“This Certificate to Melissa Stark is showing from this forth in life she will always have Happiness. If she is sad at anytime in any day IN any year, all she must do is pull this certificate out, read it, and she will feel better.”—excerpt 1 of 4

These excerpts are from the Certificate of Happyness,¹ a gift that my oldest son, Max, conceived and created at age 12 as a Mother’s Day gift for Melissa. The certificate is just one example of his incredible love for his mother and innocent belief that his actions could help her be well, be herself again, be happy again, even as he was feeling increasingly helpless.

Queue the music from the Absurdville soundtrack!

Artist: Coldplay
Album: X&Y  (2005)
Track: Fix You

Artist: Coldplay
Album: A Rush of Blood to the Head  (2002)
Track: The Scientist

The devotion our boys have for their mother showed in a variety of forms when she first became ill. Luca would draw pictures and share them as gifts, including a portrait of Melissa. Max would entertain Melissa by improvising songs on his acoustic guitar and peppering them with lyrical tribute: to the irony of medication side effects; to the frustration of waiting days to hear back from physicians and clinics; to sucky days and wearing PJs; to the poor communication between state-of-the-art pharmacies and the elusive bureaucracy of health insurance companies.

Max also set down his guitar to refill his mom’s water glass (with crushed ice so she could nibble on pieces to sooth her dry mouth caused by medication) and fetch snacks from the kitchen (no acid reflux-inducing chocolate of any kind but lots of Lemonzest® Luna® bars, vanilla bean yogurt, Starburst® Original (duh!) flavor fruit chews—not the new unwrapped minis but the individually wrapped fruit chews to give her hands something to do between waxy bursts of flavor. And on PJ days, days that Melissa didn’t feel strong enough or well enough to ease out of bed and navigate the stairway down to our living room, the boys joined her on our bed to pass the time with a movie marathon (action movies to distract her mind and comedies for emotional release).

“This Certificate does not mean that Melissa Stark does not have Happiness in her life. It just means that she will always have Happiness on her side.”—excerpt 2 of 4

Their concern was raw, their devotion unwavering. Like Chris Martin of Coldplay sings, Max wanted to fix her. And being old enough to comprehend what was at stake, he believed for a while that he could—fix her. If he could just let her know that her sadness and tears would go away and that she’d be happy again soon, then everything would be okay. Luca simply wanted to be home, seconds from her bedside—always.

The universe had different plans for us.

The train of adolescent depression² shook the ground beneath our feet, rumbling into our lives screeching and hissing. Signs of its approach appeared weeks before its arrival, first in Luca and then in Max.

Already diagnosed with anxiety disorder at a preschool age, Luca entered kindergarten for the 2007-08 school year with visible angst. At drop off we arrived early, before the sidewalk was swarming with kids, parents, bicycles, strollers, and dogs, allowing Luca to acclimate slowly to the commotion and energy of new faces, a chaotic school yard and bustling classrooms. Luca moved slow from the car, his long hair hanging forward to shield his face as he stared at the ground as if hoping that the school wouldn’t really be there if he didn’t look at it.

When he wasn’t clinging to our legs, he held Melissa’s hand occasionally tugging toward the car to test our resolve. We had made it this far, but Melissa and I had no delusions about our success. After all, this wasn’t our extroverted and talkative firstborn son, Max, but rather our introverted and clinically anxious second born known to pick up his toys from the sidewalk at the sight of neighbor kids and hightail it into the house to put a solid door between him and inquisitive, smiling faces. Standing now on school grounds, we had merely achieved countless “baby steps” in preparation for a kindergarten-sized leap.

We were blessed with a patient and friendly teacher, Ms. Delano, whose quick smile and rosy cheeks always welcomed and comforted the kids (makes all the difference doesn’t it, parents?), and a compassionate school counselor, Maddie, who checked on Luca during the day and gave us reports about his transition. Our concerns included the same as any parent: Was our child participating? Was he interacting with students and teachers? Was he smiling and having fun? Was he making friends? And our concerns also included the more specific: Did he have tears today? Did he request to see you, Maddie? Is he keeping up, or is he freezing up? Luca was adapting to his school routine as well as we could expect, slowly building confidence and shedding fewer tears.

