As you may know, I made the call to have Zach evaluated for speech. He just doesn’t say enough to mesh with my ideas of what I think he should be saying. I made the call, and they told me a couple of things. First, he has to be a few months behind in order to qualify for services through our state’s early intervention program. If there is too slight a delay, I can still get him help, albeit privately. Second was that, despite the fact that Zach is almost 2 years old, they are continuing to adjust for his prematurity by subtracting the number of weeks of prematurity from his chronological age, then rounding down the next whole month. So while Zach is 20 months old, as of this next week, they assessed him as a 16-month-old.
Until I got the letter.
I thought it was just speech.
They said no, that he is delayed in communication and fine motor skills.
AND that he is delayed enough for services.
They weren’t supposed to say that. They were supposed to tell me everything is just fine and I am just a worrying mother. Not that my worrying is right on target.
Here in a few minutes, I am going to get up from this desk and do a quick dusting in the living room and maybe vacuum because the case coordinator is coming by today to meet us. To explain how this all works–physical therapy and speech therapy for Zach. Further testing, even, to ensure that it is only prematurity that has caused this and not some other issue. And about a million thoughts are swimming in my head.
What was it? The breathine? Mag Sulfate? Indocin? What about the damned pain medication that I didn’t want to take but had to in order to survive that ordeal? And not only am I wondering which drug I was given, but which dose? Which injection, pill, dosage increase did the trick? Or what if I would have been tougher and held on a little longer? And if so, how much longer would have been enough? A day? A week? Where did we fall short of that threshold where everything woulld have been okay. I thought it was all fine. Zach is almst 2 years old, and I thought I was finally past all of this. That we made it through, completely unscathed. This is so fucking unfair.
And Evan. Having a child–any child–with an autism spectrum disorder makes you much more likely to have another with an ASD. Are both of my precious miracle boys disordered?
I cannot even think about it now. Right now, I am going to put down the textbooks for a little while and pull myself up by the bootstraps. And help my Zachy.