When Presence Is All We Have

This past Tuesday night, my son Cooper (now ten) had to go to the ER because of a reaction to a pretty terrible sunburn.  

That night he spent hours writhing in an itching pain, groaning, and teeth chattering. 

We did everything we could think of to help - cortisone, aloe, benadryl, melatonin, coconut oil - but he was still inconsolable and unable to sleep.

Finally, a little after 10 pm, my husband piled him into the car with a blanket and an ipad and took him to the ER. 

But the trip to the ER was unsuccessful as they suggested going to the store for another over-the-counter ointment which ultimately did nothing.

Again, the moaning, writhing, crying, and screaming began. He was in agony. 

My husband eventually got an emergency prescription for a more potent antihistamine, but the only 24-hour pharmacy is an hour's drive from where we live. So, with blanket in tow, they got back into the car.

And then finally, Cooper fell asleep. And he stayed asleep as the soothing rhythm of the car carried them across the miles of farmland to Michigan's capital city and back. 

My husband tucked Cooper into his own bed at about 1 a.m., and thankfully Cooper slept through the rest of the night and woke up doing much better.

I share this story for a couple reasons. 

First, the incident was uncanny in how much it reminded me of the early PDA burnout times with Cooper.

He used to have loooong panic attacks that we couldn't soothe. 

I would experience the same sensory input as I did on Tuesday - writhing, crying, groaning, screaming - and my nervous system would react with so much fear.  

The fear came from not knowing. Not knowing what to do, or why this was happening. 

It was so hard to make sense of it when there was no injury I could see, no red skin to signal my brain in a way that says - this is the root cause of the problem and it can be solved. 

This is why it was so healing and important for me as a mother when I eventually came to understand the invisible and underlying logic of how his PDA brain perceived threat. 

Second, at a certain point on Tuesday - and many, many times over the years when Cooper had long panic attacks - there was no "solution." 

The task became being present with - and bearing witness to - another human's suffering, without being able to stop it. 

I am now well-practiced in this task. 

I simply sat on the ground beneath him (or followed him around the house as he sought relief by walking) and bore witness. 

It's all I could do - share my presence, without judgment, with unconditional love. 

I told him we wouldn't leave him and we would get through it together. Just like I used to say years ago before I understood PDA.

Back then I would watch him in his crib, name the people in his life who loved him, tell him I was there, and that we would figure it out as he screamed. 

But back then, I honestly didn't know if we would. 

I know that many of you have moments like these - where no declarative language, lowered demand, or other strategy or accommodation fixes it. 

You are not doing it wrong.

This is part of the experience. 

Over time, we learn to be with our children's pain without blaming ourselves.

And this is something you can hang your hat on at the end of each day. You're doing what you can and, even when it doesn't feel like it, that is enough.

I am sending you love and witnessing you if you are spending time like this. 

With much love, and a reminder to wear sunscreen.