At home, where Luca retreated into familiarity and comfort to play with his LEGO® sets and read books after a stressful day of school, Melissa’s immune system was launching a secret attack on her own central nervous system. Her white blood cells, the little warriors built to destroy viruses and bacteria in the body, were also targeting the myelin sheath that insulates her body’s nerve cells, causing multiple scars (Multiple Sclerosis) and a variety of debilitating symptoms that were preventing a 36-year-old mom from participating at will in her 5-year-old son’s day. Over the next 24 months, Melissa’s health became more unpredictable and Luca’s anxiety increased with the strictures of 1st and 2nd grade curriculum. The rails had been laid, the locomotive barreled along at speed.

The signs of S.O.S appeared like puffs of smoke rising from an old steam engine in the distance. You see, delivering Luca to school every morning had always required a high-maintenance combination of baby steps, time-warp management, story telling and improvised humor—anything to keep him from dwelling on the fact that he was leaving the house to spend a good portion of the day in a room with 25 other kids and one adult. Only now, from the moment he woke up, Luca was increasingly reluctant to take the next step, no matter how small. One step to get out of bed. Another to get dressed. Another to leave his room. Another to use the toilet. Another to walk 15 steps downstairs, and so on.

To motivate Luca out of bed, I began arranging mini battles on our kitchen table in the place where he ate his breakfast of Eggo® brand waffles spread with Real® brand peanut butter and cut into quadrants. Like a stop-motion animator, I carefully positioned his two daily Gummy Vites™ multi-vitamin gummy bears with a favorite toy to arrange a single, freeze frame—a Mini Epic Gummy Battle. One day would feature a LEGO Star Wars ship and the next might be a plush Abominable Snow Monster with those big, crossed-yet-endearing eyes. Luca’s curiosity and imagination pulled him out of bed onto the floor where I had two sets of clothes laid out for him to choose from—at once empowering him to choose his shirt and pants while limiting his self-directed tasks. I helped him get dressed to save even more time that I’d need later, and then asked him to place his PJs down the laundry chute. I used this quick moment to take position at the top of the stairway so I could direct him into the bathroom before he could run downstairs to orchestrate the battle—currently on pause and awaiting his touch.

With Luca now occupied by his breakfast and the harrowing clash of a Mini Epic Gummy Battle, I was free to sit at the top of our stairway, my back to Max’s room, and wait for his door to open. He was showing signs of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder)²—from the realization that his mom’s pain wasn’t going away any time soon, from my lack of time to give him the attention he deserved, and from my unfair expectations for him to be self-sufficient at too early an age—and when he saw me sitting on the stairs checking email on my phone or laptop, it was a little easier for him to exit his room unencumbered by OCD’s repetitious hold and the feelings of shame and helplessness.

TEXT MESSAGE FROM MELISSA:
Babe?
I’m awake. Lots of pain. Hand not working. Need breaky and help with meds.

MY REPLY:
Be right there, Babe.

When Max’s door opened, I remained present but focused on my work so Max was free to engage me if he desired or free to carry on with a single, important reminder: He wasn’t responsible for healing his mother, and no amount of perfectly closed dresser drawers, flicks of the light switch or turns of the faucet handle would change the course of her health. Seeing me, he would remember to allow himself to transfer that burden onto me and a team of qualified physicians, as we had discussed with his therapist Diane, and continue on his way into the bathroom.

“She deserves this Certificate for all the hard work she has been through. She is the best mom ever, is Beautifuler (if that is a word) than any other women (or man) in the universe, is a great listener, always easy to talk to, is fricken cool and the list goes on an on and on.”—excerpt 3 of 4

As soon as the bathroom door closed, I returned downstairs to brew Melissa’s tea, toast her English Muffin and witness the carnage inflicted by Luca’s little gummies.

Who knew that something so sweet with naturally-sourced berry, cherry and citrus flavors could so efficiently disembody a squad of Stormtrooper LEGO minifigures? I mean, were the “essential vitamins and minerals” packed into these bite-size bears truly “supporting and maintaining healthy growth and development” in my child? In more ways than intended, as it turns out. The Mini Epic Gummy Battles unfolding in Luca’s mind and across our pine table’s scratched terrain were giving Luca respite from his anxiety and depression. Bad guys would fall, good gummies would triumph, little boys would be little boys.

