When Logic Fails

The mind is a mystery, and sometimes it is really scary.
The mind is a mystery, and sometimes, it is really scary.

Have you ever disagreed with someone and it seems as though all logic fails to convince them the errors of their ways? Unbelievably, I am not writing about a political issue even if the logic may be the same. As we deal with A’s stomach and her growing phobias, there are times we have to take a step back from our position of frustrated parents. I am sure I have frustrated many friends and teachers through the years when I have failed to grasp their reasoning, but I wonder if I am as untouched by the logic of the learned as my daughter has shown herself to be recently.

Dealing with an 8 year old who cannot eat in a restaurant because there is a fly is annoying. Having her reduced to huddling against me for safety from the fly or crying out in fear would be somewhat comical to watch from afar. We tried everything we could think of as we pointed out how big she was compared to the fly, how the horse she had just ridden was able to shake them off, and finally how little of her food the one fly was likely to eat. It did not matter as all of these arguments are adult logic.  The dinner was a wash for her.

Then we went home and a fly followed us into the house. As A screamed not wanting to go to the bathroom where the fly went, we thought we would go insane. I promised to squash it if it came after her. I reminded her of the books about “Buzz” the fly. Still, teeth brushing had to happen at another sink, away from where she saw the fly.

It was just a fly!

At some point, we came to realize we were arguing the wrong way. We were using logic as an adult might to solve a problem. Her problem is deeper and more pervasive. We were proposing a gentle salve on an emotional wound deeper than we know. She cannot stop picking her hands, and suddenly she cannot eat hot dogs with ketchup on the bun. Those are just two of the many recent changes. Why? Who knows, but the phobia and sudden intense dislikes are difficult to resolve. I wish I knew what those emotions meant to her. It is like an emotional logic I just do not understand, and she does not have the vocabulary to express it.

What does one do when one’s own logic fails to sooth the results of a kid’s thought process?

“Dear incomprehension, it’s thanks to you I’ll be myself, in the end.” – Samuel Beckett in The Unnamable

"I'm not saying I am Wonder Woman.  I'm just saying nobody has seen me and Wonder Woman in a room together."   Well, I'll say it, "You are my Wonder(ful) Woman."
“I’m not saying I am Wonder Woman. I’m just saying nobody has seen me and Wonder Woman in a room together.”
Well, I’ll say it, “J,You are my Wonder(ful) Woman.”
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The Pale Brown Line

I need to find a way to teach productive acceptance of our conditions.  I would hate to see A live a life of boulder pushing.
I need to find a way to teach productive acceptance of our conditions. I would hate to see A live a life of boulder pushing.

The author, Richard Cohen, recently described living with MS as akin to living as Sisyphus, condemned forever to roll a boulder up a hill only to watch it roll back down (http://richardmcohen.com/welcome-to-sisyphusville/). As I think about MS, rather than pondering the deliberately frustrating task of rolling a boulder all day for no result, I picture myself trying to walk the thin pale line barely visible to this color challenged dad.

On one side of the line, I see only today. Every day feels much like the last. The pain is still there to keep my foggy mind company. I take my medications to enable something akin to a normal day’s worth of activity. I do so knowing tomorrow and all of tomorrows’ tomorrows will lead down a path of increasing symptoms. Why bother? As I look at today, it seems so pointless, so like yesterday.

On the other side of the line is the sight of the distant future when I am dead and scattered in the wind somewhere. After all, the opponent on the other side of the line is Father Time, and he has yet to lose.

Somewhere in the middle is the pale brown line, just subtly different from the marble of daily experience on which we all walk. Along this line, it is possible to see the impact of the marginal daily gain. I think of it as the trail of the poo of life. With a 3-year-old, a 7-year-old boy and an eight- year-old girl with bowel issues, the juvenile side of me can’t get poo off the brain. In this case though, it gave me a new perspective.

At first all a baby seems to do is eat, sleep, and poop. Every day seems the same…for months. Then come the little changes which at first are little but annoyances. Why must every kid take off their poo filled diapers? Then comes the endless story telling to occupy a kid’s mind while they sit on the potty. Every day, it is another story, and the only change comes in the form of a different story. It’s mind numbingly exhausting some times, but it is eventually traded in for the often repeated and always ill-timed, “I have to go potty RIGHT NOW!” Some times they make it. At other times, it is back to cleaning up poo.

Still, mired in all of this poo, is the faintest whiff of progress to give hope. From a daily perspective, it often seems pointless to try. In the long-term, we are all fertilizer. It’s along the faint brown line, faded by years of potty use instead of inadvertent dumps, we can see how much we have grown.  It’s only when I can choose a middling perspective between now and the future that I get to enjoy life’s progress.

I try to think of my MS as the need to take a dump. Each day, I hope I deal with it a little better whether it is a dry erase board to remember tasks to be completed or just confidence I can overcome the trials of the day.  To ignore the MS is to create a much browner spot along the line, but to focus too much on it is to fall into the “woe is me” depression and lose sight of the line.

 

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Our Family's Stories of Growing Up

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