nonplussedpilot

April 16, 2014

Divert to Kenai (or “How To Test A Pilot”) – Part 2

As the whine of the engines fades, a dull roar fills the cockpit. Winds, unseen but heard and felt, buffet the aircraft. The flat gray overcast make it look like we’ve parked in an upside down bowl of oatmeal, with only a few rows of pine trees and small buildings along the rim for flavor. This benign weather softly belies the blizzard raging a scant 50 miles northeast of us in Anchorage, precluding our arrival there. The late evening sun, understandably, is muted trying to define daytime.

Outside the cockpit window stretches the rest of the concrete apron used to park itinerant aircraft. To its’ left is a single story flat-roofed building not much larger than a modest three bedroom rambler. This is the airline terminal at Kenai. Beyond that, a chain link fence and parking lot. In the distance beyond is what looks like a business of some sort—perhaps a hotel. I can’t make out the sign. That, and the squat control tower and small outbuildings over our left shoulder pretty much define our landscape. If there are mountains anywhere nearby, they were obscured by haze in the waning light. Nothing looks terribly inviting, I think to myself. Perhaps I’ve figured out why this is a town of only 7,000.

Milling about in front of us are a few airport employees, each dressed in dark coveralls against the chill and all looking our way. They’re probably wondering to each other “What the hell are they doing here?”, if not saying it outright. My airline brags about its’ global reach, from London to Los Angeles and Lima to Lagos. But Kenai is not yet on our route map. Understandably then, no one runs to greet us.

John approves turning off the seatbelt sign, a curious omission from our “parking” checklist. Not that our passengers had any place really to go. Sure, they could stretch their legs after being seated for the past 7+ hours. But no doors would be opened. Anchorage is their destination, and Kenai is not.

We both turn on our cellphones—just like every other person 13 years or older on the airplane. The upper left corner of my phone displays “Searching…” accompanied by a little clock symbol annoyingly rotating like a slow motion carousel as it strains to lock on to any cell tower in range. Not expecting much, I try dialing my wife. Nothing goes through. No wi-fi signal, either. I put the phone back in my pocket.

I look down at our communication keypad above my left knee. In the bottom center of its’ display screen are the words “NO COMM”. Translation—no ability to send and receive messages directly from our airline operations control center to our computer here in the cockpit. No ability to print essential weather or flight plan information on our printer, either.

What makes an airplane fly? Cynically, money and paperwork, the reams of which will now have to be brought to us from outside the airplane. Exactly where is unknown to us right now. This will add time and complexity to our efforts in recovering our flight to Anchorage.

I look up at John. He has his phone squished to his ear so he could hear above the wind outside. “Hello…? Yeah, it’s the captain for flight 1425… Yeah, we’re here in Kenai…” Obviously he got a hold of somebody, I surmise. Thank God someone’s phone works on here, I think to myself. How we got along without cell phones for as long as humans have been roaming this earth still baffles me.

John is talking to our dispatcher, a gentleman faceless to us. His voice emanates from a tall building in the middle of Chicago. From this perch, he shares joint responsibility with the Captain for the planning and execution of all company flights assigned to him. At any given moment these flights could be anywhere. We have the unique distinction of putting Kenai on his map. He’s probably as chagrined with this fact as we are.

The dispatcher peers at several desktop monitors displaying real-time data of all the flights he’s shepherding across the network. He has the ability to speak directly with aircraft inflight via cockpit communications system or by radio. But not when the words “NO COMM” appear on our display. Thankfully he has a phone system and all the free minutes of talk. And we are on the ground somewhere where we can use ours. At least the Captain can anyway.

While stuck in Kenai, Dispatch will be our most-used point of contact. But the process is as tedious as it is time-consuming—our dispatcher is busy. We are not the only flight needing his attention. However, our dispatcher passes along one essential nugget of information to us—the radio frequency that we can use to communicate to the local airline operation office within the Kenai terminal building. I twist the knobs on one of our radios and John keys the mic.

“Kenai Operations, flight 1425…”

“Flight 1425, Kenai Operations. Go ahead…” comes the voice of a young man in a crisp tone.

Beside the businesslike voice in the Kenai control tower clearing us to land, we finally talk to someone else on the airport. Someone that might be able to help us get some gas and get the hell out of here.

“Yes, your company just called. We spoke to them. You’re gonna be number four to get gas, as those three other airplanes that landed before you get it first…”

Not quite what we wanted to hear, but whatever. The filling station is open at least.

“How long will it take?” asks John.

“Um…not sure exactly. Lemme check.” says Kenai.

This process of getting information through several sources only by what is spoken on the radio or telephone will get very annoying and time-consuming. It will, however, eventually make time pass rather quickly. At least to me, anyway.

“45 minutes or so…maybe an hour?” offers Kenai. This is more of a question than a definitive answer. Besides, 45 minutes to an hour sounds kind of on the long side to both of us. John keys the mic and asks why.

“Well, they only have one fuel truck…and it only holds 2000 gallons at a time.”

Ah. John and I do the calculation for ourselves and the other airliners behind us waiting for their fuel. For every airplane fueled, the fuel truck will have to refuel itself, too. This is going to take at least an hour.

O, optimism! Maybe it’ll work out that way. John and I look at each other and shrug our shoulders. I glance at the clock above my right knee and punch the timer “on”. I’ve learned from past diverts that it’s easy for us pilots to lose track of just how much time has elapsed while we wait things out. I didn’t want to lose this situational awareness. Meanwhile, John picks up the PA mic and makes an announcement to our passengers and flight attendants with a slow, deliberate cadence so the words are enunciated clearly lest he be pressed into having to repeat himself. This will prove to be good strategy.

He calmly goes into detail about the reason for the diversion in the first place—the Anchorage weather, why we could only hold for 20 minutes, and why Kenai was our only port in the storm. Then he mentions that our only choice is to wait out the weather and get more gas. “And it should be only an hour or so before we get our fuel…”

He mentions one more very important detail about our wait here at Kenai: No one may leave the aircraft. Given the relative quiet of the airport, no blue-shirted officials of the Transportation Safety Administration are available here. If a passenger leaves the airplane for the terminal building, they are no longer considered “sterile” in the eyes of the TSA, so they cannot re-board the aircraft. This is to verify that illegal material is not allowed to be brought aboard the aircraft.

Hopefully this will not be an issue, he tells them. He signs off with a thank you and a promise to pass along any other information as either he or I receive it. I look at the clock. Surprisingly, we’ve only been on the ground for about 10 minutes. It feels like an hour already.

John gets back on his cell phone now. He talks to dispatch again, then the meteorologists that are on staff in an attempt to put together a realistic plan for us to fly back up to Anchorage tonight. It doesn’t look too promising.

The weather is still lousy in Anchorage. The all-important visibility now shows 2400 RVR, an indication that the snowfall has increased in intensity. Additionally, crosswinds that exceed the operational landing limitation for our jet on snow-covered runways have been measured. Not only will the visibility need to improve, but either the wind will have to diminish or the snow will have to get scraped off the runway. Both seem unlikely from my experience. Having to spend the night in Kenai is now a distinct possibility.

Before taking off again, our company procedures insist that we perform an exterior inspection of the aircraft, so I figure I may as well knock that duty off of the list while I still have some daylight. This is typically easy to accomplish given a jetway plugged in to the aircraft main entrance door. But there are no jetways here at Kenai. Without it, it’s about 11 feet from the aircraft floor to the ground. And I’m not using the escape rope to rappel from the cockpit unless the airplane’s on fire. Happily, it’s not.

So now the challenge is to get portable airstairs brought to the aircraft. More calls on the radio to Kenai operations. “Yeah, sure…but it’s gonna be a few minutes…” comes the reply. “We got our own flights we have to board and get out of here.”

Sure enough, a Beech 1900 turboprop airliner taxies in and shuts down about 200 feet in front of us. The door pops open and a few passengers slowly disembark, clutching their carry-ons. Minutes later in reverse order, a few more passengers walk briskly across the ramp to the open cabin door. It looks very cold out there.