With his breakfast demolished and the hero gummies devoured, Luca turned his attention to the cupboard next to the kitchen sink where his toothpaste, tooth brush and face cloths were now conveniently stashed as an effective time-warp management technique. No need to go upstairs meant no need to slooowwwwwwly crawl up the stairs, or to detour back into bed and hide. In the kitchen, Luca was only two strides from the back door and miles away from the creature comforts of his bedroom. From here we could make it. He brushed his teeth and washed his face, while I ran breakfast up to Melissa and counted out her meds into a little plastic cup so she could tip them back all at once. Returning quickly to the kitchen so Luca couldn’t stray, I finished packing his lunch and backpack as he slipped on his socks (seams out), his snow boots and jacket.

Today we would take the next step out the door. And the next to get into the car. To keep his mind off of the classroom during the car ride, I would improvise a story about a superhero who was doing his best to overcome his Achilles heel, because even superheroes have weaknesses and even superheroes have bad days. Today he would hold my hand on the walk up the sidewalk from the car to the school door. He would tell me that he’s nervous about going to school. He would bravely walk through the doorway, passed the principal’s office and down the noisy hallway. He would stop outside his classroom door to remove his slush-covered boots. I would kneel in front of him to help him balance and put his shoes on without getting his socks wet. Today, with his feet dry and his shoes on Luca would pause to rest his head on my shoulder as the reality of the next step into the classroom weighed on his little body.

“You’re going to be alright, Bump,” I whispered, staring at the 26 pairs of boots lining the wall.

We would share the moment frozen by exhaustion and uncertainty, taking deep breaths together in through the nose and out through the mouth. All the warping of time to get to this point was now mine to spend. I would match his breath to help him inhale deeper and exhale longer. I would not rush this step, but instead use my body language to make it clear to Luca that I was here for him—that both Melissa and I were here for him—no matter what. Today, as she would every day, Luca’s teacher would step into the hall to check for any stragglers before closing the classroom door. At the sight of Luca leaning on me with his arms limp at his side, she would be overcome by tears and cup her hand to her mouth in retreat. The last morning bell rang, splitting the air. We didn’t move as the hallway fell silent. “Dad,” Luca said softly and close to my face.

“Yes, Bump?”

“Is Mom okay?”

“Yes, Mom is okay,” I said very measured, not too quick and not too hesitant. “You know how sometimes she needs a PJ day? Well, today is one of those days. She’s resting in bed today in her PJs. When you get home from school you can hang out with her. But only if you promise to not watch any movies or eat any snacks in my bed.”

A smile skittered across his face from the teasing, “Do you have to go to work now?”

“Yes, I do. While you’re doing your work, I’ll be doing my work.”

“I don’t think I can do my work today.”

“I know…I know how you feel. Sometimes I feel the same way…about my work.” Luca responds well to being heard. He wants to know that the people around him understand what’s going on in his mind and how it’s making him feel. When he has a moment to process all the sensory input and the triggered emotions, he feels supported. “Bump, at the beginning of the day, all of my work feels like too much to even start. But you know what I do? I remind myself that if I just start and try to have fun doing it, then before long the work doesn’t feel like too much. And not long after that it will already be time to pick you up from school. Will you give it a try? You made it this far, your friends are right inside the room.”

“Yes,” his eyes welling up with honesty.

“I love you, Mom loves you, Max loves you, and we know you can do this.” To give him a sense of control, I added more safety net, “You can always go see Maddie if you need a break from class or need someone to talk to. Memé will be here for pick up!”

Luca nods, “I love you.” He gives me one last hug and disappears into the colorful forest of jackets, hats and scarves crowding the coat room to hang his own jacket and backpack on the last remaining hook. My heart is heavy with compassion and sadness pulls on my eyelids. I don’t want to escape now that I have a chance, I want to wait to be sure he emerges from the back of the room and takes his seat. I catch the teacher’s eye and give a quick smile and wave. My stomach, queasy from forgetting to eat breakfast with my three cups of coffee, pulls me away from the frame of the door and I retreat to the car.

PHONE CALL TO MOM:
Hello, everything okay? (By now she knows that a phone call from me, especially in the morning on a school day, is call for help.) 

Hi, yes, not an emergency. Just wondering if you’re available to come down today? Melissa’s in rough shape and will need to rest today. I’m on my way to work. Can you come down before noon to fix her lunch and then pick up Luca from school later? 

Yes, Dear. I’ll be right down. You go to work. I’ll take care of things at the house.

Thanks, Mom. I love you. Talk later. Bye.

