Raising Blaze

by Debra Ginsberg

  “Well,” I say, “none of them were actually committed.”

  I detect a low hiss coming from my father.

  “I think what Debra means is they’re a little eccentric in some ways,” my father says. “My wife’s father threw his tea into the fireplace when he didn’t like it—that kind of thing. Nothing big—no mental illness.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Every family has its eccentrics,” Dr. S. says. I wonder what the doctor thinks. Does he often encounter families whose members argue about whether or not they are insane? Is this very argument a mark of insanity—and denial of it? I hate trying to second-guess professionals in the field of human psychology. I’m too suspicious to trust any of them completely. And yet, here I am, almost begging one of them for his expert opinion on my son.

  “Well, Blaze and I had a good conversation,” Dr. S. says. “He was very cooperative. He certainly is different, there’s no question about that. He has a…unique way of filtering information. I can see why this would hinder him in the classroom.”

  “Yes,” I say, leaning forward in my chair, “that’s exactly right.”

  “He has a great sense of humor,” Dr. S. adds, smiling. “I would even say an advanced sense of humor. But then there are the other things that you’ve noted on the medical-history form and that I saw evidence of when I was talking to him. The perseveration, hypersensitivity to noise, anxiety…”

  “What do you think caused these…things,” I say, lacking a better word.

  “In my opinion,” Dr. S. says, “Blaze’s birth trauma is probably to blame for some of his developmental anomalies. Oxygen deprivation at birth can have serious effects that sometimes won’t appear until later. And in Blaze’s case, we don’t know how long the cord was around his neck before he was delivered.”

  “Nobody ever mentioned that to me when Blaze was born,” I tell Dr. S. “None of the doctors said anything about oxygen deprivation.”

  “Sometimes it’s a liability issue, unfortunately,” Dr. S. says. “Was Blaze born at an HMO?”

  “No,” I say distractedly. “It was a teaching hospital.”

  “Oh, uh-huh?” Dr. S. adjusts his position in his large leather chair.

  “So, is there a diagnosis for this kind of thing?” my father asks. “We’ve heard a few different ones.”

  “The last psychologist I took him to said that he was clearly autistic,” I say indignantly, still angry about Dr. C.’s report.

  “Blaze is definitely not autistic,” Dr. S. says with authority. “I would gladly stake my reputation on that. And I’ve been around a while.”

  “What is it, then?” I ask.

  “My diagnosis for Blaze would be PDD-NOS,” Dr. S. says, “which stands for pervasive developmental disorder, not otherwise specified.”

  “Not otherwise specified?” I ask, bewildered. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, for example, autism is considered a pervasive developmental disorder as is Rett’s Syndrome—have you heard of that? No? Well, regardless, the ‘not otherwise specified’ add-on means that the child has some of the behaviors or issues of other pervasive developmental disorders, especially problems in communication and in the social arena, but doesn’t fit the profile of any of those disorders.”

  “So, basically, that diagnosis includes a whole bunch of random stuff thrown together. It could be anything and it includes everything.” I give a short laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “It tells me nothing.”

  “Yes,” Dr. S. says. “Unfortunately, we in the psychiatric profession feel compelled to label everything, even that which we don’t understand.”

  “This isn’t even much of a label,” I say. I appreciate his candor, but I’m frustrated by what seems like a non-diagnosis.

  “What do we do about this?” my father asks. “What’s the treatment, if there is a treatment?”

  “Well, he doesn’t need psychiatric therapy,” Dr. S. says. “Although I suspect that Blaze is becoming more aware of his differences. There’s a possibility that he’ll get depressed when he realizes fully that he isn’t on the same academic or social level as his peers. It might be helpful then to have him see somebody—a counselor or somebody similar—who could help him with those feelings.”

  “Is there a special school for kids like Blaze?” my father asks. “Maybe if he were in a better school, one that was designed for kids like him?”

  Dr. S. shakes his head. “There really aren’t any schools specifically for kids like Blaze,” he says. “There aren’t really very many kids like Blaze.”

  My father and I both nod assent at this. From the small toy room, we can hear the sound of things crashing to the floor. I make an instinctive move to stand and Dr. S. motions for me to sit. “It’s okay,” he says, smiling, “that’s what that room is for.”

  “What do you think about medication?” I ask him. “I keep hearing that I should give Blaze drugs.”

  “Like I said, Blaze might experience depression or anxiety when he becomes fully aware of his differences. In that case, you might want to try some of the newer antidepressant medications that are available now, like Prozac, but you’d be experimenting. There isn’t much data available on how helpful these drugs are in cases like this.” Dr. S. shrugs. “But we’re learning more all the time.”

  “Forget it,” I tell him. “I would never experiment with my child. Do you have any suggestions for what I can do to help him?”