Eventually, the airplane taxis away almost silently, the howl of the wind carrying the sound of twin turboprop engines away from our ears. The airstairs arrive a couple of minutes later. Only after I don my suit jacket, overcoat, hat, non-airline issue scarf and gloves do I give Kelly permission to open the door. Frigid air floods the small vestibule separating the cockpit from the first class section. Though the temperature difference is breathtaking, the air smells clean and fresh. Before I head into the Arctic I tell them to keep the door open because I’ll be back soon and don’t want to have to wait to reheat my shivering self.

I trundle down the airstairs, the whole structure trembling with my weight and the force of the wind. I hold my overcoat collar pressed against my neck to keep the biting chill at bay. Fortunately, the inspection goes as planned—the aircraft is in exactly the same shape it was 8 hours ago when I performed the same at O’Hare. Except for one minor but very important discrepancy. The leading edges of the wings and tail have a thin layer of ice on them, as if painted with baker’s glaze. This accretion is due to our extended hold in the clouds over Anchorage. Although we had removed some of this ice in flight with our airborne ice protection equipment, a small amount reformed during our final descent toward Kenai. It will need to be removed before we take off again for Anchorage.

This is more bad news for us, as deicing a Boeing 737 is not as simple as deicing a Beech 1900, mostly because of the size and the quantity of deicing fluid needed. Fortunately, we observe another Beech 1900 being deiced in front of us. At least they have a de-ice machine. Hopefully they have enough deice fluid. And know how to deice us. While this process is generally under the supervision of someone else at one of our regular destinations, only John and I are left to confirm this here in Kenai. Ah details, where the gods and devils live. (To be continued.)

April 14, 2014

Divert to Kenai (or “How To Test A Pilot”) – Part 1

When the phone rang, I was obliged to answer it. “Crew Desk” said the caller ID, and I was on call at the time. The life of a reserve pilot includes wearing an invisible collar, which I held to my ear and said “Hello?”

“We’ve got a 4 day for you…Anchorage the first day, then a redeye to Denver after the layover…” the faceless crew scheduler sheepishly intoned. I get the feeling all the crew schedulers go about issuing assignments to reserve pilots with the same “sorry to do this, but…” sound to their voice. Many pilots loathe having to be at anyone’s beck and call, and these assignments are often met with hostility.

But actually, I was good with it. I hadn’t flown much of February at all, and March had been quiet thus far, too. I got plenty of stuff to do at home, yeah, but getting an offer to fly someplace interesting typically rings my Pavlovian bell. It would be good to get out of the house for a few days.

Until late last year, I had never been to Alaska. Then—BOOM—I was assigned three trips to Anchorage in the span of 6 weeks. Thus concluded my quest to fly to all 50 states, which made the inner geography geek in me quite pleased. I’m attracted to “new”, to different things and places, so heading that way really excited me.

As is custom for the O’Hare-Anchorage flight, departure time is mid afternoon. This allowed me to get the kids to school as usual, then luxuriate in a quiet house that I tidied up a bit so the Missus wouldn’t have to when she arrived home after work. I packed carefully, taking note of the weather forecast for my layover cities. Anchorage was the coldest. They were forecasting some snow, so I packed a down jacket, scarf, gloves and hat. In the middle of March it can still be bitterly cold up there, even as winter loses its’ icy grip with each lengthening day.

At the airport, I checked in on our computer system and printed out our flight plan. Flight time today was calculated at 6:05 takeoff to touchdown—relatively short by previous experience. I’ve had some of my prior Anchorage flights take close to 7 hours due to strong headwinds. Not today. Still, the amount of fuel required for this journey was close to the maximum we could physically carry within the wings and belly of our Boeing 737-800 aircraft, as reports of turbulence spoiled the hopes of lower fuel burn that is commensurate with higher cruising altitudes. In fact, my paperwork said there was only room for about 600 pounds more—about 6-8 minutes of extra flying time.

The Captain I was to fly with chose to leave this extra gas in the tanks at O’Hare. This might come in handy, but we had no reason to believe it was necessary, and there are disadvantages of carrying extra fuel as well. Per regulation, we load enough fuel to fly to our destination, then to our “designated” alternate airport (if required), then for another 45 minutes or so. In this case, we did need an alternate airport—the forecast for Anchorage was showing light snow reducing the visibility to 1 statute mile by our scheduled arrival time. Not great, but not terrible, either. I’ve seen worse. It was supposed to be windy, though…

I met our four flight attendants at the gate. We exchanged pleasantries. Three of them were young and pretty new at the job—Logan, Kelly and Heath. Joann was the senior mama on the trip, though she didn’t look it. All were friendly and chatty. We settled into our individual duties to prepare the airplane for the journey.

In a few minutes, John the Captain arrived. A younger man than I, he had been flying as captain for only about 6 months. Like me, he was a reserve pilot. Unlike me, John started his day about two and a half hours before me in New Orleans. He introduced himself, stowed his luggage and sat down to look over the flight paperwork.

Our dispatcher this day designated Kenai, Alaska as our alternate airport in case the weather in Anchorage precluded our safe, legal arrival there. Because of its’ relative proximity to Anchorage, Kenai is often used as a “paper” alternate for arrivals in Alaska’s biggest city. Situated on the Kenai Peninsula across the Turnagain Arm of the Cook Strait, it’s a small fishing town, population 7,000. Most importantly, it’s only about 15 minutes flying time from Anchorage, so it makes a convenient fuel stop—if we have to. We don’t need to carry much extra gas for any diversion to Kenai. Neither John nor myself had been there before.

99.9% of the time, our flights arrive at our advertised destination, much to our marketing department’s satisfaction. Owing to federal rules, we cannot even attempt a landing into an airport if the observed weather is below charted “minimums” for that field. As we winged routinely northwestward towards Anchorage, we reviewed the latest hourly weather summaries as they were reported. So far, the Anchorage forecast was holding true—fair skies. Just strong southwest winds.

As we approached the 5:30 mark in the flight, the latest report noted light snow beginning to fall. Still, the visibility below the clouds was a very good 10 statute miles. We checked out of our lofty cruising altitude and descended into the misty gray below.

Approximately halfway down, the radio crackled with our air traffic controller’s voice. “Plan on holding with Anchorage Approach. The weather is going below minimums…” John and I exchanged bemused looks of surprise. I instinctively punched the buttons to make the latest Anchorage weather appear.

“One mile, light snow and blowing snow” was the decoded printout. Worse, an electronic eye next to the runway described the visibility in feet of horizontal distance, called Runway Visual Range— or “RVR” for short. 3500 RVR was the report for the only runway available to us due to the strong winds. Our approach chart stated 4000 RVR to be the lowest permissible visibility. Below minimums. We prepared to hold.

And hold we did. 10 mile long racetracks traced in the sky anchored to an invisible electronic point in space called a “fix”. Keeping us company here were three other jets, all equally hamstrung by the weather. Stacked above us in 1000 foot intervals, they each reported their position in our ad-hoc waiting room 3 miles above Anchorage. Noting our present fuel and the rate of thirst of our engines, John and I calculated only 20 minutes of extra fuel for us to use as we waited for conditions to improve. Any longer and we would be violating company policy and federal regulations by going below safe minimum fuel limits before we touched down.

By now most of our 110 passengers were probably wondering why we hadn’t alighted back on mother Earth yet. After all, we had already said our “goodbye, thanks for flying with us, we’ll be on the ground in a half an hour” spiel. Yes, they were told that it was snowing. But 30 minutes had come and gone. Now it was time for me to tell them that the snow was heavier than forecast, and that we only had a little bit of time for it to improve before we had to go find the nearest filling station for more Hi-Test, a new road map and a pack of Juicy Fruit.

Of course the weather did not improve. I thought this would be the case. Typically, when weather is worse than forecast, it tends not to improve very quickly either. Our 20 minutes was up. I keyed the radio mic and spoke “We need clearance to Kenai, our alternate.” I sent an electronic message of our plans to our dispatcher.

