Every Nanny is a Spider on the Wall
I’m basically a nanny. In my care, it’s Leon. Leon is almost 22, but he usually cannot remember his age. He often says he’s 16. Leon has Autism and an Intellectual Disability. I like, love him. Not sexually, but almost romantically, I love him so much. People like this are special, and you know if you love someone who’s like this. They aren’t stupid. They aren’t dumb. They know exactly wtf is going on. Leon doesn’t use “novel speech” very often. Almost everything he says is from a script on a TV show, or a reference to a song he likes. I know all the shows and songs, so I speak “Leon.” Lately, Leon has been utterly long phrases with sounds that sound like words, and I swear, he’s gaining increased comprehension (of wtf is going on). And how to talk about it. He’s been able to make requests about where he wants to be, which room, and what he wants to do. My life is richer with Leon. He used to say I love you all the time, but then I went away for a few years to teach at schools, and when I came back, he was a little more sad, a little less likely to exclaim I love you. Something happened in the family. Someone tried to kill their self, and lost their pregnancy, the baby died. She left the country, but the mom and dad never got their groove back. Grief can be like that. What can we do, but turn on each other. Your pain mirrors and exacerbates my pain, please get over it, you depress me, etc. Do they still love each other? Maybe. There’s a new girlfriend now, though, which will complicate things. I whisper the truth about Leon’s family to him when they’re not around. Your sister is sad. Mom and Tim are fighting. Something happened. I don’t know if I could ever explain how much Leon is my friend. We hold hands for at least 4 hours per day. I do everything for him. In the way the caretaker cares for a baby. I feed him food. I play games with him. I take him on walks. I wipe his butt. I bathe him. I dry and dress him. He does some of it, but I facilitate everything— so that things like when you try to put your shirt on and it gets caught on your head— things like that don’t happen. Can’t just go into blind fury because your shirt is covering your eyes and start crying. I help you. Did you forget why you’re sitting down and even where you are? You’re going pee. Let’s help with shorts and sitting down. No illusions here, not going to stand. Sometimes, he gives me this hard stare, a challenge, muted horrific looking rage, with a little eye squint, having memories of not being understood, and he makes a gesture to strike himself in the face (it’s just a gesture), and then I get his parent and suggest the PRN. That level of anxiety is not necessary or natural. Give the PRN. He takes it. He doesn’t want to be a monster. His eyes glaze over. He can’t remember why he was mad. He agrees to do whatever was next, versus the impossible request (he doesn’t understand when or why things are impossible, or even simply not a choice). Let’s take a nap. He doesn’t take naps. He powers up for more. He has the strength and energy of a team of oxen! He could’ve sired 50 children, but he’s fixed. He’s starting to lose top of the head hair, and I know his mom will be sad. She wishes he’d stay small and cute forever. Nope.