Digging a Hole

Husband’s parents owned a house with a large backyard. In fact it was about a half-acre that stretched straight back from the house.

During our courtship, he showed me around the space because when he was a child, it was sacred and special to him.

At the point between two rather tall trees that his mother had planted 25 years before, he stopped in solemnness before an obvious indentation.

“This is where I would dig my hole,” he said with a tone that often accompanies a hallowed moment or ritual.

“Dig a what?” I said in my spontaneous infidel reaction.

“I would dig in this spot beneath the shade of the trees. I got a shovel and dug and dug until it was large enough for me to sit in it.

It was cool and comfortable, and I could be out here all by myself.”

“No one bothered me out here.”

At that moment, I thought, “Well, yeah, the other kids were playing games or riding bikes. Who is going to want to come and sit in a hole with a sullen kid?”

Instead I asked him what it meant to him. Didn’t he get lonely?

It was because he felt lonely and rejected that he began digging his hole.

Earlier his mother told me how he spent a great deal of time alone in the backyard.

One of her favorite recollections took place when he was as young as four years old.

“He would play so intensely, he would lose track of time or even if he had to go to the bathroom. I would see him begin to run as hard as he could toward the house from far back at the end of the yard. Then about half-way here, he would stop and get a terrified look on his face. I would know what he had done – crapped his pants.”

Since I was madly in love with him, I said, “ OOhh! Didn’t you think that was cute?”

“Only the first time. After that it was stinky, and I got tired of cleaning his underwear.”

“What did you do?”

“I made him clean his own shorts. He gagged and gagged as he swished them clean. I think he vomited, too. After that, he made sure he came into the bathroom soon enough to do the job there.”

Mother-in-law told this to me with her characteristic smirk and laugh. I thought it was hilarious.

However, I did not bring up that story as we stood respectively before The Hole.

“Some days, I would spend eight hours at a time out here.”

“Wouldn’t you eat or go to the bathroom?”

He looked at me as if I had made the most inane comment ever.

“Well, I brought food out here with me. I could pee behind that tree.”

“What did your mom think about this?”

“She left me alone. It kept me out of her hair.”

I suspicioned she kept an eye on him from the kitchen window.

“How old were you when you sat in your hole?”

“I started when I was about six, and would dig it bigger each summer. I think I stopped sitting in it about the 8^th grade?”

“Eighth grade !?!”

I had a difficult time imaging a nearly adult-size body in the hole.

Today I know about the comorbidity of ADHD and depression, and I know just about how depressed Husband was as a child.

Depression and ADHD frequently coexist, but not in a peaceful way. Sometimes it is the first symptom that sends the person with ADHD to a psychiatrist.

I think The Hole was an allegory of Husband’s childhood depression.

Another Communication Blunder

Today I broke a cardinal rule when communicating with my ADHD spouse.

I confused him with my body language.

He had the refrigerator door open to get a snack for Rudy, our new dog. Since Rudy was trying to get outside where we did not want him to be, husband was tense about the situation.

I had my tote in hand intending to go to work. I didn’t tell him I wanted in the refrigerator to get a Diet 7-UP.

The kitchen door was slightly askew as if I was going to open it.

My first mistake was not to explain myself. My second was to take part in this conversation while exhausted from lack of sleep.

We both used loud tones and harsh words.

“What are you trying to do? Get out the door, so this stupid dog does not bolt and run.”

“Stop body-blocking me. I’m trying to get a can of pop. Why didn’t you let me in the refrigerator?”

“You have that tote aimed toward the door. How was I to know you wanted in here?”

“Rudy isn’t going anywhere as long as you have that piece of ham in your hand.”

He and I said other things. Whatever popped into his mind came out his mouth. It was not a pleasant way to begin our day.

At times I think he can be totally unreasonable. Likely he thinks the same about me. I realize I am not as forthcoming as I should be.