  “Behavior modification,” Dr. S. says. “More of what you’ve already been doing with him. You might want to consider having him evaluated by an educational specialist. We’re somewhat out of my area of expertise there, but I know of somebody who’s quite good.” He mentions the same woman that Dr. Roberts has been recommending for some time. I have a moment of utter paranoia, wondering how it can be possible that both Dr. S. and Dr. Roberts have come up with the same person. Is it possible that there is only one educational specialist in the county or are they in cahoots? I decide on the former and realize that Dr. S. isn’t going to be able to give me any sweeping, miraculous answers. I am convinced, however, that he has come closer to the genesis of Blaze’s differences than anybody else. My father gives voice to this very thought as it passes through my mind.

  “I really think you’re right about the birth trauma,” my father says. “It’s so important. Maybe if he hadn’t been rushed out of the womb…” He gives me a vaguely accusatory glance, but I shrug it off. This isn’t anything I haven’t heard before, after all.

  “Dad,” I say, “I’d still be pregnant if I hadn’t had labor induced. He didn’t want to come out. He’d have stayed in there forever.”

  After a few more minutes, our session is finished and we take our leave. Dr. S. doesn’t think that it’s necessary to see Blaze again, but he says he’ll be happy to share his thoughts with the school staff if I feel it would be helpful.

  In the car, on the way home, my father asks Blaze what Dr. S. talked to him about when they were alone together.

  “He asked me what I was afraid of,” Blaze says. “He asked me about my friends at school and my teacher.”

  “What else?” my father prods.

  “I don’t know,” Blaze says with finality, signaling that he won’t be giving up any more information. The three of us are silent for a while, digesting our own thoughts as we glide through the lovely scenery of palm trees, ocean, and blue sky. My father adjusts the rearview mirror, giving Blaze a long look in the process.

  “I’m not giving him drugs,” I say quietly. “Why would I want to experiment with him. That would be insanity.”

  “Absolutely,” my father says. “And we don’t want to change him, anyway. Why would we want to make Blaze a different person than he is?”

  I look back at Blaze who returns my gaze with a steady one of his own. It’s true, I don’t want to change Blaze. But I do want to help him. As I turn away from Blaze and stare out the window once more, my one hope is that these two desires won’t collide, confli
ct, and cancel each other out.

  Sunday begins with seeds. Sesame and poppy.

  Blaze sits in the living room watching TV and eating bagels, scattering seeds into the carpet. He has an unusual method of consuming the bagels, first peeling them and then eating the outer, seeded crust.

  When I emerge from my bedroom to join him, I see the doughy carcasses of at least three skinned bagels lying on his plate. The smell of onion flakes is in the air.

  “I had a bad dream last night,” he tells me.

  “What was it?” I ask.

  “I dreamed there were a whole bunch of garbage trucks lined up at the school and they were all making a very loud noise and I had to cover my ears. How loud was it, Mom?”

  “I don’t know, Blaze, it was your dream.”

  He considers this briefly before he says, “Just tell me how loud it was. Give me a number.”

  “I can’t give you a number for how loud something was that you dreamed about.”

  “Okay, then how loud do you think it would be?”

  “How loud what would be?”

  “How loud if a whole bunch of garbage trucks were lined up in front of my school?”

  “I don’t know. And I told you I don’t want to keep doing this thing with assigning numbers for every noise, remember?”

  “Okay, this is the last time.”

  “No, I’m not doing it.”

  “Just give me a number.”

  “Blaze…”

  “Any number how loud it would be.”

  “Okay, twenty-five, but that’s the last time—”

  “Only twenty-five? Don’t you think it would be louder?”

  “Blaze, that’s enough.”

  Blaze gives the questioning a rest for a moment, but he’s still processing my responses. I hear him mumbling something about trucks, school, loudness. After a while, he says, “Mom, that couldn’t really happen, could it? There couldn’t be so many garbage trucks lined up at my school, could there?”

  “Yes, technically it could happen,” I tell him, “but it won’t. I really don’t think you’ll ever see a whole bunch of garbage trucks lined up at the school. The school doesn’t make that much garbage.”

  “Was it only a dream?”

  “Yes, it was only a dream.”

  We drift off into our own silent reveries for a while after this and I attempt to make it through the Sunday paper. I hear Blaze call my mother on the phone.

  “Nana,” he says, “how loud would it be if there was a whole bunch of garbage trucks outside my school? Give me a number.”

  There is a pause and then I hear him chuckling. My mother and Blaze are constantly finding ways to make each other laugh. Each one thinks the other is tremendously amusing.

  “Get dressed, Blaze,” I tell him, “we’re going out for a walk.”