TEXT MESSAGE TO MELISSA:
Hi Babe, Luca did great. Meds working yet? My Mom will be down to make lunch and pick up Luca at school.

HER REPLY:
I miss him. Don’t like not seeing him in the morning before he leaves. Glad your mom can come down. Sorry. Talk later, have a good day. ily-m

MY REPLY:
ily2-r

No one ever tells you about the unbelievable honors bestowed upon you for completing the parental duty of delivering your child to school. In our case, no one prepared us for even the tiniest rewards. I’m talking about the gift that keeps on giving—head lice! Over the two and a half years that Luca attended public grade school, he thrice brought home lice. That’s right, lice. Thrice! But hey, there’s an upside.

Having lice in your house forces you to slow down and narrow your focus to the task of collecting all hats, scarves, jackets, and bedding to scorch them in the clothes dryer with militaristic zeal, leaving no room for the trivialities that often clutter the adult mind. In the heat of World War Lice, work deadlines vanish, phone calls go to voicemail, the kids’ homework (ironically) appears pointless, and dinner is served late because nothing can stand in the way of preventing a minuscule and mostly-translucent enemy from breaching your defenses. Next to swatting engorged mosquitoes and splattering blood across my arms and legs, I’ve never been this happy to commit a mass killing. Plus, there’s the precision work of the sniper lice hunter, moving slowly from a high perch to canvas the entire head—first Luca’s, then Max’s, then Melissa’s—my fingers parting the hair centimeter by centimeter in search of unsuspecting victims and capturing them with 3M Scotch® tape.

Pinch tufts of hair, spread, seek, spot enemy combatant, press tape firmly, hold up to light, reveal alien-like body, confirm the kill, stick creepy reward to windowsill like a trophy. Repeat.

Melissa returns the favor, sifting through my hair while fighting pain and fatigue. By the third lice attack we could execute evasive maneuvers with our eyes closed, literally—our heads doused in olive oil and covered with shower caps to suffocate the sneakiest of the little bastards as we slept…restlessly.

Then came the end of holiday break in 2nd grade. It was 7:30am on a Monday, time to wake Luca for that first day back. In a single instinctive motion, Luca clutched Blacky, his silky black stuffed kitten, tightly to his chest, rolled over in his bed to face the wall, and curled into a tight ball under his navy blue comforter. He was awake from when I first woke him five minutes earlier. Now he was ignoring me and avoiding eye contact.

I spoke softly again with urgency, “Luca Bump, it’s time to get out of bed. Let’s go see what the gummies are up to!” No response, not even a grunt of disapproval. Resting my hand where his head would be under the covers, “Luca Bump, bring Blacky with you.” And improvising, “Maybe he can help you scout out the situation down in the kitchen?”

“Dad, he’s just a stuffed cat,” Luca fired back, his voice muffled by the comforter.

He had a good point, which was an annoying habit of his. I knew now that today’s battle had different players. I would need to step up my game if the gummies were to have any chance of saving the day. First, I recruited Max to revisit the staging of the morning’s Mini Epic Gummy Battle and dress it up with his imagination. “What toys has Luca been playing with when he watches you play video games? Take those toys and work them into the scene,” I suggested. Max beamed at the idea, the opportunity to help, and hustled downstairs to liven up the tabletop.

News of LEGO Darth Vader’s arrival to today’s battle persuaded Luca out of bed and onto the floor next to his clothes options fanned out for easy pickings. Lying on his side facing the shirt and pants pairings, he quickly pointed to the Star Wars t-shirt to let me know his choice, and then asked if the color blue in the shirt was okay to wear with the color blue in the sweatpants. I confirmed that, yes, I believed the two blues were “friends” and “played nice” together. Luca was convinced but could see through my over-eagerness to make him smile, and gave me an eye-roll instead as he turned onto his back in mock exacerbation. This was my chance to make sure he got dressed without much effort or wasted time. I helped him out of his tight, long-sleeve, dinosaur Hanna Andersson PJs and into his school clothes as if he was an infant, unable to stand or maintain muscle control over his arms and legs. Didn’t matter to me because getting it done would get us one step closer to leaving the house. He slowly sat up and made his way into the bathroom before descending to the kitchen. My pajama pocket vibrated.