Air Traffic Control responded promptly, “Fly heading 180…you’re number 4 for the approach over there.” Apparently, each of the aircraft keeping us company at the holding fix had given up the foolish idea that Mother Nature had any sunshine and lollipops for them, but just minutes before us. We now had to wait for them to land at Kenai.

Luckily, the weather at Kenai was clear. Cloudy, bitterly cold and windy. 18 degrees Fahrenheit with 40 knot gusts. No snow, though. We pointed our jet invisibly through the clag toward the lone rectangular strip of asphalt within range that could take us. Hopefully we wouldn’t be there for long.

Descending through the base of the overcast at 4000 feet, John and I easily located the runway. When a mile and a half of pavement is laid down in the middle of remote wilderness, it tends to stand out. Our paperwork showed only the barest of information regarding the aerodrome. Radio frequencies, procedures to be followed, a small diagram of open spaces where we could hope to park a Boeing 737.

We touched down, cleared the runway and lumbered to a resting spot on the tarmac in front of two cargo jets. We started the Auxiliary Power Unit, shut down the engines and completing our checklists, noting that we had been in the air almost 7 hours since departing O’Hare. We had just over 45 minutes of fuel remaining. Legal, but barely.

Now what? More fuel for sure. What else? Better weather, of course. Did I mention that only yesterday I was looking forward to this flight? My exuberance would have to be converted to energy for what was to come. (To be continued.)

January 1, 2014

To Do: Be Aware

I’m sitting in a small, well-appointed hotel room typing this out. I’ve spent the night here, and will again tonight, as day 3 of my 4 day trip concludes. It’s a soft day. Not really a “work” day, as all I do is ‘lay’ over in preparation of tomorrow’s flight. I’m not complaining.

It’s 5:30 pm. The bed is unmade. Mushy, misshapen pillows lay across a rumpled snow-white duvet cover. No need to have the maids make the bed just for me–I’m the only one who will see the inside of this room for 32 hours. Perhaps the housekeeping staff can go home a few minutes early because my doorknob says “Quiet Please-No Services Needed”. Maybe they appreciate that.

And maybe I’m just over thinking things.

Today is New Year’s Day. And like the first line from the song by U2, all is quiet here. Just the occasional rumble and soft rattle of the thermostat-induced heater blowing warm air. This, and the soft hiss of cars driving up the side street about 45 feet away. The flat panel television remains silent and dark. I don’t usually touch the thing when I am out on a trip somewhere. I find my smart phone keeps me well up-to-date on any breaking news or happening.

Which has me thinking. Lots of people I know take the time to proclaim steadfast resolutions every New Years Day. It seems like the time to do so–each of us with an unblemished canvas of days ahead. Even our 2014 calendars are not yet dog-eared and mostly blank. Why not step up and state that this year will be the year?

The year for what? Betterment, from what I glean off of my friends’ Facebook feed. ‘I’ll listen more. Eat less. Visit more places. Run that marathon. Have more fun with my family. Relax. Breathe.’ What’s not to like about that? Doing better is good. Rare is the comment “I’m gonna eat/drink/imbibe too much” or “Perhaps this year will be the year that I totally dissolve into a mind-numbing routine.” And nobody is going to come up with “I think I’ll go crazy with the AmEx card and ruin my credit, wreck the car then cheat on my spouse” or some other equally egregious whopper.

Yet troubling stuff still winds up happening.

So, at the margin between the old year and the new, we tend to take a little time to be introspective. We might look into the mirror not to see if we have a piece of parsley stuck to our teeth (that is a good reason, aye) but to peer inward. We might notice something physical, yes, like a new crease on our face. Or we might squint a little harder–to see how we might have failed–others and ourselves–in this past year. And now I do so.

I can say with certainty that 2013 passed with lightning speed. My kids have grown noticeably. Drew, my 8-year-old, is rapidly maturing as he begins to tackle new subjects at school and even get tested on them. He’s joined the local Cub Scouts. His childhood network of friends grows, too, and with it are more obligations to be here for that meeting or there for this play date. More complex.

Alex, my 6-year-old, grows too. He’s bigger, built like a fireplug including a round belly, and stronger. He continues down a path tangential to his older brother in that, yes, he goes to school–a special school for kids with special needs like his autism–but no, there are no tests for him to take. No multiplication tables or sentence diagraming. No religion class or preparation for his First Holy Communion. And yet there is growth, there is learning taking place. Alex has readily taken to his iPad, which we hope will be key to unlocking that ability to communicate–needs, emotions, questions, cares, dreams.

Imagine that last one. Dreams. I know Drew has them. Just a few weeks ago, Drew regaled me with his plans to become an astronaut and blast into outer space. He can tell us what his dreams are. But does Alex have dreams? I think so. In my heart of hearts, I believe. He just cannot tell us–yet. We have great hope for the iPad.

We have great hope for the newest member of our family too. That would be Merrows, Alex’s service animal. She of the bright smile and fluffy ears. She of the good manners and steadfast loyalty. And like Alex’s iPad, it is up to us, Kat and I, to integrate her into Alex’s life so she can be of greatest benefit.

Kat has had the world back up on her. Her parents are both fragile healthwise. Her father wrestles with dementia, diabetes and chronic pain. Her mother struggles with mobility issues and her own bipolar challenges. Kat does this juggling with as much grace, care and tact she can muster. It is sad for her given her ‘only child’ status. I alleviate as much weight as I can. Some days go by as if time stands still. Yet weeks and months and entire seasons fly by and suddenly the year ends.

With my return to flying, I transitioned from a home-every-night desk job to one where I am only home half the month. Flying airplanes is wonderful. I so love the act of taking flight. Travel itself is a reward. Quiet hotel rooms are great and wonderful for catching up on sleep or typing out blog entries. But my time away does not get the snow shoveled off the driveway, or the car looked at after a small fender-bender, or Alex’s whining at 2:30 in the morning–all of which occurred today, while I sit in my comfortable, quiet, dare-I-say insulated hotel room.

Which leads me to those resolutions that everyone seems to make heading into the new year. What do I resolve? Where do I start?

I resolve to focus. To quit checking Facebook every 30 minutes. To give my attention, my time, my energy to my family when I am present. To give my time to myself when I am alone. To ride my bike and swim and go to the gym and drink more water and less Coke Zero. To write down To Do lists every night before I go to bed–and then DO THEM when the next day begins. To write more. To talk less. To laugh more. To be aware.

All these are fine notions with great personal reward. I can do them, yes. But, will I? Here’s a bald fact: I resolved to do much of the above last January 1st. But mostly, I didn’t. No, I wouldn’t call my efforts in 2013 a failure. But I didn’t kick ass and take names like I probably thought I would this past year. I don’t want to live just to get by.

As I said earlier, maybe I’m overthinking things. To the point where it is distracting me from just doing. Procrastination is not my friend. And distraction seems to be its’ sidekick, the bastard.

So here I go 2014. I am aware, resolutions or not. After I write my To Do list, I’m going to bed. Don’t get in my way.

September 8, 2013

In Praise of ‘Typical’ Kids

You know what? I have another child.

I don’t mention him much on here–every so often, and typically in the greater context of our family, his younger brother or my career. This is a shame.

Because this kid is fantastic. Bright as the sun, sharp as a razor, active, inquisitive, compassionate–a joy. He is the light of our lives.

His name is Andrew, but we call him ‘Drew’ at home. He shares his name with his grandpa on his mom’s side. And his dad. His other grandpa Mario fills in the middle name. Drew turns 8 in a couple of weeks.

I received a bunch of solicitude from several of my blog readers after my last post. The post was mostly about Alex and a little about his service dog. I went back and read what I wrote afterwards, and, trying to absorb it from a fresh perspective, I came across as sounding more negative than I intended.

What I intended to do when I wrote it was vent. This blog is a relief valve for me. Just like the mechanical kind, when the pressure builds high enough, the valve opens. And all is well again. For a while. But when the pressure builds up, and events of the day join forces with the evil duo of fatigue and procrastination, the pressure valve gets blocked. What I’m saying here is even if I feel compelled to write, sometimes I’m too tired or lazy.

Which is a shame, as I said. I have much more to write about. My wife gently chided me about this. Like a good spouse, she’s right. So that got me thinking.