  Blaze protests, as he usually does. “I don’t want to walk, walk, walkery-walk,” he says. We begin the series of negotiations I know so well. He will get dressed, but only in twenty minutes. He will go for a walk, but only if we can stop for a soda. It’s all right to visit Vons, but Ralph’s is out of the question. I tell him we’ll go to Starbucks and we settle that but he refuses to go to Barnes & Noble so I have to argue with him. He has to read a biography and write a report on it for school and we’re going to look for a suitable book today. Grace went into labor a month before she was due to deliver and there is now a new teacher, Mr. B., in her classroom. I like Mr. B., who comes from a special-education background, but I feel somewhat adrift without Grace’s counsel. I feel that Grace could give me some much-needed pointers on how to get Blaze interested in this project.

  “I don’t want to do the stupid biography,” Blaze says, confirming my suspicion that getting him interested in working will be much like extracting impacted molars.

  “Too bad,” I tell him.

  Once we are out of the house, I feel liberated. Blaze too is happy to be out and he links his arm into mine. I have always loved these outings with him. Since he was an infant, I’ve been taking him on brisk walks to the beach, to the movies, any place where there was a coffee shop where we could stop and rest before turning around. When he was younger, first fitted into a front pack and later strapped into a stroller, we seldom spoke. Now that he walks beside me, our Sunday strolls are times when we discuss everything.

  Blaze has much to talk about these days. Since our visit to Dr. S., he’s developed a strong interest in the circumstances of his birth. He’s come up with the request that we restage this event so that this time he will have “enough breath to cry.” He has also been producing some very interesting drawings lately.

  I’ve paid careful attention to this because Blaze has never enjoyed drawing or art of any kind, for that matter. He lacks the fine motor control and patience necessary to color for any length of time and finds it impossible to stay within any lines, real or imagined. So it was intriguing to me that, for a period of several days, he chose to do the same drawing over and over again. Each time he’d tear up the finished product, declaring that it wasn’t quite right. Finally, he came up with a version that seemed to satisfy him and he presented it to me for my appraisal.

  The drawing consisted of five rows of different brightly colored circles of more or less the same size. He had used every marker in the house so that no one color was repeated. Below the circles was a stick figure lying on its side. I looked at it carefully, searching for clues—something, perhaps, like the characters in Close Encounters of the Third Kind who heard the same five notes again and again until they finally made sense. I couldn’t really figure it out until I turned the paper over and saw what Blaze had written in his big, awkwardly shaped letters: July 23, 1987, 1:15 A.M., Portland, Oregon.

  “What is this?” I asked him.

  “That’s what it looked like when I was born,” Blaze said. I stared at him, dumbfounded, for a few moments and he attempted to help me. He pointed to the small stick figure and said, “See, that’s me and that—” he pointed to the circles, “is what it looked like.”

  I’m mulling over what these drawings could mean as we pass a construction site where a new block of town houses is going up. Blaze asks me how the electricity gets into the buildings. He wants to know why there is a fence erected in front of the development and can we go behind it and walk around? A car with obvious muffler trouble roars by and Blaze ignores our earlier discussion and ask me to give the noise a number.

  “I don’t want to keep giving the noises a number,” I tell him.

  “Well, why are there so many loud noises in the world?” he asks.

  “Why do you let them all bother you?” I question back.

  “I can’t help it,” he says, “my yellow wire is broken.”

  “What do you mean, yellow wire?” I ask, baffled.

  “When I was born, they didn’t put the yellow wire in right so it got broken and now I’m so sensitive to loud noises.”

  “Honey, you need to explain this to me,” I tell him. “Do you have other wires too or just the yellow one?”

  “No, there’s other wires,” he says, pleased that I’m taking an interest. “There’s a blue one and a red one. The blue one is for feelings. The red one controls butterflies and dogs and all flying things. The red one is also for talking and playing. The yellow one is for hearing. There’s a girl in my class who has problems with her blue wire. That’s why she cries all the time.”

  “And so you figure your yellow wire is broken?”

  “Yes, it was too short when they put it in so it snapped.”

  “Who put it in?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody.”

  “So tell me,” I go on, “is there any way of fixing a broken wire? You know, so that the loud noises wouldn’t bother you so much.”

  “Yes,” Blaze says, thoughtfully. “You have to find a white wire and patch it together.”

  “Where can we get the white wire?” I ask him.

  “I don’t know,” Blaze says. �
�I guess we have to look for it.”

  By then we are at Starbucks and so the conversation shifts abruptly to what kind of snack we will be having. As Blaze sits and chews on a scone, the topic turns back to the biography.

  “I don’t know who to do it on,” he tells me. “Nobody. I want to read a biography of nobody.”

  I think about this for a minute and remember last week when each student in Blaze’s class was given a letter of the alphabet and asked to choose a word beginning with the letter and then draw a picture of that word. The idea was to create a sign-language book as a class project. Blaze was assigned the letter N. After thinking for a while, he turned in his assignment. He had chosen the word nothing and left the space for the picture completely blank. I am beginning to think the biography might go the same way.