TEXT MESSAGE FROM MELISSA:
Babe? I need food in tummy for my meds when you get a chance, sorry

Keeping up our appearances during the holidays had taken a toll on Melissa. Severe fatigue had drowned out the cheer. Numbness in her left arm and leg had replaced the warm tidings. Pain shooting down her neck into her arm and the nausea that came with it had killed what was left of the joy. The simple act of getting out of bed to use the bathroom and returning to bed was burning up any reserve she had recovered during the night. Tackling the laundry basket in the corner of our bedroom full of her untouched gifts from Christmas day was out of the question. Braving the stairway down to the main level of our home was risky.

MY REPLY:
As you wish!³

Max had transformed the kitchen tabletop battle scene, adding just the right touches to connect with Luca’s latest fixation on the dark side of The Force. I was proud. Max had stepped up to help his little brother and give me a hand. We hugged and I told him I loved him before he grabbed his jacket off the hook and ran out the front door to meet the group of neighborhood kids and parents who were trudging to school together in the snow.¹¹

While Luca worked on his breakfast and mumbled the sounds of battle, I cut off two thin slices of my mom’s banana bread, brewed a cup of tea, placed them on a tray, and ran it up to Melissa. She winced as she sat up in bed. I placed the tray on her lap, gave her a kiss and let her know that it’s totally unfair and not cool that she’s suffering more just because she tried to enjoy the holiday and spend more time with family. I also let her know that I had to get back downstairs to keep Luca moving because he was having a really tough morning, worst I’d seen. Melissa burst into tears, “Poor pumpkin…he doesn’t deserve this. I’m so…so sorry, Russ. Tell Luca I love him.” I told her I loved her, that everything would be alright, and then peeled away to focus on Luca.

The gummies were gone and the table was dotted with LEGO parts. Luca was washing down his waffles with a gulp of water. I asked him how the battle went and he didn’t answer. I offered to help him brush his teeth and wash his face, a suggestion that melted him off the booth’s bench like a slinky onto the floor. I asked him why he wasn’t answering me and he didn’t answer. I asked him again with a “please” and he turned away. Hoping to lighten the load, I told him we could skip teeth and face today and go right to putting on his boots and jacket. His eyes closed, his body curled up, his hands covered his face. I knelt down next to him and caressed the top of his head. In a calm, soft tone, I reinforced that I was here to support him. I reminded him that he could go straight into Maddie’s office if he wasn’t ready for his classroom yet. No refusal, no tears, no response. Maddie had become our pressure valve, although I wasn’t used to leaning on her before we left the house. An express train had just snuck up on me.

There on the kitchen floor already late for school, Luca and I were at a crossroads. With him no longer responding to me I had a choice to make: Either I could give up and let him run upstairs to his room where he feels safe, or I could pick him up and carry him out to the car. I carefully considered my next move as I rubbed his back to let him know I wasn’t angry.

A list of work obligations for my freelance clients flashed through my head: Prep for a meeting with a client at 10 a.m. downtown, jump on a conference call at 11:30 with a client in San Francisco, finish the writing for a New York client’s project deadline at 1:00 p.m., and work the rest of the afternoon from home after picking up Luca at school.

Luca missing the first day back from holiday break didn’t feel right to me. He was rested. He had completed all of his reading homework assigned over the break. He hadn’t mentioned that he was nervous about going back. Being absent on a day that would most likely be slow and simple as everyone got back into the groove felt like a missed opportunity. What would he do if I picked him up? I seriously didn’t know.

You see, from a toddler age Luca didn’t respond well to having someone else’s will forced upon him. Unless he was about to harm himself or another child, or back-arch himself off the diaper changing table with a poo-covered bum, we had learned to talk him calmly through situations that required his cooperation, such as leaving the playground, getting buckled into his car seat, taking a bath, getting dressed, putting on shoes, going outside to play, and going upstairs to bed. But this? This situation was different. He had stopped communicating and 15 quiet minutes had passed since he took his current position on the floor at the center of the kitchen.

Lifting my hand from his back, I told Luca that I would put his boots and jacket on for him and carry him out to the car. I said that if that’s not okay, he needs to talk to me about how he’s feeling and why he’s not talking to me. No response. No movement. I kept moving at a steady and confident pace to avoid scaring him or giving him the impression that I was bluffing. As he lay on the floor like a cooked wet noodle, I slipped his black and red winter boots onto his feet, zipped his black and red checked slip-on Vans® shoes into his backpack, and slung it over my shoulder. I lifted his arms one at a time to awkwardly wrap his black, gray and red jacket around him. I stretched his black and gray knit hat with red piping over his head. I knelt down for a better angle to scoop him up so he wouldn’t fold up and slip between my arms. At this moment I half expected him to start kicking and fighting having reached his limit. No response. No movement.