Husband saw me with my tote and formed an idea in his mind of what he expected I was trying to do or convey.

He didn’t get the message, and I should have known better. He often jumps to conclusions.

He does not pick up on innuendos, and he doesn’t control irritation well at all.

Just like his mother told me nearly 40 years ago, don’t expect him to catch it. You have to be direct with him, so he knows exactly what you mean.

Possibly I should have said, “Just let me put this tote down and show you how to control your anger.”

That is one innuendo he can read.

Likely it would have made both of us laugh. He would have look down from his 6-foot-three-inches to my 5-foot-two inches and caught the implication.

Ridiculous, huh? Humor he does catch.

Even after all these years, I must remember the effective ways to communicate with him. Social cues or body language may not be best practice. Many people with ADHD do not pick on them, which can cause misunderstanding or even rejection.

It causes him to become confused, which in turn leads to anger. He thinks he is somehow out of it, or that he has done something wrong.

The only one who scored during this conversation was Rudy, who kept getting tidbits of treats. Husband was distracted, and the dog was smart enough to take advantage of it.

The Pink Robe

“Get in here,” I yelled at Husband one Sunday afternoon, “If you are going to work in the garden, you need to put on something other than that pink robe and your new Florsheim Imperial shoes.”

“Why!?!,” he yelled back. “I’m covered to my ankles.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I paid over $100 for those shoes, and besides, you look dorky out there.”

In 1974 $100 was a fortune for shoes, so that part is his fault.

The robe was my fault.

The year we married, Husband made arrangements with Roy and June, his grandparents, to buy me a portable sewing machine.

For many years Roy and June owned the White Sewing Machine outlet in Wichita and housed it in the old Innes Building at Broadway and William.

By the time we married, they had retired, but kept several machines for inventory and parts for when Roy repaired older machines.

Roy and June stood firmly behind their machines, and they were happy to accommodate us with a new model. I loved it and immediately set my dreams into motion on how I might use it.

One of the first projects was a Christmas present for Husband. Since I worked days teaching in a junior high school, and he worked second shift at Cessna, I had long stretches in the evenings that I filled with shopping for fabric and with sewing.

A fabric store was within three blocks of our apartment, and during one of my explorations for sales, I ran across several yards of pink denim at a huge bargain price. Armed with a pattern for a male caftan or long tunic, I delighted in sewing it into a highly serviceable pull-over robe for my beloved.

He instantly liked it and slipped it on to wear the remainder of our first Christmas morning. He wanted to wear it to Mom and Dad’s for Christmas dinner, but I convinced him it was not appropriate apparel.

There was something about the ease-of-wear that spoke to Husband’s desire for simplicity. We had been highly influenced by hippy wear, so the pink robe was a mere half-step beyond, or possibly below, that influence.

He merely had to pull its V-neck opening over his head and put his arms in the sleeves, and let it drop straight down past his ankles. The fact it was a soft rose shade of pink did not offend him at least.

He wore the robe until he outgrew it three or four years later. Our oldest newborn lay in his arms as he wore it to watch cartoons. He wore it to cook, and he wore it to watch TV.

And of course, he liked to wear it outside when he gardened.

He also liked Mother Earth News, so the robe fit well with his dreams of self-sufficiency and back-to-nature ways of doing.

The robe was as far as he got on that dream because back-to-nature and self-sufficiency require a farmer’s way of thinking.

Husband is a hunter.  

Thom Hartmann explains that concept quite well in Attention Deficit Disorder: A Different Perception. Hartmann pointed to the fact that persons exhibiting symptoms of ADHD had once been treated as “bad”. But since we now know it is a genetically-based disorder, Hartmann surmised that in the development of human cultures, two main types appeared: hunters or gatherers and farmers. Hunters (persons genetically set with ADHD) “Constantly monitor their environment and throw themselves into the hunt (Hartmann, pg. 24).” Hartmann goes on to say that Hunters are quick to be off in new directions and are visual thinkers.

