Ironman 70.3 Santa Rosa (Part I)
This race almost didn’t happen for me. I almost didn’t get on the plane for California the Wednesday before the race, even though I had already shipped my bike. The weeks leading up to it were mentally and emotionally draining for me, personally, having little to do with my training, so my heart, my determination, and my energy were definitely not on racing.
A little background--my older son has high-functioning autism. He was officially diagnosed at 7 years old. Fast-forward to now--he’ll be 14 soon. He’s been in therapy this entire time. He’s made progress, LOTS of it, but, to the untrained eye, it may not seem that way. And, more often than I like to admit, even I forget in the moments when he’s having a hard time with a social concept or refuses to participate in school or some change has thrown him off and agitated him. He’s still sensitive to certain sounds, textures, temperatures, and tastes, all things that I have to be constantly aware of in order to potentially intervene before a meltdown may ensue. We have a pretty rigid routine in place because sudden changes are very bad, and he cannot deal with them. His motor skills are still pretty awkward. When his blood sugar gets low, he becomes virtually inconsolable. And, he is wicked smart--his IQ is higher than 99% of the population of the planet. (He doesn’t know that part.) Add to all of this, puberty, and, well, you have the makings of almost daily emotional tornadoes. Things have been really tense at home for a while now.
I do my best to maintain a routine for him and make sure he eats often enough (if he doesn’t, he becomes frantic). We regularly attend therapy, sometimes weekly, but usually every other week. He’s had a meltdown in the past several weeks, which we haven’t experienced in a long while, but, thankfully, it wasn’t a physical one, because, honestly, I don’t know that I’m physically strong enough to manage him anymore. He’s bored with school and doesn’t see the point. He’s depressed and anxious. And then, exactly one week before the race, shit hit the fan at his very small private school (10 students in grades 6-12). He and another student have been butting heads all year, and she also has special needs, though hers are physically evident. The school finally rearranged the class setups about 8 weeks ago to help them avoid one another, and that aspect of school at least became a bit easier for both, or so we thought.
One week before I was supposed to board my flight to California, I picked him up from school, asked him how his day was (“Um, okay”—usual response), and I drove to the bike shop to drop my bike for transport to the race. We had been home for an hour when I received an “incident report” about him and his school nemesis snarking at one another on the way to the restroom, mainly just kid stuff, but, since he has zero filter, I have to constantly remind him how to interact socially, so I asked him about it, and he responded that only part of the report was accurate (turned out to be the truth on his part—plus, he’s a terrible liar, so I knew right away), and then he added, “Plus, I don’t understand why her mom came into the school and yelled at me when I got there this morning.” I was stunned—surely I misunderstood what he said. So I asked him to repeat what he said about the other student’s mom to make sure I had heard correctly. He did, and before the blind rage completely took me, I managed to ask, “What exactly did she say?” I knew that he wouldn’t be able to tell me, because as a defense mechanism, he shuts down during confrontation and has no memory of it whatsoever—it happens when during meltdowns too, and this is perfectly normal for him. But I had to ask before I made my next move.
So many emotions and thoughts overtook me, and then I glanced at my 10 year old (who is not on the spectrum) and saw his face—he absorbs so much of this intensity around him too—stopped myself and said, as calmly as I could manage, “Okay. Let me take your brother to art, and I will contact the director, and we will handle this. Don’t worry about it right now, okay?” My teen said, “Okay,” and my 10 year old visibly relaxed a bit. When we got in the car, my 10 year old simply and quietly said, “I’m sorry, Mama.” He does this all the time when I get upset too—he tries to comfort ME. That killed me, so I said, “Buddy, please don’t apologize. None of this is what you need to deal with, and I am sorry that you have to witness it all. It’s going to be okay. I will handle this, and I will always protect you and your brother. Okay?” He perked a bit at this, and I changed the subject to his day while I drove him to art. He’s mainly a very happy kid, so that helped.
All of my endurance training helped prevent me from doing or saying anything colossally stupid—this is no exaggeration. Otherwise, I might be writing this from jail. On a paper napkin with a dull pencil. When I called the director, it took every last ounce of self-control I had to suppress a stream of profanity worthy of mortifying hardened sailors. Verbally, and in writing, I requested a written report of everything that was said and done by the mother during this incident, which I received later on and insisted that school policies needed some drastic changes regarding parental interaction with students.
This is what transpired that morning, partially from me and partially from the school investigation: I dropped him at school that morning, and I saw the mom and her child waiting outside the school, which never happens, and my gut told me to walk into school with him, but when I mentioned it to him, he said, “No, Mama. That’s embarrassing.” So, against my instincts and better judgment, I told him not to talk to them and to just go to his desk and start his work. She followed him inside, apparently, and, in the presence of at least one staff member and another student, threatened him with bodily harm if he ever talked to her daughter again. (Yes, really.)
When I received this report, I was LIVID and worried. I struggled with wanting to hunt her down myself, with calling the police to file charges, with wanting to hug and comfort a child who hates to be touched, with taking legal action, and with soul-crushing guilt for not having walked him inside school that morning. I reached out to my college tribe for support because I knew that I needed talking down. (My husband was traveling and was unreachable for most of this, and my family is not supportive—they think his diagnosis is an excuse for us to avoid parenting “properly.”)
It didn’t take long before the school requested a meeting with my husband and me. It turns out that whatever he was accused of saying to her daughter had never occurred, and, when confronted with this fact, the mother was unrepentant and refused to apologize for her behavior. The school immediately banned her, and, consequently, her daughter, which is unfortunate for the child. The school staff have been instructed to immediately call police if she appears again. They’ve changed their parent/student interaction policies. They were very apologetic for not contacting us immediately. So, at least that part was encouraging.
But now, before bed, my teenager frequently asks what would have happened if the child’s dad had showed up or if the mom returns. I reassure him that we won’t let it happen, and that he’s safe. My 10 year old asks about it all the time. He worries for his brother and always has. So, no, I REALLY didn’t want to leave them, even with their dad (who can’t stick to a routine to save his life, except his own), though my husband does okay when I leave explicit written instructions.
This all left me mentally and emotionally drained. I wasn’t sure I had a race in me anymore. Physically, I was ready, but I just didn’t know about my mental and emotional state. I didn’t feel like my heart or head was in it this time. I wasn’t even excited about the prospect of a girls’ trip and race for which I had been training my ass off. A friend finally convinced me to go, reassuring me that she’d help out here if needed. I reluctantly packed, though at the last minute. And I cried most of the way to Fort Lauderdale, but I got on the plane.
