ages and eras

the age of wonder

I have rarely seen an infant as totally aware of his environment as Jeffrey was. At 3 weeks propped in his babyseat, his huge eyes already turning dark, he tracked the squirrels in the trees across the street from our house. I read the baby book. It insisted that an infant could not focus that well. Yet I watched those eyes tracking up and down and sideways, the path of the squirrels. He would relax after nursing and drift into peace, only to be startled awake by the slightest movement, sound, change of light or something I could not even sense. He needed less sleep than I did. He was hyper-aware. He was a little sponge of receptivity to everyone and everything. We over-bonded. He could sense what I was feeling empathetically and I had to be careful because the least spike in my emotion or anger in the outside world would send him reeling and crying frantically.

laughing at Duckie

the age of discovery

How Jeffrey loved school! Directly after diagnosis, we started at Rising Star Montessori School run by a wise and clear-sighted director, Karen Countryman. There Jeffrey concentrated on "his work" as they all did, learning to wait patiently as another child sorted the number bead bars incorrectly, and then making sure they were right when the child had returned that work to the shelf. Colors, shapes, and anything tactile or with images were his forte. He learned a bit about the world and its order, and I really credit the Montessori method for giving him a visual filing system in his confusing world of autism. I would go and read Eric Carle books which I translated into simple signs (believe me, adults take longer to learn). When I appeared at the door to pick Jeffrey up, one of the little girls signed and sang out: "Jeffrey - Your Mommy is Here!"
making a gingerbread house

the age of inclusion_with help

At age 9 we had Jeffrey evaluated by a psychologist in Indianapolis, Julie Steck, in order to start to transition to the Tippecanoe County School Corporation. Austism was a new path in our area. All special-needs students had previously been dumped into one school with a "one class fits all" approach, and Jeffrey and his very demanding parents were a novelty and a nuisance in the system. No Jeffrey did not put his head down on his desk with a time-out like the other students. Jeffrey was a terror. He quickly outpaced the other special needs classroom students who were still learning the days of the week when he knew the hour, minute, day, year, and color of the calendar page and was already checking the next month. Fortunately we encountered some wonderful advocates along with the nay-sayers. We owe so much to Ardis Wipf, the visionary principal of Klondike Elementary, who set the tone for the school.

the age of awareness

Jeffrey slowly became aware that he was not like the others. As much as I wished to talk to him, he would cover his ears and not listen. I found a wonderful book by Judy and Sean Barron. THERE IS A BOY IN HERE. I read excerpts to group assemblies at the middle school. I consulted constantly with his teachers and assistants. Jeffrey was a Junior Honor Society inductee in the 8th grade. Jeffrey loved school and was so proud to be a part of everything from class trips, to 5th grade camp.    

Jeffrey gets a Ziggy Beanie Baby Award from the Journal and Courier and his friends.


Still, the inclusion and pride of elementary and middle school students gave way to judgement and avoidance by his classmates in his teens. No one dared to be Jeffrey's friend. A hostile high school principal and the attitude of disciplinarians started to erode Jeffrey's sense of wonder in the world of education.

One day I received a phone call from the high school. Jeffrey had panicked when he was not allowed to board his school bus as normal. The flare of agression sparked a tackle to the cement sidewalk by his current aide, and I found him bleeding and stunned in the middle of a group of suited men with cell phones. Only one intelligent teacher had taken the initiative to sign to him "sit". He waited for his mom and we left with a consoling Sprite in the car and the haven of HOME.

the age of anger

Jeffrey began to cross "SCHOOL" off the calendar. He did not want to go to registration. He curled into himself, began compulsive eating and had outbursts of panic and rejected all help. He took his agression out on his mother. I was afraid to be alone with him. The biting and the pinching were always on the horizon. He was out of control, and I was scared. I met with "professionals" in our driveway because he would not allow them in the house. We began some medications. We watched and judged his level of calm and enjoyment in life rather than following the heavy prescribed dosage. I needed to see a sparkle in Jeffrey's eye, and not a subdued and pathetic human being. This was the ultimate in isolation for all of us.

David and I each went to work for a place where we might have a little control. In the home we were completely a relay team. My husband and I were in ways as isolated from each other by Jeffrey's behaviors and demands as from the outside world. We sometimes disagreed about strategies. Yet we clung together and held each other up. We resisted all the advice of out of home placement and vowed to somehow make our home a place for all of us.

the age of companionship

It took a long time to come out of this anger. It would resurface as a panic attack at which time you could see in Jeffrey's eyes that he was not in control. It never completely went away, but more and more we settled into patterns of interests and little trips and ways that he was protected from the world but still out in the world. Our beautiful wooded setting laid a scene of peace. The seizure activity came and went unpredictably. It wore him down. There was no way to go in for certain medications that are so extremely hard on the liver and require frequent blood tests. Jeffrey was panicked at the very approach of a medical visit. Our last one was done in the car with Mommy and Daddy and compassionate Dr. Schendel asking him questions in the window.
Jeffrey was our anchor. Each night he would wait for us by the door and make sure David and I were home, ushering the caregiver out, and then he could go watch Sesame Street without worry. The schedule book was written daily: with some coaching and additions by him. He was happy and that was all we ever wanted for our son.

Jeffrey was a teddy bear in the night, a happy presence in the day, a forever companion to the ins and outs of life. "Sweep, sweep," he would say if I spilled something on the floor. "MILK!", if he wanted his constant glass of milk. The house rings with his comments and his opinions on all things, and it is quite silent now. But I hear those echoes of his presence now as I always will. He is our heart and soul at Black Forest Lane. And he will live with us here forever.