A Perfect Baby Boy

 

My parents were married two years when they welcomed Dale into the world. During this pregnancy, my mother had a very hard time keeping anything on her stomach. She would have been diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum, like Kate Middleton, had she sought treatment. She was beginning to get severely dehydrated that summer. Dad was drinking a beer and mom said she would try it. That was the only thing that kept her from the hospital, beer. She would sip on one beer a day until she could hold down water. While my mother never liked beer, my brother loves it!  

Dale was a happy child. Mom’s brother called him Happy. (I suppose with beer in him, he was extremely happy!) When mom held him, she said motherhood hit her like a ton of bricks. She was in love with this tiny being and fiercely protective of him! She would continue that way for the remainder of her days on earth.

Mom allowed very few people to babysit Dale. Mom refused to go anywhere Dale couldn’t go. He was not a natural athlete, so Mom taught Dale how to catch and throw a ball. Dale was deeply loved by both parents and they wanted only the best for him.

On a family vacation in Florida when Dale was nine, Mom noticed him limping on his left toe. She looked at his foot, found a blister, and promptly threw away the new sandals. When they were home, Dale continued to walk on his toe. I’m sure they tried to ignore it at first. Just a stupid thing that kids do. As Dale got worse, he could not control the movement in his legs; the left leg tried to bend and the right left tried to stay straight. He couldn’t ride comfortably in the backseat of the car as his leg stayed straight. The limp wasn’t just a limp. Something was happening to their beautiful baby boy! But what?

My parents took Dale to at least three different specialists around the state, but no one gave them an answer. During this time our cousin, Barry, started walking on his left toe also. His parents took Barry to several different experts in the state, but again no answers.

A doctor recommended Dale see a psychiatrist in Winston Salem. One of the oddities of dystonia is how a person can do some things but not others. Dale ran in the parking lot easily but could not walk without the pronounced limp. It was recommended he see a child psychiatrist located at Western Carolina Center for mentally retarded children. After a few sessions he convinced our parents to locate him there during the week so he could be seen daily.

I’m sure Dale feels like smacking this doctor in the face. I know dad and mom felt that way. But what to do? Every doctor they went to said the same thing; there was nothing wrong with Dale.

Dale saw the psychiatrist and things went bad fast. The “doctor” told my parents to put Dale in the backseat, to ignore all his leg movements, and to treat him like any other kid over the weekends. Dale spent a year at Western Carolina Center with mentally retarded kids and missed a year in school.

My parents were told that Dale was copying my father. Our cousin Barry, who lived close to us then, was supposedly copying Dale. It was an insane theory, but that was the only explanation, right?

I cannot imagine the hell of that experience for Dale. At the start at Western Carolina, he could walk to get his meals, but soon he could only crawl or use a wheelchair.

As Dale was getting worse, the psychiatrist decided Dale would benefit from shock treatments, and talked my parents into allowing them. There were eighteen of them, and they were sheer torture. After the correct diagnosis, I don’t think Dad nor Mom ever fully forgave themselves for those hateful treatments even though Dale never blamed them.

During this time, mom said she thought about shooting Dale then herself. She thought dad and myself would be better off without them. Do you know what hell Dale must have been going through for this thought to not only cross, but to stay in my mother’s head?

I have to tell you something. Dad’s father offered Dad a hundred dollars to go to a doctor. Get it. I think Granddaddy had seen something like this in his family and thus wanted my dad to see a specialist, not Dale. Although my grandparents denied knowing anything about it, I think they knew something was wrong before the rest of us.

Mom had enough. She told Dad and they agreed to bring Dale home. She arranged it with a school for Dale to come to class on crutches. Dale started school after missing a year.

Dale began to improve gradually. Whether it was from the shock treatments or being free to be himself, he started to recover.