On the other hand, Hartmann suggests, Farmers are team players who see the long-range picture and are not easily bored with slow and steady effort. They also tend to the details.

If Hartmann’s theory is true, Husband is most definitely not a farmer.

According to the “Hunter” explanation, persons with ADHD don’t take time for niceties when it is time to make decisions. In typical terms, we might say they lack in social niceties.

I don’t think Hunters are abnormal. In fact, I see them as color and texture that describe visual characteristics and tones that enhance the canvas of humanity.

Just like wearing a pink robe.

Hartmann, T. (1997). Attention Deficit Disorder: A Different Perception. Grass Valley, CA: Underwood Books.

                               

The Cheeseburger

At times the most mundane activity can become riotous comedy, and almost slapstick in nature.

Such a time happened last week when we drove through McDonald’s drive-in for a sandwich.

We had first gone to Arby’s to get Oldest Daughter a roast-beef sandwich, then drove across the street to Spangles to order a beverage and get the dog treat for Stanley, and finally drove to the other corner of the intersection to order Husband’s burger.

If you know ADHD, you might guess that all this activity strained Husband’s sense of concentration.

By the time we got his burger, I also wondered more about the young man who worked the drive-in lane.

The conversation was much like this:

“I want a quarter-pounder with cheese.”

“What drink would you like with that, Sir?”

“I don’t want a drink. I only want the sandwich.”

“Will that be with fries and a beverage, Sir?”

“No. I only want the sandwich. And don’t put ketchup or mustard on it.”

“Would you like that quarter-pounder with cheese, Sir?’

“Yes, I want the sandwich only. I want it with cheese, and I don’t want

 ketchup or mustard on it.”

“OK, Sir, I have a quarter-pound cheese burger, no ketchup or mustard. What can we get you to drink.”

Husband merely replied with a terse, “Nothing to drink. And oh, yes, I want three cookies.”

“OK, Sir. Pull to the first window, and I will have your total for you.”

When Husband paid for his sandwich, he leaned out the car window and stared at the young man as if to say, “Buddy, are you for real?”

I was relieved he did not say anything to the kid. When the young man kept asking about fries and a drink, I almost ordered them for me, and I wasn’t eating anything but the cookies.

We could feel the tension in the car, which was thick enough to cut.

I almost went inside the store to explain to the manager that the speaker system may not be working well.

Of course, I also got a good look at the young man, and he had a familiar lack of attention and focus on his face. Poor kid, they may have matched him with the wrong task.

It was late in the evening when traffic was low at McDonald’s. Possibly the manager was giving his employee opportunity to work the window. Possibly he was attempting to multitask, which research indicates may not be the best for efficiency.

As we drove away, I praised Husband for being patient with the young man. “Thank you for not calling him names,” I mentioned.

Husband merely grumbled and said. “I’m on drugs.”

                               

Stanley

It may seem rather ludicrous to some readers, but our family is madly in love with a dog named Stanley who belongs to Baby Sis and our Ideal Son-in-Law.

We first met Stanley when his parents adopted him from the feed store in Newton. We made a special stop at their house as we came home from St. Joseph, Missouri because Baby Sis sent a text message, “We bought a dog. His name is Stanley.”

He was a mere eight weeks old with a sweet curiosity about him. The old people part of us was immediately charmed by his winsome personality and magnetism.

Stanley stands about two feet off the ground with the long muscular body of his Corgi and Westie heritage. His muzzle and face are exquisitely chiseled and covered with charcoal gray (with a tint of black) and white hair. As I previously mentioned, we love him for his gentle nature, intelligence, companionship, and devotion.

Husband loves him especially, and Stanley loves Husband. Whenever Stanley sees Husband after several days of being apart, he will squeal like an excited little boy, which in turn causes Husband to gush with his own brand of delight.

I almost expect Husband to jump and flip as much as the dog does.

