Kitty White

I spend most of my moments keenly aware of how lucky we are. I’m reminded time and time again that things could be a lot worse for Nick. He could have violent tantrums multiple times a day. He could pound his head against the wall just to stim on the blood pouring from his forehead. I know that things could be a lot worse.

But lately I've been watching some things unravel for my little boy. When we started seriously implementing biomedical interventions in December, Nick made tons of progress. Tons. His eye contact improved, his stims decreased, his sleep patterns normalized, and his chronic diahhrea healed. And then it seemed the progress decided to back pedal. Nick's stims are steadily increasing again (so much so that I lovingly gave him the nickname of Super Stim). His sleep patterns . . . well, I guess I can't use the word "patterns" because there is no pattern at all anymore--he's as likely to be awake at 4 AM as 4 PM. His stomach--that's the worst part. The chronic diahhrea has returned; he must feel miserable.

Last night I was tucking him in for about the tenth time because he just couldn't get settled enough to fall asleep. He'd look at a book, then stim on his hands (I finally figured out that he's imitating train signals with his arms--I think that's kinda cool, actually), then he'd get up out of his bed. I finally pulled out the lotion and rubbed his feet while he stimmed, giving him the deep pressure he loves. I rubbed and rubbed . . . and cried. I was doing everything I knew how to do to make him feel better--all the therapies, all the doctors, all the vitamins. I felt like there had to be some way to make him feel better, because I had seen his health improve so much just a few months ago, but I had no clue what it was. And so just I rubbed my son's feet and talked to him.

"Mommy loves you so much, Nick."

"I miss you."

Nick was right there next to me, his growing feet in my hands, but I still missed him. I missed hearing him tell me about his day. I missed hearing him tell me about the thing going through his head that made him laugh so hard. I missed hearing him share his hurts with me so that I could comfort him. And just because I've never actually heard him say any of those things doesn't make the missing any less real.

I wiped a tear and started rubbing the lotion on his hands, wrists, and arms. And he started one of his verbal stims, one that I'd heard before. "Ki-dee-why," he said. Time and again.

But here's the thing: his pronunciation got clearer each time. It began to sound like "Kitty Why." And then . . . then I heard it.

"Kitty White. Kitty White."

I said it back to him and he smiled that content Nick smile that creeps across his face when he realizes someone gets him. "Kitty White," he said, eyes locked onto my face, and I said the phrase back to him.

Then I ran out of the room. To find his Kitty White.

I scooped Mitty up from her peaceful sleep and plopped her down on Nick's bed. "Kitty White," he said and laughed. "Meaaaaa-ow!"

I left Nick with his Kitty White . . . and, miracle of miracles, the restless boy found his sleep.

That wise little boy. Nick had done more than say "Kitty White." He'd answered me. He let me into that world that I'd been missing, told me that he'd been laying there thinking about his cat. That calm little smile that had crept across his lips winked at me. "See, Mom. I'm right here," it said--nothing to miss.