Standing up, I checked Luca’s face for signs of fear or increased anxiety. His eyes stared off, noncommittal and elusive. His body was limp, not a single muscle flexed. He was too big to carry up on my shoulder, so I kept him lying across my arms, careful not to smack his head into the door jam. I thought to myself that this is like carrying a sleeping child into the house from the car after a long drive, only this is Absurdville so I was walking in the opposite direction. I cleared the door, navigated the back stoop, keyed in the door code at the side of the garage, and opened the back passenger car door. I checked his face again for any signs of distress. No change. I poured him into his car seat, buckled him in, closed the door, and hustled around to get behind the wheel. We were off!

The car ride was quiet until we turned the corner from Chowen Avenue and pulled up curbside in front of the school and stopped. At the sight of the familiar 1960s era brick building, Luca’s anxiety shifted into high gear pushing streams of tears from his eyes and producing red blotches on his face and neck. If he were to have given in to the tears and let go, he would have been sobbing. But he didn’t and he wasn’t. Instead, he pursed his lips and attempted to tamp down his emotions. “Deep breathes, in through your nose and out through your mouth,” I reminded him. He inhaled, choked on the flow of mucus and coughed. Then he tried again, slowly, deeply, calmly. I stepped out of the car into the slush, walked around to his door and opened it. Luca wiped tears from his cheeks as fast as they would appear.

We had arrived at our destination to find ourselves in unfamiliar territory.  Luca’s psychologist, Terry, had been working with Luca for two years from the age of five. She encouraged us to help Luca combat his anxiety by being compassionately firm and upbeat. We were to challenge him, but not show frustration or make him feel guilt or fault—help him breathe, let him know you support him, let him know he’s safe. Do I keep pushing? Do we sit for a while, wait it out, see if the tears dry up? I felt an intense desire to get the next 10 minutes right or risk causing Luca emotional and psychological harm. I reached for my phone and tapped Maddie’s name on my Recents list.

PHONE CALL TO MADDIE:
Lake Harriet, this is Maddie.

Good morning, Maddie. It’s Russ.

Hi, Russ. How are you?

Well, (chuckling) not great. We’re out front, Luca and I. He’s really upset. His skin is turning blotchy from crying. I’m not sure what to do. Can you come out to say hello? I don’t know whether to keep pushing or just bring him home? 

Of course, I’ll be right out.

Thank you, Maddie.

Maddie was an angel. As a social worker for Lake Harriet K-2 campus, one of the fastest growing Minneapolis public schools, she was easily overworked and outnumbered but went out of her way to make Melissa, Luca and I feel like someone was truly listening and willing to help Luca in every way. Luca often started his school day sitting with Maddie in her office until he was ready to face the classroom. Without Maddie supporting us, I know Luca wouldn’t have made it through 1st grade, let alone half way through 2nd. For a slender woman under 5 feet tall, she made a huge impact.

Maddie emerged from the heavy, brown metal door of the school. We exchanged waves. I met her half way to the car so I could share  how Luca had stopped responding verbally this morning, and that I had carried him out to the car. She listened intently and kept her eyes trained on Luca who began shaking his head back and forth before we reached the car. Maddie went right to work validating his feelings,”Hi, Luca. You’re having a rough day, huh? I see that you’re sad. Would you like to walk with me into the school so we can talk some more about it?” More tears snuck down his face as Luca shook his head NO and took a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, his cheeks puffed and saliva sputtered on his lips. She made good eye contact with him to let him know she was listening, “Okay, Luca. Everything’s okay.” She gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder and we stepped away from the open car door to talk.

I looked for validation, “What do you think? I’m afraid that I’m going to scar him if I keep pushing.” I hoped she would agree and recommend that I take Luca home. It’s not that I was feeling obligated to comply with the school, but rather I needed the opinion of another adult witnessing Luca’s current emotional state—not over the phone, not by email, not after the fact—now, in the moment. What’s her professional opinion? I wondered.