I can piss and moan about all sorts of things I see in my life, or in the world. The perceived injustices we deal with, or have been through. It’s easy to accept an invitation to one’s own Pity Party.

But what about the good stuff we have, or that happens to us? What about the amazing people we know, or who pass through our lives? We can look far and wide and find lots of examples, I’m happy to say. But what about looking closer? In our homes?

That’s where Drew comes in. This trim little guy with the wide, expressive grin and the endless questions. I love questions… “Dad, what makes lightning?” (I especially love the weather questions, because I am a weather geek.) “Are there any Africanized honey bees in Illinois?” (Thankfully, no.) “How long would it take the X-15 to fly all the way around the world?” (Ooh, I’ll have to break out a calculator for that one.) And “Why does Alex have autism?”

That last question I’ve heard from him at least a dozen times. As recently as yesterday.

Of course I attempt to answer it, but the true statement of “I don’t know” has a hollow ring to it. I’m his dad, and I take great pride and serious responsibility in helping him learn and understand this world in which he’s growing up. So it seems like a cop-out to not be able to give him a more definitive answer.

Drew doesn’t often stump me with his questions. But not knowing how he will react to what I tell him, I try to soften the blow. “Scientists and doctors are trying to answer this, too”. But the question of why his kid brother can’t speak, or doesn’t poop in the toilet, or bangs his head when he’s upset or why he doesn’t have a list of chores yet just do not have much more of an answer other than “because he has autism”. It’s like saying “Because I said so…” Unsatisfying.

Regardless of the answer, I just am pleased that he appears to care about his little brother. Kat and I have diligently attempted to instill a compassion and understanding for Alex in Drew. We reinforce it with positive praise–especially when Drew is extemporaneously sharing a treat, or picking up something that Alex might have dropped, or keeping Alex out of harm’s way (that’s a big one). The truth is, Drew has done all of these. It’s one of his greatest traits.

Still, it rips my heart out when Drew asks about Alex’s autism. My attempts to sound flat to discount the challenges Alex will face and yet upbeat to accentuate the hopefulness of the situation always make me wonder if I’m the one playing the fool.

In some ways, Kat and I feel that Drew gets cheated out of some things many of his peers would have already experienced and enjoyed. Simply because we are not yet mobile enough with Alex and Merrows, Drew has had to accept what we do predominantly for his little brother–and not for him. We have friends with children who have had seizures, hearing impairment or even physical handicaps. And all of them have ‘typical’ siblings. How do they do? Is there a longing in their hearts for fair and magnanimous treatment of not only their sibling–but themselves?

God, I hope so. I will say we know conclusively that because Drew knows so much more about autism and because he is so much more aware of other people and their disabilities, we breathe a little easier knowing our older son will be more compassionate. It can’t hurt. And from the experiences some of my friends and family have discussed in the past, these ‘typicals’ wind up amazing adults on their own merits, of their own accord.

We try to carve out Daddy/Drew or Mommy/Drew time when we can. Drew gets excited with anticipation. There are a lot of other families like this–all over. It actually is fun to be around people like that, to commiserate and share. But Drew is just a kid; Drew’s not talking as much about autism as he talks up the latest app he got for his birthday on his Kindle. Fine with us.

We hope that regardless what happens, Drew will be well taken care of. Same with Alex. And if Drew wants to help Alex get settled somewhere in some way only a long-time sibling would understand, I get misty-eyed. That’s what’s great about typical children–they are typically awesome. I’m so proud that Drew is Alex’s big brother.

September 2, 2013

Warts and all

I’ve been dreading writing this post. I’ve been swallowing hard coming to grips with how to say just what I want to say. Chewing on it like it’s a piece of gristle for over two months. Sorry, but if there was an academy award for procrastination, I would walk out with an Oscar for Best Actor in a Leading Role.

I’m not acting, though. If there’s one thing I do, it’s tell the truth. And the truth is, it’s been a frustrating, stressful summer. It’s not easy to admit that for me. It was supposed to be easier.

When I last wrote, it was about our first few weeks with Merrows, my son Alex’s service dog. A snapshot that already looks faded with the passing of time, I mentioned that we seemed to be adjusting pretty easily to life with our newest, furry 4-legged member of the family.

For the sheer logistics of owning a pet, we’re doing a very good job. Feeding, watering, grooming, medical checkups and shots, attention and exercise–Merrows gets what we pledged to provide. She seems very happy in our company.

But here’s the tough nut to crack. I alluded to it in my last blog entry. Being consistent in reinforcing what makes Merrows a certified service animal is hard.

Folks I’ll tell ya, being handed the leash of a wonderful, well-mannered and smart dog is an immense privilege. Frankly, it’s the same immense privilege that one assumes when you are blessed with kids. They pop out of there all warm and wiggling, completely unassuming and willing to adapt to our ways of life. It’s really up to us as parents to screw it up. Or not. The results are dependent on our efforts and focus–and maybe a little luck. It’s hard work being consistent.

Recall that although my family and I all attended the two-week “doggie boot camp” training course together, it really was mostly my wife learning the commands and bonding with Merrows. I was busy chasing Alex and trying to keep him safe. All important, certainly. But not great when both my wife and I will be working with the dog–mostly independent of each other.

We both work full-time. My schedule is all over the place. Wife’s is M-F, 9-5. And even though Alex is back at school for the fall, Merrows isn’t there with him yet. She’s at home–still.

The reasons are pretty simple. Merrows not behaving as well as she should be. She still gets up from a “down” without permission. Is not interested in “place” on anything close to a consistent basis. She even has difficulty jumping into the back of our small station wagon. Add the annoying and destructive habit of ripping out pages of books/magazines and chewing them–or miscellaneous socks, and she doesn’t quite endear herself. I cannot help but think it’s because her owners have failed her a little. It pains me just to type that.

Alex’s behaviors have been frustrating, too. His moods seem to ride a perpetual sine wave of okay-nice-excellent-nice-okay-crappy-horrible-crappy-okay. And although he did bounce back to what we could call a baseline “normal” by July, that has dipped back into the red for the past 5 days or so. Whining, punching, kicking, crying self-abuse. And he’s growing too, so he’s stronger. We have a gaping 5 inch hole in the wall near the front door courtesy of his skull. Luckily he was wearing his helmet.

He’s frustrated. He’s non-verbal. He doesn’t get what he wants when he wants them and throws a fit.

Kat’s mom and dad are in terrible health, teetering between assisted living and lengthy hospital stays. And she’s an only child–with sole power of attorney–so the weight on her shoulders is immense. I attempt to help, but hearing her folks trying to lobby me for their cause through their own mists of dementia and mental illness place me in an awkward, mostly untenable position.

Which makes life at home so stressful that my ears ring. I’ll walk in from a trip to the following: Alex is having a tantrum over something none of us can determine with 100% accuracy, Drew is yelling at him for crying (he’s just trying to cope himself), Kat is on the phone with the hospital, the house is a disaster and smells of stale urine. And dinner has yet to be decided upon, let alone prepared.

To say we have the ability to pay 100% attention to our kids, dog or even each other is impossible. Help does arrive in the form of ABA therapists and two trusted caregivers. But only for a few hours a week. We are worn out.

So, Alex’s iPad with the communication apps doesn’t (yet) get learned. And Merrows doesn’t (yet) get the training she needs to succeed as Alex’s unconditional friend and companion. Honey Do lists get ignored. I feel like I’m shirking my duty just typing this.

“Comparisons are odious” goes the quote. But that stench seeps into my mind with unavoidable regularity, like a nervous skunk outside a closed window. I read Facebook on a regular basis and see many, many examples of friends with typical kids living the life of which Kat and I can only hope and pray. Maybe if we made some changes…

Should I take a leave of absence from flying? I make more money than I ever have before. And–hard to believe–my job is one of the least stressful parts of my life right now. This is true even on the day before I will be handed my final, permanent position on our seniority list upon completion of this godforsaken merger. But I never let my family hear me whistling as I pack my bags for a 4-day trip. It’s respite for me, pure and simple. And flying a plane is still a blast.

