Y'all. This picture makes me feel big feelings.
This is my daughter, Lucy, walking into her very first day of preschool. It might not seem like a very big thing. A lot of kids walk into their very first day of preschool. It's not unique or uncommon. Maybe you took a picture of your little nugget doing the same thing today. But this picture makes me feel big feelings.
When Lucy was born, she refused to sleep. She refused to be put down. She was very discontent and frustrated with this new world, and I thought to myself, "Sheesh, she's a tough newborn. I will be glad when she adjusts and gets on a sleep schedule."
When she was about 8 months old, the nagging little twinge in my gut nudged me to ask a friend with a baby just a month older than Lucy, "Do you think Lucy's ok?"
"Of course, Sara, she's fine. She's looking around and sitting up." But the voice wouldn't go away.
When she was a year old, saying Dog, Dog, Dog, and no other words, not mama, or da-da, the nagging little twinge nudged me to ask my mom, "Do you think Lucy's ok?"
"Yeah, I think she's fine." But the voice wouldn't go away.
When Lucy was 18 months with just a couple of words, still struggling to sleep, to nap, to sit still, to play with toys the way that my mind kept reminding me that other kids played with toys, the nagging little twinge nudged me to ask her pediatrician, "Do you think Lucy's ok?"
"She's fine. You just had an easy first baby. She'll sleep eventually. Have you tried patting her until she falls asleep?" But the voice wouldn't go away.
When she was 2 and not putting words together or looking at books, still waking at night for hours at a time, eating only the same foods, watching the same episode of Mickey Mouse over and over, and having uncontrollable meltdowns for no discernible reason, the nagging little voice grew aggressive, and panicked, and certain,
"Lucy is NOT fine."
Around this time, I strong armed her pediatrician into an early intervention referral, and a stranger came to my home to assess my 2 year old. Her test scores were just borderline enough to recommend a full evaluation. So a few weeks later, a different stranger came. "She should see and ENT for those ear infections. But we can begin early intervention."
"What are we looking at?" I kept asking questions. The professionals wouldn't give me answers, and Google gave me entirely too many.
We saw the ENT. Lucy got ear tubes and had her adenoids removed. Maybe this would change everything. But several weeks later, when we went for her follow up and things weren't really progressing, the nagging little voice nudged me and I asked the ENT, "Do you think Lucy is ok?"
"No, I think we're looking at something else here." The nagging little voice exhaled, because it knew we were, and finally someone was listening.
We waited 6 months for our phone call that we could get our behavioral assessment done at Vanderbilt. There were bits and pieces of progress, but certain behaviors continued, and I became more and more certain of what we were dealing with for Lucy. When the day rolled around in February of this year, and the psychologist gently affirmed what I had known in my gut for 2 years, I was met with an odd swirl of emotions.
"We believe Lucy is on the Autism spectrum." She said it carefully, as if I was fragile and might break. She had no way of knowing that I had been in pieces for the last few years and her words were putting me back together.
I asked about her prognosis. "We really don't know. She has strong adaptable skills. That's promising. But we can't tell you what her future will look like." We got in the car that day, and I felt the struggle of the last 36 months dissipate, while a new uncertainty settled into my stomach. "We don't know what her future will look like," the words played over and over in my mind. "But it's Autism," the little voice nudged. "We can find a road map for that." Determination.
Over the past 6 months, we've fought to get Lucy the intervention that she needed. She was denied services through the school system that we were zoned for, even with Vanderbilt's recommendations, so we asked for additional evaluations. "She stacks blocks appropriately. We see no need to provide services."
And the little voice screamed, "SHE ISN'T FUCKING FINE!"
She couldn't form sentences or answer questions. She couldn't tell you if she was hurting or what she had for lunch that day. She could quote entire scenes from a TV show but couldn't ask you where we were going in the car. She would strip naked if a drop of water got on her dress and panic if you tried to make her sit on the toilet. She couldn't understand simple directions and she swirled through life like a small cyclone. My heart shredded into bits one night when I was rocking her, wrestling her to sleep, and she sat up, looked into my eyes, and, as if she had seen me for the first time in her life said, "Hi momma." And then, as quickly as it opened, the door between us shut again. No. This isn't fine. Nothing about this is fine.
So we began searching for private therapy services. We've visited a neurologist, tried medications, taken her off medications because they destroyed our girl, and began holistic treatments. We're seeing amazing progress. And then we moved. And HALLELUJAH, PRAISE THE LORD, we're in a new school system that said the most beautiful words that have been spoken over her life thus far, "Lucy's scores qualify her for FULL INTERVENTION SERVICES."
So my little girl walked into preschool today. Her first day of FULL INTERVENTION SERVICES. And I am having all of the big feelings about this. Feelings of hope and relief and gratitude.
Y'all. Lucy is spectacular. She's funny and adorable and she gives the most incredible hugs on the planet. She is full of life and energy and spunk. She is zeal and tenacity and delight. Sometimes she is curious. Often, she is exhausting. Her strong will, the same strong will that will one day keep her from getting trampled on, currently pets all of my peeves. She likes routine and movement. Sometimes she comes undone. Last night, was the worst of all of the undones we've ever experienced with our girl. There was literal blood, sweat, and tears, and as she melted down, I had my first ever honest to goodness panic attack. But she's progressing. And she's in preschool, right now, getting full services, services that will help her to understand her world, and give her the words to tell us all about it. With the help of these special souls working with her, she has the ability to find the skills that she needs to fully do life.
Today, finally, with all of the hope and a tiny bit of cautious hesitation,
the little voice said, "Lucy is going to be fine."
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