“Bring him home,” Maddie whispered, scrunching her face with compassion. I was relieved. I asked her to help me share Luca’s whereabouts with the school and his homeroom teacher. I climbed back into the car and fired off a few emails to clients and colleagues to let them know I was running late and would share an update on my ETA ASAP (when I knew Luca was calm and smiling again). As we pulled away from the curb, the snow crunching under the tires, Luca inhaled deeply through his nose and we never went back.

“She deserves this Certificate of Happyness. This is a one of a kind Certificate (but if you lose it I can just print another one:) Anyway, Melissa Stark, on this Mother’s Day by the power invested in me, I pronounce you to be happy for the rest of your life and forever more!!!”— excerpt 4 of 4

If two negatives can make a positive in the world of mathematics, then they can in an Absurdville state of mind. During the 2008/09 school year, at about the same time anxiety disorder forced Luca from traditional school and into a homeschool environment, another train of connected freight cars rumbled into town overloaded with angst, self-doubt, fear, anger, and sadness. Luca was relieved to be home, safe from the daily emotional and physical demands of grade school. I was relieved that Luca was relieved. He now required less attention from me to simply function. All Melissa and I wanted for him was to feel safe and unthreatened—to find his smile again—so if learning meant reading books and doing worksheets at home, well then so be it.

Max had taken the first couple years of Melissa’s MS in stride thanks to being 10yo at the time to Luca’s 5yo. But now acute pancreatitis pain had a relentless grip on Melissa’s every moment. Seeing his mother day after day curled up in a ball on her bed in excruciating pain? It was unbearable for Max. Heartbroken, helpless, tired, and homesick for the life we had, Max was overcome by depression and OCD. Until this point my energy for caregiving had been divided between Melissa, Max and Luca, with Max getting the leftovers. Without hesitation I shifted a portion of attention away from Luca and toward Max who was in need of his own “Certificate of Happyness.”

Melissa and I went to work writing emails and making phone calls to Max’s school counselor, teachers, administrators, his psychologist and psychiatrist. We strategized, coordinated, tag teamed, and double-teamed until everyone responsible for Max’s education and well-being was up to speed and understood what we expected of them. Together, we were a swift and persuasive force weaving a protective safety net around Max and finding catharsis in our shared ferocity and mission.²² We were fortunate to also find Linda, a compassionate Lake Harriet Community School counselor who guided us through creating a 504 Plan (pronounced Five-Oh-Four)³³ to modify Max’s school work and class schedule to accommodate his condition.

Linda was another angel. She opened her office and daily schedule to Max so he would have a place at school to get away from the monotony of classes, juvenile behavior of classmates and less sensitive teachers. I was dropping Max at school so his morning routine, now controlled by OCD and the molasses of depression, would not make him too late for class. I would flick on radio, tune to The Current, and set the volume loud enough to feel the music but low enough to leave an opening for Max to talk if he chose to. If he chose to.

Artist: Lissie
Album: Catching a Tiger (2010)
Track: Bully

Max would look out the car window, careful not to look in my direction for our short ride through the neighborhood. Not like him. We would pull up in front of the school and only then would his gaze enter the car. We sat in silence for a few breaths, then he would give me a quick look and a forced smile, wish me a good day and slip out of the car door. In Max’s slowed walk and compressed posture, I could see the cumulative weight of OCD, depression, and concern for his mother. I sat and watched as he swam up stream to the school door, pushing against the flood of demotivation and exhaustion.

Linda’s gift to Max was a gift to me as well. I knew that once inside, he could retreat to her office on a whim to escape what must have felt like a ridiculous exercise in self-torture. Or he could hang out with the new music teacher who also offered her classroom as a refuge. Because of the presence of these two angels, I would feel okay lifting my foot off the brake.

I pointed my car toward the nearest coffee shop where I could surround myself with the normalcy of retirees reading the newspaper (the paper, paper), and new moms swapping stories about 3am feedings and lazy husbands. My laptop was open. My fingers were poised on the keyboard. My earbuds were in and drowning out everything except the screaming espresso machine. I had work to do. I tried not to think about the sound of the train.