Should Kat quit her job? We’ve discussed this of late, too. She’s always wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. But that ended when I got furlough #2 in 2009 and she became the household breadwinner. Trouble is, we would lose her health insurance coverage for herself and the kids. Alex’s yearly therapies alone have a retail cost far in excess of what Kat earns each year. Choosing to continue the same amount and quality of therapy under my company insurance plan would be financial suicide.

Hope. Hope hope hope hope hope. I have more hope than any of you, just ask me. I know things will work out, and pray to get to that point. They always do. But when? At what cost? I’ve found myself fantasizing about winning the lottery. Powerball is more like it. I’m not holding my breath…

It’s Labor Day today. Surprise of surprises, I had the day off. The day was spent mostly with Drew, Alex and Merrows, though not without a dollop of drama. I can live without drama, I’ve decided–but that’s my ‘labor’ for the day, I guess.

I often recall one of my favorite quotes by a French philosopher, Simone Weil. It helps.

“Even if our efforts of attention seem for years to be producing no result, one day a light that is in direct proportion to them will flood the soul.”

May 28, 2013

Life With Merrows, the Home Edition.

Merrows is a lap dog. Not really what you’d expect a 14-month-old golden retriever to be.

We found this out completely by accident. Kat and I were cruising along down the road. Drew and Alex were in their booster seats in the back row. Merrows settled herself at their feet on the mostly flat floor. Until she decided to climb over the center console and flop herself indelicately on Kat’s lap. There, her warm, soft girth spread over Kat’s lap until scant habitable room remained. She looked quite satisfied. She sighed contentedly then lowered her head down to rest on Kat’s leg, the only acreage left. I wouldn’t classify her contorted frame as looking the least bit comfortable. Kat just looked over at me and shrugged a little, then curved a slight smile. Who wouldn’t want to be smothered in puppy? All was well.

It’s a pretty decent first installment of Life with Merrows—the Home Edition. Some surprises, but none really more than adjustments. Like Merrows enjoying sleep on the cool tile floor in our tiny master bathroom. This proves a challenge during the night when one of us stumbles in to use the toilet. There you’ll find her, wedged between the shower stall and the commode. “Pardon me, girl”, I’d whisper as I would sit askew the throne so as not to squish her with my feet. She’d barely move.

Other things too. Merrows splashes water all over the place when she bends down to wet her whistle. She loves to play after dinner, usually a time when we try to wind Alex down a little so he’s appropriately zonked by 7:30, his normal bedtime. Slowly, the surfaces of our home are being covered with her gossamer hair. This was expected, though I always thought Kat’s long blonde tresses were plenty enough to make dust bunnies the size of New York City rodents. Soon there will be a hoard of them beneath our beds and sofas, and behind our bedroom doors. Please don’t look for these when you visit. They will be there but they are not playthings.

Ten days have passed since we arrived home with her. Not once has she protested, whimpered, scratched or barked out of turn. We feed, water, walk, brush her and give her lots of love. In return she makes no specific requests. I’m beginning to think of her as The Invisible Dog.

Which is great for a service animal—especially in public. Alex, on the other hand, has memorably whined, cried, punched, kicked, and otherwise thrown an impressive fit, one after another, since we’ve been home. These have lessened in the past few days, made possible by a slight change in his medication—we think.

I’ve built a strong relationship with Alex’s psychiatrist. Usually I see him on a monthly basis. There, we discuss any trends good or bad. Stuff like how he’s been sleeping, or his ability to focus or remain calm during transitions. The last time we met was at the end of last month, a time when Alex seemed to be doing well.

Alas, things seemed to go downhill quickly after that. Alex had a 101.5° fever a day or so later. It subsided the next day. Then we headed off to doggie boot camp. Two weeks of a completely new routine, different bed (or closet, in Alex’s case), a new four-legged creature running around him mixed in to that. And pooping problems. If I were Alex, I’d probably be throwing a hissy too.

Alex’s psychiatrist told me that his older patients with autism typically took a week or so to be completely back to “normal”. (Hah! What the hell’s normal? ::sigh:: I digress.) In the past, Alex has typically been able to bounce back to his old regular (I didn’t say ‘normal’) self in a day or so. Not now. Not this time.

So…what to do? Try the med change, as directed. It might work. It might not. Both have happened many times in Alex’s past. More trial and error. I don’t like trials and certainly not errors for that matter. Can we please do something that’s guaranteed to work?

As for Merrows, she rolls with it all. My naïve assumptions that she would be trotting off to school with Alex the day after we got home—you know, helping him with his homework and protecting the world from the forces of evil and stuff, well…those days aren’t here yet. Merrows needs to be corrected to get into and out of the car. She needs to be corrected at grocery stores to heel next to our knees, and not next to the shopping cart. She needs to stop eating grass/twigs/rocks.

We have to teach her. We have to teach the people at school to handle her. We have to teach the bus drivers, aides, nannies, his grandparents, his older brother. There is lots of teaching.

This is what I’ve found hard—consistency. That is, the same vocal commands, the same hand gestures, the same corrections, the same context for all these things. When I used to teach people to fly, I found it easy to do these things—because I and I alone was the person doing the teaching.

But consistency is hard when there are more cooks in the kitchen and the recipe was only demonstrated to a few of us.

So, that’s where the challenges are with Merrows. Alex’s challenges are ongoing. And although both of them would be happily content with sitting on our laps for the rest of their lives, that’s not going to happen. They will have to learn. We will have to teach.

May 20, 2013

Doggie Boot Camp, Day 12. Dog is my co-pilot.

When we last left our plucky pooch Merrows and her fortunate but frazzled family, they were about to take the Service Dog Public Access Test. Would they prevail against the forces of evil distractions such as cute 3-year-old girls carrying corn dogs? Or perhaps another canine with their majestic mien and seductive scent? Would the rear of their handler’s vehicle provide them any roadblock to redemption?

Amateur alliteration aside (thankfully), Friday was Merrows and Kat’s final exam. (I’m two days late with this because I was feeling crummy. Keep reading.) After a week and a half of practice, it was time for them to perform. And did they. Kat shepherded Merrows through her paces at the local mall, including an extended “down” in the ever-so-tempting food court. Neither reported the slightest difficulty. Kat wisely stacked the deck in her favor with some of Merrows’ favorite doggie treats–a product called “Bil-Jac”, which oddly looks like clumps of browned ground beef–but isn’t exactly. Whatever…it worked just fine to motivate Merrows to be the most obedient and calm canine she could be.

It was an easier day for me, too. Still left juggling the hand grenade with the missing pin otherwise known as Alex, I was left in charge of packing up our hotel room with him, while Drew and Kat were off at the mall. This, too, required some juggling, as every time I attempted to run something out to the car, Alex wanted to come with and protested loudly in the only efficient way he could lately–whining and punching himself in the head. Ugh. I worked fast.

When Kat texted me with word that all was well and that we could come by the mall to pick them up, I dropped what I was doing and did just that. The next step in the process of certifying the newest service animal on the block was filling out many forms and other bits of paperwork. Some were typical, others a little different. We had to certify that we would never take Merrows to any ‘dog park’ or similar gathering of a whole bunch of recently cooped-up-and-now-set-free dogs in a relatively small space. Sounded sensible to us. With the time and money invested in our Merrows, it seemed to make perfect sense to shield her from any undue risk. Kat did a lot of signing.

By 2:30pm, each of the dogs and their handlers had made it back to the training center for the grand graduation ceremony. There, Karen Shirk, the founder of 4 Paws for Ability, gave a very nice talk about all the service animals and just how special they are. Another treat was to see almost all of the kind men and women who had given of their time and energy (and homes) to foster our dogs.

‘Tori’ was the sweet young lady who cared for and worked with Merrows since she was 5 months old. She shared with us a beautiful bound book of photographs and memories of her time spend with Merrows. It was easy to see the bond they had forged together, for as soon as Merrows heard Tori address her, Merrows immediately “sat”, then smiled and wagged that long, soft and bushy tail of hers back and forth. Tori was happy for us, but we could see it was a bittersweet time for her, too. We promised that we would pick up where she left off, and that Alex’s life will be forever better with her sweet girl Merrows in it.

