Raising Blaze (21 page)

“Yes,” I said, in an attempt at levity, “you should be careful what you wish for; you might get it.”

“I’m serious,” Mr. Davidson said. “He’s a good kid. I know he’s capable of much more than he’s doing. That work she showed us in there was ridiculous. You know that, right?”

“I do,” I said. “It hasn’t exactly been going well with Mary.”

“I can tell,” Mr. Davidson said.

“Let’s see how it goes,” I said, finally.

“Okay. You folks have a good evening,” Mr. Davidson said and took his leave.

“What do you think?” I asked my father.

“I like him,” my father said. “He’s different, isn’t he?”

“Bit of an iconoclast, I think,” I said.

“That’s good,” my father said. “That’s good for Blaze.”

Before I had a chance to even think about transferring Blaze, however, there was another bit of torture to endure: Blaze’s three-year review. The triennial review was basically a mega-IEP meeting that produced a blizzard of paperwork. Psychological tests were performed and evaluated, current levels of academic performance were assessed based on various educational tests and class work, and levels of social development were discussed. I had been through one of these marathons in second grade when Blaze was starting to have big trouble in Kimmi’s class. I couldn’t remember the specifics of that meeting. It had become a long blur of bad news in my memory.

I was determined to be better prepared for this meeting. The new school psychologist had an office next to the preschool classroom where I worked. At lunchtime and during any break I got during the day, I went over to talk to her and discuss Blaze. I knew that she was planning to give him a battery of tests, so I explained Blaze’s history with tests, how, in my opinion, they’d never produced valid results and how anxious I was to make sure that we had an accurate reading. I was more forthright and objective with her about Blaze’s school problems than I had been with anyone who was not an immediate family member. I told her about my concerns, my fears and my hopes for Blaze. I was so honest, I almost sickened myself with my own sincerity. I offered to help her administer the tests. Blaze, I told her, was highly resistant to any kind of testing situation.

The psych listened to me, said she appreciated my help, discussed various developmental disorders with me, and even gave me some
research literature to read. We started having some spirited discussions about psychotropic medications for children. The psych was a big proponent of medication whenever possible, which didn’t surprise me, but our disagreement on this issue was a friendly one. Our whole relationship was a friendly one, in fact. I was glad that I was now working within the system, learning the procedures and acronyms of special ed. I felt that this afforded me a distinct advantage.

Predictably, Blaze proved difficult to test. He was cooperative but distracted. He gave the psych the answers he thought she wanted, rather than trying to solve any problems himself. He refused to do anything that he perceived as difficult. I was disappointed, as usual, that Blaze refused to show his real abilities, but not particularly worried. I had an understanding with the psych and I felt she’d be able to tease out the real Blaze in her assessment.

The meeting to go over her evaluations started in the early afternoon and would last for over three hours. The school psychologist, with whom I had established such rapport, led the discussion by passing out copies of her nine-page report and explaining its contents. Every test she had administered, the psych explained, had shown Blaze to be performing in the mentally retarded range. Although Blaze’s distractibility was a factor, she said, she felt that these results were fairly accurate. She didn’t feel that Blaze met the criteria for autism, although she wrote in her report that
Ms. Ginsberg tended to see Blaze’s behavior as more appropriate at home than has been observed at school.
Blaze’s anxiety level at school was very high, the psych said, and had significant impact on his social and academic performance. Therefore, she felt that Blaze could also be considered severely emotionally disturbed.

“You think Blaze is
mentally retarded
?” I said when she finished speaking.

“Well, his test scores do indicate functioning within the mentally retarded range,” the psych said.

My immediate impulse was to lean over the table and shove the
nine-page report down her throat, but I just stared at her in horror. I felt completely blindsided. My face grew hot and my throat constricted. I looked over at my father, who was reading the report and shaking his head. I’d never seen my father look so sad and this affected me more than my own indignation. I felt a huge chasm of hurt open inside me. I couldn’t stand to witness my father’s pain so I turned away and my eyes met Mr. Davidson’s. Mr. Davidson was not reading the report, but was watching me. I saw concern in his face and I saw real, unfettered empathy. This undid me more than anything else and my eyes filled with hot, angry tears. I couldn’t respond to the psych, couldn’t speak a single word because, once again, I was crying in an IEP meeting and struggling mightily not to let it show.