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¹ The official Certificate of Happyness

² Some parents have bumper stickers on their car proclaiming “Proud Parent of an Honor Roll Student” but you know you’re in Absurdville when you wish you had a sticker that said, “Depressed Adolescent and Weary Parent Onboard” or “OCD Rules!” or simply, “Proud Parent.” It’s okay to laugh. Really, it is. We as a society should start seeing mental illness for what it is anyway—an illness just like any other illness or . When our body is sick, we call the nurse line to ask a registered stranger for advice or visit our doctors to share symptoms as if they were phantom car noises we were mimicking for our mechanic’s benefit (and entertainment). Some of these symptoms even guarantee that a rubber glove will soon be the only thing separating your prostate from the doctor’s longest digit. So let’s not whisper about mental illness anymore. Speak up, speak out and speak often, knowing that psychiatrists and psychologists don’t need a rubber glove to assess your mental health.

According to the International OCD Foundation, “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is a mental health disorder that affects people of all ages and walks of life, and occurs when a person gets caught in a cycle of obsessions and compulsions. Obsessions are unwanted, intrusive thoughts, images or urges that trigger intensely distressing feelings. Compulsions are behaviors an individual engages in to attempt to get rid of the obsessions and/or decrease his or her distress.”

As any parent knows, school is one of the most important activities for their child, until it’s not. Are you familiar with the signs of depression? According to the Mayo Clinic, “Clinical depression isn’t a weakness and you can’t simply ‘snap out’ of it. Depression may require long-term treatment. But don’t get discouraged. Most people with depression feel better with medication, psychological counseling or both.”

³ Can you name the movie I’m referencing with this text message? If you said The Princess Bride, you’re correct! Melissa and I have always loved this cult classic. She is my Princess Buttercup, I am her Wesley. Max and Luca also loved to watch and shout out the lines…messily.

¹¹ Prior to Luca starting school, Melissa enjoyed the camaraderie she found with the neighbor parents who gathered to walk the six blocks to school with their children. She would push Luca in our Burley jogger with fine amenities like a snack bag, water, and a cassette player blaring the latest Blue’s Clues book on tape. She was the social glue for moms in the neighborhood, and Max was the social glue for the kids—boys and girls. Once her MS hit and made every day an unpredictable grab bag, Melissa had to conserve energy when she had it and rest when she didn’t. Fortunately for us and the boys, our friends and neighbors stepped up to make sure Max felt at home tagging along on the way to school. From her place of limbo in our bedroom, Melissa could easily hear the morning’s laughter, chatter and energy fading as the group set out on its way. Unfortunately for Melissa, it wasn’t easy to let someone else, no matter how close a friend, perform the duties that she so badly missed. For Sara, Erika, and Lynne, our gratitude is genuine and immense.Without their kindness, Melissa’s guilt would have been exponentially worse.

²² What to do if your child begins displaying a change in mood or an inability to function:

1. Don’t panic. These things happen more often than you think.
2. Alert the school counselor, teachers and administration of your child’s hardship. Be sure that your child knows who they can go speak to at any time during the school day. (You’re the adult safety net at home. Who’s your child’s adult safety net at school?)
3. Alert your child’s psychologist and make an appointment. If they’re not seeing one, find one by asking for a referral from your friends who have kids.
4. Make an appointment with a child psychiatrist. They’ll want to compare notes with your child’s psychologist and possibly recommend an anti-depressant or anti-anxiety medication. Ask them to explain the pros and cons of each type of medication. Be patient, these drugs take a week or two to show signs of the intended results. Don’t be afraid of the medications. Any psychiatrist worth the framed diploma on their wall will start with a small dose and have you work step up the dose slowly to monitor side effects and effectiveness.
5. Make time to listen to your child without requesting anything of them, such as chores, homework or details about their day. Just listen. Show your child that they can trust you to not judge them or blame them.
6. Find someone for yourself to talk to you. A therapist, a trusted friend, another parent. Someone who will be for you what you are to your child.

³³ What is a 504 Plan? According to Pacer Center, “Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973 (commonly referred to as Section 504) is a federal law designed to protect the rights of individuals with disabilities in programs and activities that receive federal financial assistance. Those programs include public school districts, institutions of higher education, and other state and local education agencies. To qualify under Section 504, a student must have a disability and that disability must limit a major life function. This impairment or disability must substantially limit one or more major life activities. These activities include such things as walking, seeing, hearing, speaking, breathing, learning, working, caring for oneself, performing manual tasks, eating, sleeping, standing, lifting, bending, reading, concentrating, thinking, communicating, and more.”

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Copyright © 2017. Russ Stark. All Rights Reserved.