Around the big training room each of the families sat. Jeremy, the director of training at 4 Paws, passed around a microphone for each representative of the family to say a few words. It was very touching to watch and hear the fondness that each dog’s presence had made in the recipient child’s life already.

I was born of two very passionate parents. My Mom and Dad have never shied away from letting their feelings out. So, when the microphone was handed to me, a wave of emotion spilled out of me. Mr. Cool, the guy I usually thought I was, was replaced by Mr. Blubbering Sap. I choked up as I introduced my family and especially Alex. By now, all of the other families have seen of Alex what my family and I see of him every day. When he’s “on”, he’s really a charming little guy. When he’s pissed off, give him plenty of space.

So when I tried to coax some intelligible words into the mic, I wound up rambling. What I meant to say is that although Alex and Merrows are not yet fast friends, I am certain that her presence will indeed bring them closer and closer together. And this, eventually, will have a profound positive impact on his quality of life. I know this.

I also spoke of the simple reason we were fortunate to be there at the training center in the first place. Some of you probably know the story. Kat had a dear friend named Barb. Barb was a longtime public school teacher–very modest, but extremely dedicated. She never had children of her own but she doted over both Drew and Alex–even when he was a fussy newborn. Barb developed cancer, which quickly spread. Knowing that she had little time left in this world, Barb dreamed of leaving a lasting legacy behind if she could. She knew of our longtime wishes for a service dog, but also the long waiting period–if we qualified for one at all. Barb put up all the money for Merrows and then some. Barb died this past February. In lieu of flowers, she asked for donations to be sent directly to 4 Paws For Ability. Barb is proof that there are angels that come to earth for a few years to do beautiful things before they head back upstairs for the rest of eternity. Thank you again, Barb.

I finished blubbering and passed the microphone along. By now, Alex had enough of being inside (we’d only been inside for 10 minutes or so), so I headed outside again with him. I’ve been doing this most of the time in the 12 days we spent at the training center. Me with Alex in the playground. Or with him walking down the street to the bridge to watch the water flow over the rocks. Or standing next to him as he sat in our car and had a snack, or poked at his iPad or, on more than a few occasions, thrashed around in protest while wearing his protective helmet. I grew especially weary of that.

Unfortunately, while I was outside, I missed the class picture. You know, the one where every family and their pooch squeeze together while cameras attempt to capture the scene. At least Kat and Drew were there with Merrows. But I felt it kind of ironic that Alex, the kid desperately needing the dog, was too bent out of shape to be still enough to come inside and have his picture taken.

By 4pm all dogs had been christened Certified Service Animals and received tags on their leashes that said just that. Each was given a bright red vest to wear with a patch on it from 4 Paws and the words “Service Dog” affixed. One by one, each dog trotted out with their charges; Fiesta with Maggie, Vectra with Shawn, Focus with Seth, Meatball with Coby, Twingo with Brandon, Zephyr with Ty, Mr. Pibb with Chase, Camaro with Damien, YoYo with Lilly, Georgie with Kara and finally Merrows with Alex.

I hugged Kat and whispered in her ear, “Let’s start this new chapter in our lives now.”

We loaded up, punched our destination into the GPS and headed out. Although we had carefully carved out a big open spot for Merrows to lay in the back of the car, she ultimately wound up hurtling the rear seatback and snuggling between Drew and Alex, her snout resting on the armrest between Kat and I. Westward we rolled.

We rested for the night in suburban Indianapolis at my brother’s home. Good thing, too, because Alex was not enjoying his time in the car. We couldn’t put our finger on exactly what was upsetting him so much during this entire journey, but never had we seen him so upset for so long. Historically, Alex has done surprisingly well in our cars. And we’ve learned by experience that any trip longer than 5 hours is asking for trouble. Still, Alex would begin to whine in as little as 15 minutes. It was a long two and a half hours to Indy that night.

Same thing the next day on our final stretch back home in the Chicago area. The constant din of Alex’s whining, the occasional smack of his fist against his head, or whack of his helmet against the window were never completely ameliorated with food, drink, book, diaper or iPad–his usual salves. It required I dig deep into a mostly dry reservoir for patience and solitude lest I aim for the nearest cliff to drive us all off (kidding!). Eventually we made it home to a lawn desperately in need of mowing and a refrigerator desperately lacking beer. But we made it.

Today marked the first “regular” day at home with Merrows. Kat took her and Drew to the local nursery to practice a typical run to the store. I stayed back with Alex. We went to his favorite playground and swung swung swung again and again on the swings. Later we played show and tell with some relatives and practiced tracking around the neighborhood. Merrows was the star of the show, as usual.

Alex was better, but not quite where he was over two weeks ago, before we started this journey. Tomorrow is back to school and its’ familiar routine for him. Alas, the rest of his school year will not be with Merrows at his side. In Friday’s commencement address, Karen Shirk had mentioned how she did not want any dog going to school until the school had handlers that were as well-trained as we are now. This made complete sense, especially given that Merrows and Alex are not quite peas and carrots yet. It’s gonna take some time for Kat and I to verify the proper support in the classroom not just for Alex, but for Merrows too. I laugh now, but I was incredibly naive to think Merrows was just gonna hop on the bus with Alex in the morning. What did I know? Nothing. What do I know now? Just a little bit more than nothing.

As I mentioned in a previous post, we really do have another child in our home. It’s up to us to raise it as best we can, to correct when necessary and to keep safe. Merrows is fitting in wonderfully–she’s so easy to love. At this very moment, she is asleep only a few feet away. When I get up to go to bed, she will rise and follow me. Eventually she will sleep with Alex, but not just yet. She will attach herself to him, and hopefully vice-versa. She will be the good, faithful co-pilot that Alex needs for a long, safe flight.

May 17, 2013

Doggie Boot Camp, Day 11. Almost.

It was hard to top yesterday. I am pleased to report that I didn’t. No, it didn’t suck as bad. But it still wasn’t quite laying on the beach in Fiji, sipping a Mai Tai.

Still, the last full day of Doggie Boot Camp had a few echos of yesterday. A decent night’s sleep for everyone in room 2107. Another morning spent tracking outside with Merrows. More edginess courtesy of Alex. More collateral damage to Kat and I. Just Kat and I, thank God. As far as I can tell, no one else was injured after an inadvertent run-in with the little guy.

That was pretty much the only difference. Alex still whined, complained, punched and kicked himself to underscore that he had been feeling pretty lousy lately. He also had another stomach churning poopocalypse today involving both hands, his comforter cover and a recently opened package of cookies. (Eww.) The shower and many towels were effectively utilized.

So I was tired. No, I was exhausted. Alex hasn’t lost any weight. I evidently haven’t eaten my spinach either, so I’m not any stronger. Still, Kat needed my help in many ways no one else could easily fall into as a substitute. Essentially, I hovered my paranoid Daddy-copter over him for better part of the day.

Kat and I did have a bit of a strategy for this last day of class before the Big Test/Graduation Day tomorrow. We decided it would be prudent for her to accomplish all tasks required on the exam. I would keep an eye on Alex and to a lesser extent, Drew. Recall that she has been with Merrows in class now approximately 90% of the time. Although I have rehearsed each of the commands with her, we both felt it was prudent that Kat step up to the plate for the final pitch. She’s had a lot more practice.

The exam is a “practical” exam–no writing (except for the paperwork afterwards). Much like the “airplane” side of one of my pilot certificate check flights, Kat has to demonstrate mastery of the animal to an impartial examiner.

Officially, there is an agency called the International Association of Assistance Dog Partners, or IAADP for short. They have developed a set of Minimum Training Standards for Public Access. These guidelines are much like the Federal Aviation Regulations (FAR) that us pilots have to abide by. They stipulate how old the dog must be–at least 12 months–and how much training the dog must have received–at least 120 hours over 6 months of which at least 30 hours must be devoted to “outings that will prepare the dog to work obediently and unobtrusively in public places.”