Mr. Davidson took over, presenting his own evaluations, which were decidedly more positive than those of the psychologist. Had I not been so completely unsettled by the psychologist’s report, I would have been pleased that Mr. Davidson had noted Blaze’s academic strengths and had accurately pinpointed the areas where he needed the most help. As it was, though, I was unable to muster much enthusiasm for the rest of the meeting.

It was dark outside by the time Helen began writing her summary. Once again, the psychologist’s report raised its ugly head.

“Based on what we have here,” Helen said, “we can consider changing Blaze’s handicapping condition to either mentally retarded or severely emotionally disturbed.”

“There’s no way—” I began, but Helen cut me off.

“Now, hear me out,” she said. “If you decide to go with mentally retarded, Blaze could qualify for services through the regional center.”

“What kind of services?” my father asked.

“Respite care, and that kind of thing.”

“You mean, like, baby-sitting?” my father said.

“In a sense, yes,” Helen said. “They provide trained aides who relieve parents and provide support.”

“We don’t need that,” my father spit out. “We’ve got plenty of qualified baby-sitters in our family.”

“But that’s not even the point,” I broke in, finally finding my voice. “Blaze is
not
retarded. Why would I say that he is?”

“It’s just a matter of qualification,” Helen said.

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “I would never give Blaze a false label just to get services that I don’t even need. What happens when he reads these reports down the line and finds out that his mother thought he was retarded? And he
isn’t
retarded.” I shot a searing look at the psychologist. “And he is
not
disturbed in any way.”

“Fine,” Helen said, irritated, “we’ll keep the handicapping condition as speech and language impaired. Transition to Mr. Davidson’s class full time after the holidays? Does that work for everybody?”

Nothing was working for me at that point, but I agreed, signed the forms, and walked out with my father. I felt like I’d aged twenty years.

“What do you think?” I asked my father. This was the obligatory question after every IEP meeting. My father was usually steady and could be counted on to give me an objective summary of the meeting to counterbalance my own roiling emotions. But this time he was fresh out of optimism.

“The shrink thinks he’s retarded,” my father said. “What else is there to say?”

“But Mr. Davidson—”

“Yes,” my father said. “He’s Blaze’s best bet. You’re not going to get anywhere with those women. Nowhere.”

February 1999

They call this boat a “floating marine lab.” On board, there is what seems to be an inordinate amount of rope, several buckets filled with various sea creatures, and a tiny galley, which I look to lovingly every time I pass it on our endless loops around the boat. Inside is warmth
and possibly a cup of coffee. At this point, I could easily be convinced to trade some of my teeth for a cup of hot coffee, even bad coffee.

I can’t imagine—no, don’t want to imagine—what’s below deck. It wouldn’t matter anyway; the upper deck is all that concerns me. I glance ruefully at the rows of life vests around us. I can visualize strapping one on and diving into the bay. I’m not at all sure that I’d be less comfortable than I am now. This is the first time I’ve been on a boat since I was a kid and too young to remember now (the SS
France,
the ship my family sailed from London to New York in 1972 on one of our many moves across continents, doesn’t count, because that was the size of the
Titanic
). And now here I am on a swaying vessel (the fishing boat from
Jaws
comes to mind) in the middle of the San Diego Bay, on what must surely be the coldest day in the history of this fair city. I am in no way dressed appropriately and as a result I’ve more or less lost feeling in my freezing hands, but my sad state of attire is only one of the ways in which I am inadequately prepared for this adventure.

It strikes me that I’ve taken quite a chance coming out here today. What if I got seasick? How embarrassing would it be to have to puke over the side rail? I don’t see any kind of bathroom, although surely there must be one somewhere. Surprisingly, the pitching and rolling doesn’t bother me, just the cold. This is because of Blaze, I am convinced. I have no time to be concerned about my own discomforts because I am too busy worrying about him. He’s having a meltdown and this is a state of emergency.

