Loss of Health, continued

Today is a day when I am really tired. Bone-aching exhausted. I have these days often. I understand that everyone else has their own gauntlet to run, but sometimes I need affirmation that it is alright to feel overwhelmed by what has been served onto our already full plate. In spite of the weariness, I am gaining strength in my written processing of the losses that I have endured.

I left off in my dissertation on loss at the point when I began to home school Annika. To say that was a difficult time is a gross understatement. Annika did very well with her studies, almost too well. She cruised thru her daily assignments and constantly complained of boredom. During this time she seemed to make great strides in her therapy. We started a new medication routine that seemed to work well for her. We moved into our new home, and began to feel a little more settled again.

That fall, Annika started 6th grade (back at school) and I went back to work on a more limited part-time basis. We felt confident that her teacher was going to be a good fit for her. The teacher had a depth of patience with her that we appreciated. However, the problems started quickly. First, it was the constant day-to-day issues with classmates. Again, while we could understand that Annika’s need for constant reassurance from her peers was excruciating for other 11 & 12 year olds, we still hoped that it would be better. I understand that there was another side on this issue, but for purposes of this essay on loss I need to focus on our side of things.

Daily she would come home with another story of someone being mean to her. We would sit every night and hear the play-by-play of how she had been treated unfairly. A fear began to set in that if things didn’t change, the burgeoning narcissistic tendency would overtake her beautiful, loving traits. Each night I would talk her thru the mantra of ‘treat others how you like to be treated, no matter what they do to you’. I would pick apart, line by line, her retelling of situations where she felt persecuted. I still believe that there were a handful of classmates that were horribly mean to her. One little girl took things from her and flushed them down the toilet. Some would call her names and tell others to stay away from her because she was crazy. Others would ask her to please go away and leave them alone when they were on the playground. Still others would send nasty e-mails to her or make repeated phone calls to her saying they hated her. More would tell her that her clothes were weird, her hair was ugly, or that she was stupid. It was the typical middle-school drama, only on steroids.

That fall, we saw her need for attention become insatiable. She began to lie. We had never encountered this from our children. The older two would always tell us EVERYTHING, even when we would scratch our heads and go ‘I can’t believe they just told us that’. At first it was a manipulation of the truth. Upon hearing these manipulations, I tried to re-direct her statements in a more truthful manner. Things just continued to spiral downward.

By December, Annika was refusing to go to school on a regular basis. It became a daily skirmish, where we were each determined to take no prisoners! Crying and screaming became a habit. Often I wanted to hang her by her ankles out the second story window! I would finally get her to school, arrive at work late and frazzled, only to receive a phone call from the school saying that she was in the office grumbling she was sick. We tried everything. Reward systems, threats, everything and anything that we could think of, or that which was suggested to us. Relief from the situation was non-existent. One day she feigned a sprained ankle–the staff babied her with ice packs and called me suggesting I take her to the Dr. Within hours of getting her home she was hopping on the injured joint. Another day, she told the office staff she was dizzy. She lay in the nurse’s office until I was again summoned at work to come and claim her. I thought I was going to lose my mind during all of this, I honestly did. I would daydream about running away from home, not because I didn’t love Dean and the kids, but because I was feeling so completely lost and overwhelmed. I was suffocating from the stress.

I did what I thought was best and I went and met with the school principal. I tried to explain what we were dealing with. Again the series of ‘what is her problem’ questions were asked. If you have not experienced crippling anxiety, or lived with someone who has, it is almost impossible to understand. I tried to convey the realm of overpowering emotions that Annika experienced on a daily basis. I expounded in limited detail her developing voracious appetite for attention. I asked that he and the staff help us as parents to keep her in class and on task. I walked him thru steps that we tried to employ to get her thru an anxious moment. I tried desperately to get us all on the same page. I requested that Annika not meet with the school counselor without our knowledge because it could undermine the therapy that we were spending hundreds of dollars on.

A few days later, I was at home. My doorbell rang and there was a stranger on my porch. She told me she was from Child Protective Services and asked to come in. I was flooded with an involuntary impulse to vomit. The memory of that wave of nausea combined together with cold sweat is still with me. I knew immediately what must of happened–Annika had made up a story about us abusing her. My fear had come to fruition. Her repeated threats during her many rages to call 911; her recurrent cries of ‘how can you abuse your child?’ when we would discipline her–were now something that we had absolutely no control over. None.

