Rubber Room

A typical example of a fit from the toddler days: Both my kids were decent restaurant kids--I was fortunate they both liked to eat so could be counted on, for the most part, to behave. One sunny afternoon, out for lunch with my mom and dad, we got a great table out on the deck of a casual burger-type joint. Waitress appears. Since I was trying to teach Leo how to speak to someone, I asked him sweetly, "Leo--why don't you tell the young woman what you'd like to drink?" "Lemonade, please" he responded. I let out my breath--so proud he not only looked at her, but actually remembered the please. "I'm sorry", she replied, "we are all out of lemonade--is there something else I can get you?" I took one look at him and told her we'd need a minute. His hands were clenched, the shakes began, and the next thing you know he was pounding his head down on the tray of the highchair.

In less than a minute, I had him unbuckled, pulled out and run through the restaurant while he wailed. I got in the car and made sure the windows were rolled up to wait it out. We didn't make it back for lunch.

By second grade, it took more than the absence on lemonade to bring on a fit. But, sometimes, not much more. It was really hard to know the triggers. By now, he had been tested, evaluated, poked and prodded by every doctor we could think of: homeopathic practitioners to heads of Neuropsychology. Still no label. I really wanted one. I needed one. I felt like everyone thought I must be a bad parent. Must be beating him at home or something. It was terrifying. Even more terrifying however, was "the rubber room".

Although I now had a "team" of people at school, including his teacher, who were part of the evaluation group, there still weren't any answers and his teacher did not know how to handle the fits. One day, I got a call and I knew it was worse than ever. She asked me to come in right away. I raced over. Upon arrival, I could see she was rattled. She was a tiny woman, and, as I mentioned, Leo a large child. They were very close to eye-to-eye and he might've even had her pound for pound. She was shaking. Where is he? I asked. "He's down the hall" she answered.

"It was really scary." she began. It started here in the class room and he was banging his head against the desk and also pushing my desk at the same time" I had to call Mr. F. and Mr. W. They had to pick him up in order to get him out of here". But where is he? I asked again. I was escorted down the hall to the rubber room. I could scarcely believe my eyes. This was a public elementary school. I peeked through the small window in the wooden door. There he was, sitting on the floor legs crossed, grabbing his feet and trying to bite his toes. He was rocking back and forth. It was surreal--a scene right out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Mr. F. was guarding the door. I just stood there in shock. "What set him off" I asked his teacher. "We had one of those tests that's kind of a trick. It's about following directions. It gives you this whole list of directions, but you're really only supposed to write your name at the top of the paper and stop." I didn't quite get it, but I could tell the it was kind of thing a sensitive kid might freak about.

"I don't want him put in here anymore" I told his teacher emphatically. "I can't promise that" she answered seriously.

Later, in therapy..."Leo, what happens to you BEFORE you have a fit. Like through a whole day leading up to one--can you descibe it?" his therapist asked.

"Yes" he responded. "It's like this--most people have a mind with a drain. They get a thought, and then a feeling, and then that thought or feeling goes down the drain and it's gone." "I don't have a drain". My thoughts and feelings keep going into my mind like it's a sink with no drain. First a thought, then a feeling, then I see something sad--more thoughts, more feelings. Every time I see someone I can tell exactly what they are feeling. So many kids are sad, or scared and I can tell what they are feeling and I can't get rid of their feeling either. They just keep sticking in there without ever draining out. Finally, the thoughts and the feelings just start to overflow the sink and that's when I have a fit." I just wish I had a drain because I can't stand it anymore".

"Wow" we were both blown away at the desciption. I knew he was articulate for an 8 year old, but it was such an "AHA" for us. We got it. She explained to him that he did actually have a drain--it was just really clogged and we were going to work together to unclog it. We are going to get some Drano and get through it. she continued. "What's Drano" he asked. She and I actually sung the jingle in tandem. He giggled. "OK" he said, and I felt that this time, he really believed it.