To be even more specific: this boat effort is actually a field trip and I am a tagalong parent helper with Blaze and his class. Actually, there are two classes here—a “regular” fifth-grade class and Blaze’s class of special-ed fifth-graders, helmed by the highly capable Mr. Davidson. Blaze has now been in his class full-time for two months. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to watch my son in his new classroom environment, although I am aware that a field trip on a pitching boat hardly counts as an average situation.

I haven’t paid much attention to the other class here. For all I’m concerned, they might not even be here at all. I can focus only my own son, who is redefining bad behavior, even by special-ed standards. In fact, the other special-ed kids are remarkably quiet and well behaved, making Blaze’s antics stand out even more.

Blaze won’t sit quietly on the deck when instructed. He won’t even stand where he’s supposed to. He insists on drifting around to the side of the boat, perilously close to the railing. He’s not even making an attempt at pretending that he’s listening to the captain (or skipper, or whatever she’s called) describe marine life and the wonders of the ocean. He’s whining that he wants to buy chips and soda in the galley. He’s hungry. I couldn’t get him to eat his lunch in the classroom before we left and now his blood sugar is low and he’s flipping out. He’d been looking forward to this trip, but he’s been out of synch all day.

First it was, “When are we leaving? Why aren’t the buses here yet?”

Then it was, “Why can’t we get on the bus yet?”

Once we were on the bus it was, “When are we going to get there?”

“Why can’t we get on the boat yet?”

“When are we going to get a soda?”

He’s been stuck on the last one like the proverbial broken record. Of course, as soon as we are allowed into the galley, if that blessed moment should ever come, he will attach immediately to the next thing, whatever that is. But Blaze is not just whining, he’s whining
loudly
. He’s running off. Before we even boarded, I had a moment on the dock when I thought we were going to have to turn around altogether and go home. There were a couple of large dogs roaming around and Blaze did an enhanced version of his usual dog freak-out by running willy-nilly down the dock, screaming wildly. None of my threats or enticements could reel him back in. It was Mr. Davidson, speaking in measured but rumbling bass tones, who finally got through to him. This brought a simultaneous sense of relief and inadequacy. Can’t even control my own child, I thought.

Things only got worse once we were on board. It’s taken both me
and
Mr. Davidson (a former marine, I might add) to hold Blaze to one spot on this rocking boat. When my son is finally silent for a few torturously short minutes, I am conscious only of the bitter wind and cold.

“Not really one of the nicest days to come out here, weather-wise,” Mr. Davidson says, reading my thoughts.

“It’s not too bad,” I say, smiling, trying to be the perky parent helper I’m pretending to be as opposed to the wretched mother I am. “A little chilly, maybe.”

Mr. Davidson laughs. I’m not fooling him, even slightly. “They’ll let us in to the snack bar pretty soon,” he says.

“Well, there’s always that to look forward to,” I answer stiffly. I have a feeling that my lips are blue, but I can’t be sure.

“You know, he’s going to be okay,” Mr. Davidson says, nodding his head toward Blaze, who looks like he’s getting ready to start up the chorus of “when are we going to get a soda?” any second now.

“I’m not so sure,” I say. “I’ve never seen him quite this bad before. I don’t know if it’s because I’m here. But what if I wasn’t? He might have been even worse.”

Mr. Davidson ponders this for a moment. “I am a little surprised,” he says slowly. “I thought he was looking forward to this trip.”

“He
was
,” I say. “Only it took so long. The anticipation…Now he’s in a spin and it’s hard for him to get out of it.”

“We usually leave earlier, but there was another class ahead of us today,” Mr. Davidson says. “It makes for a real long day. I’m sorry about that.”

“Not your fault.”

Blaze is up again and is leaning over the railing, a cardinal sin on this boat.

“Excuse me, young man,” calls the captain. “You need to be sitting down here please. Young man?”