Two days earlier, Annika had refused to go to school. I called Dean and told him that I could no longer deal with her and I was going to work. My stress level was full tilt and I felt the best thing for me to do was to remove myself from the situation. Dean drove the 45 minute return trip home and tried to reason with her. He gave her 5 minutes to make a decision: a) go to school or b) stay home and be grounded from tv, computer, music and the phone for 5 days. Within two minutes she announced that she wanted to stay home. Dean left and went back to work. End of showdown. Later that evening, she told us she had made the wrong decision. She hoped we would reverse the punishment. We stood by the penalty--she was enraged.

The next day she returned to school. Later, she told us she had wanted revenge. She hatched her plan–she gathered together a group of girls and told them that she was worried her dad was abusing her. One of the girls, a girl who Dean had taught in Sunday School, immediately told Annika that she knew the story was false, she knew Dean would never abuse anyone. The girls notified the teacher. The teacher talked with Annika and the girls and tried to dispel the myth. Annika refused to let it die–she relayed her fabricated fear of abuse to anyone who would listen. The story took on a life of its own. The teacher went to the principal, the same man I had spoken with days earlier, and told him that while she knew there was no way that Dean was capable of doing what had been suggested, she needed his assistance in calming the situation down.

Annika was pulled into a conference with the principal and the school counselor. From what we understand their ‘investigation’ into the matter consisted of them asking Annika only a handful of questions. Annika stuck by her story and displayed a bruise on her thigh as evidence of the alleged abuse. That was it. End of story, end of investigation. They could have called a handful of other teachers in to discuss the matter, teachers that we have attended church with for years, teachers who were aware of all of the background. They could have called the superintendent, who was also very well aware of the struggles that we had endured. Or, at a minimum, they could have spoken to our oldest daughter and asked if she knew how Annika had gotten the bruise on her leg. Kirsten could have easily answered that Annika had run into the kitchen cabinet the night before and shown her the bruise. None of these things would have violated procedure. None of these things would have revealed that there was an ongoing ‘investigation’. No one took a step back and looked at the entire situation–a child with a history of serious emotional issues, including hospitalization in a psychiatric unit, an accelerating pattern of attention getting, a recent conversation with me concerning my fear of what she might try next. Cooler heads did not prevail. Instead, I honestly believe that the school counselor felt she had found the reason for Annika’s emotional struggles. I think she had an ‘AH HA!!!’ moment. She must be abused. They phoned CPS and filed a report. Thus leading to my doorbell ringing the next morning.

The CPS worker was kind. By the time she landed on my doorstep, she had already interviewed Annika and photographed her bruise. During the interview, Annika admitted that she had been out for revenge and had fabricated the entire allegation. If only that would have erased everything. It didn’t, in the interest of children who ARE being abused, it can’t. The permanent damage was done. The social worker told me that she understood that there was no basis to the complaint, but she had to complete her file. We spoke at length about ways we could protect ourselves and different steps we should think of taking. She left me with her number for Dean to call. He had to meet with her and go thru various paperwork concerning proper ways to discipline your child, as well as other helpful handouts. She walked out the door and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell Dean. I didn’t want to break his heart. This loving man, who wouldn’t hurt anyone now would have an open file with Child Protective Services for 6 years! I think I waited for him to come home to tell him, I’m not sure–those details are a blur. He had recently become an Elder at our church. He had to go and speak with Council and explain what had happened. It was a humiliating experience.

At that moment, we experienced the loss of reputation. We endured a loss of community. If people within our Christian school community could think, even for an instant, that we could abuse our sick child, how could we ever feel deserving of membership in that community? If they didn’t trust us and instead questioned our integrity when we had done nothing wrong, how could we ever feel worthy of being a part of that community? So while you might want to categorize what I’m talking about as a ‘loss’, the reality is that we had instead gained a whole host of challenges. Our daughter was ill. Our daughter needed help. Our daughter needed more than we were currently able to give her. It was time to take another step in our quest for effective treatment.

to be continued.