badly at low-wage jobs. Finally, finally, through a connection, he was able to gain an IT job where the people in the office respect him. Though his degree is clearly not in computer science, he has a real knack for it and built his own computer from scratch.
Patrick recently turned 40 years old. He is a kind, thoughtful, highly intelligent man who is fully capable of living on his own. He has his own car, has had his own apartment in the past, cooks his own food, and does the usual tasks we all need to do — washing clothes, cleaning our spaces, etc. Sadly, too many places in the US have become too expensive for a single person to have their own place to live. I have to say, I enjoy having him in our home.
When Patrick was diagnosed, he was given the diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome. I prefer the term neurodiverse.
To me, it does not sound like a defect or problematic diagnosis. It is just a difference. And difference can provide so much to those of us who are labeled “normal.” When I walk the beach with Patrick, he points out things to me that I would never see on my own.
His senses and powers of observation are far more developed than mine.
I mentioned earlier that I wonder how Patrick’s life would have been different had I not been caused stress that I think led to his premature birth. And chances are that he might have had an easier life, as would have I. But I would never wish for him to be anyone other than who he is. I am honored to be his mother, and I could not have more respect for who he has become.
Jody McBrien is a professor of interdisciplinary global studies at the University of South Florida. She is a frequent contributor to Medium and has more than 50 academic publications.