These standards also include elements of the test: mastery of the basic commands required in obedience training (“Sit, Stay, Come, Down, Heel”) and a “dropped leash recall” in a store in response to a verbal command or hand gesture. Additionally, general manners must be demonstrated. No barking unless called for, no begging, no sniffing of people or objects, no socializing with other dogs and absolutely no defecating in public unless given a command to do so. This last one is obviously important, as the entire practical exam is conducted at the same mall we have been practicing at all week. If the dog poops or pees out-of-place, she fails the test.

Additionally, the dog and handler must be able to demonstrate an air of calmness–imperturbability–at all times. The animal cannot be distracted by deliberate attempts to do so. It’s one of those skills that make these creatures so well-behaved in our world. Merrows will do fine here. So will Kat. I have no idea what happens in the event of a test failure because I wasn’t in the training center much today to ask. It is fair to say that most animals demonstrate these skills well by this point.

And I will keep an eye on Alex, as I had plenty of practice too these past 12 days. As I mentioned, Alex was having poop issues himself, still. He also lost his first tooth today as evidenced by a little blood in his mouth along with a new bit of open real estate in his bottom row of incisors. He probably swallowed it because I couldn’t find it. Perhaps this has been irritating him the past week and a half or so. I doubt it, though, because he was irritable well after this tooth fell out this morning. I’m thinking it was his loose stool/discomfort that was pegging his PissedOff-O-Meter for the past few days. Conversely, he gets grumpy when he’s constipated. We can’t win here.

So, yeah, he was edgy all day today. I handled him. We even had a fire alarm at the hotel this evening after dinner–but not before bed time, thank goodness. Alex was upset, but he didn’t appear alarmed by the klaxon blaring in everyone’s ears. Merrows neither.

We are in the home stretch, for sure. Tomorrow will find me packing the car, wrangling Alex, paying the tariff with the hotel and gassing up the car, as afterwards, we plan on pointing our vehicle westward to arrive at my brother’s home by dinnertime.

If all goes as planned, a ceremony will be held for all new handlers, their families, friends, foster trainers of dogs (ours will be there) and of course the dogs themselves. Each one is well-deserving any accolades bestowed upon them. Their new handlers, too. It is a lot of work for us handlers. Many families have never had a dog in their entire life. As I mentioned previously, Kat was terrified by them–all breeds. She has come a long way. I am proud of her.

May 15, 2013

Doggie Boot Camp, Day 10. Hurt.

Today sucked. I just wanted to get that out there. A couple of minor successes and a little fun, yes. But on the whole, I cannot polish this turd.

Ironically, it had absolutely nothing to do with doggie boot camp, or Merrows–at least not directly. No, this train wreck of a day was brought to me by Alex. And I can’t put my finger on what exactly caused it, though I always can proffer a guess.

It certainly dawned a nice day. We all slept well. More blue skies awaited my stroll from our room to the hotel lobby for breakfast. Mild air streamed up from the south. The forecast held true all day–warm and sunny.

Alex awoke well, too. The morning progressed much like yesterday’s. More tracking at the park, successes both with me and Kat on the flexi-leash. One of these tracks was considered an “unknown” track in that Merrows was not allowed to know where Alex might have begun to disappear. She and Kat handled the task like a champ. We still will need to practice often to keep Merrows (and us) sharp with this skill.

Frankly, I was kind of surprised that Alex was so easygoing. I was aggressive about offering him snacks, as he didn’t eat much for breakfast. This alone isn’t surprising lately. Alex seems like he is developing into a light breakfast-heavy brunch kind of guy. Whatever…he ate well whenever he ate.

We headed back to the training center. More talking and demonstrating obedience with all the dogs, along with a discussion of what will be required of the dogs when they have their ‘final exams’ before graduating as Certified Service Animals. This does have me a little concerned, as Merrows does seem to perform well at the center, but less so with us at our hotel, or in places where we take her. We have been told that this is to be expected with relatively young dogs like her. We are to keep our end of the bargain up by continuing to be consistent in our commands/praising/corrections. She will eventually adapt. But, still…I always personally want to do as well as I can–or my dog can.

Class broke by about 1245 at which time we headed to the local mall for lunch. The plan was another day of practicing “indoor” tracking, which can be more of a challenge sometimes. As we had in the past, we gathered next to a children’s play area. This was fine with us as Alex and Drew both love running around this small, enclosed space with soft, squishy shapes to jump on and crawl over. It was a good outlet for any extra energy, as Alex was just starting to exhibit in the form of increased whining.

I slipped Alex’s shoes off and got into Helicopter Daddy mode. Alex tends to act like the metal ball in a pinball machine, bouncing from slide to wall to adult to seat to child to tunnel. You get the idea. I wasn’t on station more than a minute when Alex dashed past me, a look of manic glee on his face, and came upon a small, adorable strawberry-haired little girl in a white and blue polka dot dress and head butted her from behind. No reason. Completely unprovoked. She turned around and raised her hand to rub the back of her head where he hit her and looked at Alex as if to say “What the heck was that for?” I rushed to her and asked if she was okay. Just as I did, her lips started to quiver and her eyes narrowed as she began sobbing. Instantly, her dad appeared behind me and scooped her up in his arms, asking her what had happened. I replied for her, “My son bumped heads with your daughter. He is a non-verbal boy with autism. And he does not know better. I am so sorry.”

My day got about as bad as it has in a long time right then and there.

It’s one thing for Alex to rear back and cold-cock me, or Kat or anybody who knows him. It is entirely another for him to inflict pain on some innocent bystander. I felt sick to my stomach, angry and ashamed. All at once. Autism sucks, ladies and gentlemen.

The little girl’s father responded with a wan smile, “It’s okay…I understand. She’s fine.” That’s very nice to hear, Sir. You’re being very compassionate. But I still feel like shit, though my feelings were pretty low on the totem pole right now. And then there’s Alex, smiling, standing in the corner. I dunno why I did it–or if it made a damn bit of difference, but I approached him, crouched down to look directly into his eyes and said “We don’t hit anyone, ever. Do you understand?”

Listen, I know I’m not going to get a response from Alex like I would if I said the same to Drew. But I went through the motions nonetheless. Frankly, I hoped that the little girl in the polka dot dress might have turned around to see me reprimanding my son for his actions. I don’t know if she was even watching. So much of what I say to Alex, especially in public, seems more like it’s for the edification of those within earshot. But I said it anyway.

I felt demoralized as I attempted to chew my mediocre steam table Chinese food I had just purchased to stem the hunger in my belly. Even with Merrows quietly resting at my feet, waiting for her tracking assignment like a laid-back surfer dude waits for a good wave, I thought “How in the world is she going to help prevent Alex from doing something like that ever again?” She might, she might not. The hell if I know. So much about Merrows the Super Duper Wonder Dog remains unproven, undefined. As I mentioned a day or two ago, she’s a just a child herself. Shame on me for wanting some help, some relief–today.

The indoor tracking went better than last time, which was reassuring. Yeah, Alex still whined like a clogged vacuum cleaner, but he did keep it together until after we were done with the indoor tracking. That’s when he really fell apart.

I couldn’t get him to walk back toward the center of the mall. My lower back has been sore for over two weeks of picking all 60+ pounds of him again and again. And with what he had already done to my tattered ego and Kat hands full with Drew and Merrows, I really was running on fumes. I set him down. I put on his helmet. I let him tantrum and flop like a fish out of water. Drew and I did have plans to go to the Air Force Museum with my friend and his son as soon as I could get back to the middle of the mall, as little time was left in our stay here. But picking up Alex was like picking up a giant blob of heavy, sharp-edged and dangerous Jello.

Eventually I was able to scoop him up in my arms and carry him. His helmeted head smacked my ear several times just as it had on Monday. By the time I rendezvoused with Kat at the play area, I practically spat “I am at the end of my rope. I am taking Alex to the car right now and I will see you there.” Oh I’m sure I was a sight to see as I carried this screaming mess out to the car with me.

Loaded up a few minutes later, then off to the hotel, Kat and I got boys and dog into the hotel room. I sighed a heavy sigh and turned around to get a little bit of respite at the museum. Kat would have to bear the brunt of hurricane Alex for two hours.

