The Wild Women of Borneo*

She loves to sit in her room for hours and mess around with various beads and vibrating pillows and baby toys. She can rock back and forth and hit her head over and over on the padded walls. She's not mad, though, or uncomfortable. When she was younger, we called that perseverative behavior, and it was to be avoided. Autistic children have a lot of perseverative behaviors, and whole modification systems have been set up to eradicate these or mitigate their supposed detrimental effects. I guess some of Sophie's behaviors suggest autism, but she's never been formally diagnosed with the disorder. I imagine the nervous system paths of both autistics and epileptics can criss-cross, a formidable yet fascinating jungle. There was a time when that behavior got on my nerves and made me feel a little crazy. I felt overwhelmingly responsible for changing it, fixing it or, at the very least, providing alternative stimulation. I guess there's something depressing about watching Sophie manipulate and mouth the same toys and types of things for more than twenty years, but how much of that is a cultural projection or construct? I'll venture out on the proverbial limb to say, Why the hell does it matter? She's totally content twirling her beads, pressing the vibrating travel pillow to her cheeks and folding herself over into a yoga pretzel position and closing her eyes. You're like the Wild Woman of Borneo! I said this morning from my outstretched perch on her bed where I lay reading. I've been reading incessantly for about 47 years, and there are numerous people who've said, I just don't have the time to read, with the faintest of implications that there are better things to do with time. It's one of the few, if only, things that makes me entirely content. I might be a perseverative reader. I might, too, be a wild woman of Borneo, just without the super curly hair.













*I looked up the origin of the wild woman of Borneo and could find nothing but a book that used the term, written in the 1970s. P.T. Barnum had wild men of Borneo in his turn-of-the-century circus freak show which I imagine was probably out and out racist, but when I use it I imagine something promiscuous, wild and forbidden.

Fox Socks and Leopard Pants and Tiger Mothers

Sophie is on another drink and food strike. She has no problem picking up a myriad of toys and putting them in her mouth, though, so I'm loathe to think it a sore throat, a toothache or a canker sore.

She doesn't seem uncomfortable -- I don't think.

The agitation I feel is probably entirely disproportionate to the problem, and I'm hard pressed to tell you why this type of thing is so very difficult for me. Maybe it's just a behavior. I've heard of older teenagers with neurological issues suddenly becoming very aggressive and difficult to manage. A long time ago, I worked with a woman on a healthcare initiative who had a young adult with epilepsy. The boy was also developmentally disabled but quite high-functioning (those are the heinous terms we use), and as his seizures decreased, his behaviors increased. He was quite uncontrollable at times and at others, severely depressed. I imagine a brain screwed up by seizures and drugs, seizures and drugs, seizures and drugs and then, finally, no seizures, no drugs, a black hole that needs to fill up, a sort of chaotic world. That depresses me.

I guess I shouldn't go there. I should put on a cheery face and not project into the future. In the moment, it's all I can do not to syringe liquid down Sophie's throat. She did finally just drink a cup of juice and water, slowly, lying on her back. I kept bringing her cup to her lips and holding it there until it dripped down her throat and her reflexes kicked in. I remained calm in a sort of willed manner and kept at it for twenty minutes.

I could never do what you do.
This is how we do it.

I can relax a bit now, tamp down the strange and primitive mother tiger fires. Wait for things to resolve.