At times, Stanley gets to spend the night at our house as if he were a preferred grandchild, only of course, he is no child.

I often set limits how often he and Husband take over my king-size bed and push me out of it.

Stanley does prefer my pillow and blankets when he lays his sweet brown eyes close to my face.

As a person with ADHD, Husband often struggles with depression and associated mental turmoil, and Stanley is the balm that generates a positive calm for him.

Stanley models a therapy for persons with ADHD which helps the person deal with symptoms that are causing trouble in daily life. He himself is an intervention.

I have been known to phone Baby Sis and ask if Stanley can come for a visit to soothe his buddy and bring bright light into Husband’s world. Once inside our house, Stanley runs straight to Husband’s office as if to say, “Hey, I’m here, Good Buddy. It is I, your Stanley and Supporter.”

Then it is the hugs and kisses. I tell Husband, “Make certain you brush your teeth and wash your face before you kiss me.”

In a previous blog, I talked about my mother-in-laws passion over animals, and I can see the connection to her in my Husband. He understands and loves dogs and cats, and he loves that Stanley understands him.

It might have been a match made in Heaven.

Stanley likes to help Husband cook because he expects tiny pieces of raw vegetables or tid-bits of cooked meat to fall his way.

He loves to help Husband watch ball games on TV when he knows he will get an extended hair combing or his own space and blanket on the sofa.

He also likes to go on rides, a word we can only spell in his presence, not say. His special destination is Spangles, which is the only fast-food restaurant in Wichita that gives doggie treats.

Whenever Stanley is with us, we only go to Spangles.

One evening we made the mistake of going to Wendy’s. Stanley stood on the console of my Jeep waiting for his treat, but none came, of course. He immediately sat across my lap and buried his face under my arm. His feelings were crushed.

“That does it,” we agreed. “From now on it is Spangles, or we carry treats with us.”

Yes, he got two treats when we got home.

Back to School

In a former post, I mentioned Husband’s college transcripts and the number of incomplete courses or failures recorded on them.

Seriously, the total of both outnumbered the total of classes he passed, and that is really too bad. He is highly intelligent and knowledgeable.

He has always been the King of Trivial Pursuit and a storehouse for useless information. He takes pride in it.

He knows impractical nonsense such as who Cloris Leachman went to high school with. I mean, seriously folks, how many people even know who Cloris Leachman is?

It seems absurd he failed his classes. He should have passed with an exceptionally high GPA.

During our younger days, college courses challenged everything related to his ADHD, only we did not know it then. I thought he merely lacked self-discipline and motivation.

Yes, that may have been part of the problem, but those were the days before Strattera and before we really knew about ADHD or even much about minimal brain dysfunction.

But as we think about it today, had he known his psychiatrist then, his college career would have been much more successful.

As he told her this week: “Had we known you then, I would have been much more successful. Of course when we were 20, you were about five, and someone would have accused you of being a drug dealer.”

The point was made though. When Husband needed structure, attention, focus, and ability to plan ahead, help was not available.

Today it is different. Today he has returned to college for another degree and is performing quite well in all his courses.

He earned his first degree after age 50 in a well-designed program for nontraditional adult learners. Everything in the design took into consideration that adults have different learning needs than people in their late teens and early 20’s, and the one-night-per-week model suited him perfectly.

Even before Strattera, he did well with those late-life classes because I served as his external structure, reminding him of when assignments were due and when he should write course papers.  At the time, all five of us were enrolled in some level of college. The pressure to keep up with the rest of us provided motivation for him.

“I can’t let the rest of you out-do me. Besides, I have my own professor in the house.”

Currently, he is enrolled in an online learning environment which requires him to go to his class nearly every day of the week. It has become his consistent link in his schedule.

He has finally learned to use his day planner. He has finally learned to remember when his online seminars take place. He has made friends with making lists.

His medication helps his concentration, but so do the nature of his courses and how applicable they are to his real life.

Of course he still plays Trivial Pursuit with all of us. His favorite topic is anatomy and physiology. We hear all about the medical terms, and the functions of the body systems, and how he is thoroughly intrigued with the human body.

His latest final in one of the A&P courses required him to write a paper on the digestive system of the human body. So, he wrote about being on a surfboard riding the waves through an imaginary man’s system beginning in the mouth and ending out the out place. In one place he read how he used a quote from his instructor. The next line he wrote “ and there is the swish, swish sound made by the kissing up to the instructor.” I thought it was funny, but a bit immature. The instructor loved it, though.

I admit his approach demonstrated his sense of creativity and the amount of knowledge he gained from his study of the system.

Max Factor and Other Comments

At one time in our early married years, a trip through the perfume section of department stores consistently brought comments:

“Phew, that stink upsets my sinus.”

“You can’t ever wear that scent. It upsets my nose too much.”

The kids swear he would make comments about heavily-scented women in public such as

“God, that woman smells like guano. What did she do roll in it?”

I don’t know if his sensitivity to smells were related to ADHD, but his impulsive or insensitive comments likely were related to it.

Through the years, he has learned not to shout those types of comments in public. That is an aspect of his learning: the behavior changes he has made in specific situations.

His olfactory nerves send interesting messages to his brain, to say the least. He can smell the odors associated with certain recipes and well-nigh tell me each ingredient in the dish.

I have several memories of his reaction to public odors and perfumes. Many of them make sense knowing his aversion to strong scent and artificial smells.

My favorite recollection involved another church acquaintance, Dora. She and her husband were both petite individuals with a classy sense of style and pristine manners about their persons. By the time we met them, he was a retired florist, and she was retired from a local aircraft company. I estimate they were in their early 70’s. Dora chose to wear thick, heavy matte makeup such as she might have worn in the 1940’s. Her hair reflected styles from the early 1960’s, her eyebrows were plucked, then repainted, and her perfume was abundant.

In other words, it appeared Dora used several products to prepare herself for public. Husband often walked in the opposite direction when he saw Dora might pass him in hallways or church aisles. When we would see them mall walking, he found ways to stand far back from her. The scents associated with her products were highly offensive, and if he got too much of her perfumes and make-up odor, he would get a sinus infection. Literally.

After several years of being at our church, Dora and her husband began attending another congregation. In spite of the offensiveness of her make-up regimen, on occasion Husband mentioned how our meetings seemed empty without them. Of course, Husband could never remember her name, so he referred to her as the woman married to the retired florist. I immediately knew whom he meant.

Four or five years after being gone from our church, one morning I looked up to see the spritely couple standing before our congregation. They looked surprisingly similar to the last time they attended our church. He always smiled with a professional winsomeness, and she always posed for the crowd. They presented themselves for renewed church membership.

I was delighted to see them, but this time, I could not remember her name. Our pastor had not yet introduced them, so quietly I leaned toward Husband who was standing tall beside me with a somber and expressionless face.

“Oh, look! It is Ansel and, and, and. Shoot, I can’t remember her name.”

Without taking time to change expressions or even to blink, Husband instantly replied, “Max Factor.”

I leaned over the pew in an explosion of laughter, which in itself is funny enough. However, standing in the pew directly in front of us, a group of college young adults heard us and my laughter. They heard him refer to Dora as Max Factor, and they turned to see him do so without an ounce of expression on his face.

They, too, burst into laughter, which caused the row of college people ahead of them to turn and ask why they were laughing. By the time our pastor introduced Ansel and Dora, three rows loudly stifled giggles and chuckles.

The corners of Husband’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, but he merely looked at me with his characteristic What? in his eyes.

Later, when I apologized to our pastor for the laughter and noise, he simply said,  

“When I see your husband in the midst of a laughing crowd, I don’t bother wondering what is going on. I just know he has said something.”