When I got back, the tempest still raged. Alex was in a change of clothes after a long shower. I told Kat I would take over. She replied he has been this way since I left. Jesus. Sure enough, there he was in his bedroom closet (he likes to sleep there), riled up and hitting himself. On went his helmet again. I collapsed on his bed.

Hearing him whine and cry and sulk pulls such a deep, resonant chord in me that rational thought is sometimes almost impossible. After offering him a cup of yogurt (Was he still hungry? No–at least not for what I had to offer him), I decided to take him for a walk. We left the room. He walked to the car. I had my car keys. I strapped him in. Where to? Hell if I know. Let’s find a playground. Maybe one with a swing he might be able to regulate himself on. I don’t know the area well, so it takes a while before I find one. I take him out. He calms down for 30 seconds. He looks around, having never seen this particular playground before, and loses it again. Head banging, fist flying, screaming, tears. Fuck.

Back in the car we go. Now it’s my turn to cry. Big, pitiful tears. I’m not so tough. He is kicking my ass. I’ve done what I could. Uncle. I drove back to the hotel. “We’re going back, Alex. Are you done yet?” I asked, with more than a little resentment in my tone. Two minutes later, he was silent. By the time we pulled into the hotel parking lot, he was jabbering like nothing in the past 5 hours had even transpired. What the hell, over?

I told Kat I was going to dinner in the lobby. 30 minutes later I returned, Kat explaining that Alex had yet another “poopocalypse.” Perhaps this and only this was his discomfort. I have no earthy idea anymore. Some of my longtime readers know about Alex’s renown digestive issues. That’s all either Kat or I could surmise. He cried himself to sleep about 30 minutes earlier than normal. Not a good day for him, either. I felt sad for him.

So it remains to be seen what Merrows can do to help him. I just hope it’s something akin to comfort and love and familiarity. And I hope he never hurts her. It would break my heart some more.

May 15, 2013

Doggie Boot Camp, Day 9. Time to obey.

Totally cliché, but it really is hard to fathom the not insignificant fact that we’ve been here at doggie boot camp for nine days now. We are three-quarters finished. Almost all of the families I’ve spoken to in our class have similar perspectives on our time here, especially as it relates to our time away from home.

Specifically, most of us have never been away with our son/daughters for this length of time. For kids on the autism spectrum, there are countless triggers for upset anywhere they might travel. What their bed feels like, how lunch is prepared and served, where the hotel is, what those strange sounds that they keep hearing at 2am are caused by. But surprisingly, I haven’t heard too many complaints about what each child might be going through down here. Instead I hear from their parents. “Too long.” “I’ve got so much going on at home right now.” “My wife wasn’t able to make it, so here I am.” I’m sure there are many, many more.

We get to chat a little bit with the other parents during break time and between tracking exercises. Most everyone is our age, maybe a little older/younger. Whatever, each of us wants some semblance of order to the wind-whipped maelstrom that is most of our lives outside the training center.

So, what we did… First, we loaded up on time, 0930, then pushed over to a local Beaver Creek, Ohio public park. Again we were to practice the fine skill of tracking. As it happened, it was the same park as yesterday. While our convoy of cars rolled into the park, I reminded Kat how we needed to be prepared when Alex undoubtedly reacted to the locale. Sure enough, when Alex detected us coming to a stop, he started to hit himself. By the time I shut down the car, it was clear that his helmet was needed. I got it on him.

He slid out of his booster seat and onto the macadam, still whining. God, I hate when he whines. Anyway, it was typical whining which appears to diminish with a little distraction. Two cookies offered, but only if he sits back in his booster, which he did. The whining subsided.

I know now that keeping his helmet on his head as he calms down, then leaving it there until he doesn’t object to me trying to remove it is a sign that he has regulated himself to the situation. Still, I don’t know why he reacts with flying fists almost every time stop somewhere to practice tracking.

Again today there were two trainers, so all 6 families in this “morning” group of trackers got to practice tracking twice. Given Mr. Sensitivity and his whining, I elected to get Alex tracked as quickly as possible. Together with Jessa, a little sprite of a trainer, I set out to get lost with Alex.

The weather today was glorious–a light, fresh breeze with low humidity, mid-level overcast which quickly dissolved to cerulean skies and a temperature straight from San Diego–about 75 degrees. No bugs, either, save for a few plump bumblebees who happily minded their own business in the execution of their duties.

Alex and I disappeared behind the outfield fence of a baseball diamond and hid between a couple of concrete culvert sections. Soon, Merrows arrived, pulling strongly on her flexi-leash held firm by Kat. As an extra reinforcement of a job well done, I gave Merrows slices of cold hot dog, an extremely yummy treat to her, as we all walked back to the parking lot.

While we waited our turn to go again, another family was busy giving their daughter Cara a ride in a bike trailer much like we have at home for Drew and Alex. The difference was that this trailer had been modified to handle this girl’s 14-year-old frame, which obviously was larger than Alex’s. As I paused to admire the contraption (one of which I intend to procure for Alex because he has outgrown the one we purchased before he was even born), Alex decided it was time for him to go for a ride in it. I stopped him because Cara was still sitting in the seat, though there did look like enough room for him to sit with her as long as Cara held on to Alex. And of course I asked permission from Carol, Cara’s mom. She enthusiastically replied in the affirmative. Snuggled in front of Cara, another sweet child with autism, Alex and her smiled and giggled as Carol tooled around the parking lot. I took a picture of the event, with Cara and Alex riding together as friends–Alex still wearing his helmet and Cara smiling along. Beautiful. Thank you, Carol and Cara, for this.

Our second tracking session happened soon thereafter, this time with me ‘talking up’ Merrows and holding on to her retractable flexi-leash. This talking up is just the quick little “Where’s he at? Where’s your boy? Track!” Kat and I excitedly say to Merrows after she is latched to the flexi-leash and sent to find Alex. It is literally like pressing a launch button on her that says “GO!” To the end of the tether she goes, her body pulling me forward, her head snapping left and right as she senses Alex’s trail. Any slack in her line means she is trying to decide which way to go next. But, if she keeps pulling at the leash, she likely is sure about which direction to head. She pulled me to Kat and more importantly to Alex, at her feet, hiding behind a baseball dugout. More showers of praise and a few nibbles for our girl. Merrows does like to be rewarded with treats. A job very well done.

We loaded up in the car, Merrows preferring to sit between the two kids’ booster seats behind us instead of the way back, behind their seats. Dunno yet if this will work for more than the 15 minutes we’ve tested her so far, but we will find out Friday afternoon when we head out of town.

Speaking of which, it does seem shocking that there are only two more days until Merrows “graduates” from her service dog training. She has to pass a test, too. Rather, Kat and I have to pass this test to prove that we know how to correctly handle her. I must say that I don’t feel quite ready yet. I’d ask Kat if she felt ready yet, too, but she’s snoring next to me in bed…

The rest of the day was good. Alex’s helmet came off when we reached the training center. Kat took Merrows inside for our afternoon class lead by Jeremy, the head trainer. There, he introduced “roll over”, “play dead” and “bark”. All of these were fun to watch the dogs practice. “Bark” was especially hilarious. It is not essential that each dog bark on command. In fact, a few of the parents in the room did not want the dog to bark at all–which suits their individual wishes fine. But Kat and I did, and Merrows delivered. I held a piece of tasty Beggin Strips in my hand, brought Merrows to a “sit”, then simply said “bark.” Merrows responded with a loud “bark!” and I gave her the treat. In fact, this was the first time I had ever heard her bark at all–she is that well-behaved. And the look in her eyes and on her face said she would do this all day long as long as the treats were doled out. Actually, she started reacting to anybody who said “bark”! We will use this command sparingly. But it’s nice to know she can bark if she has to.

Back at the hotel, the evening routine played out seamlessly. Alex was smiling and playful. I took Drew swimming, then we had dinner back in the room. Some ice cream, a few showers and the kids were in bed. Kat took Merrows back to the mall again by herself to practice her obedience. Merrow’s obedience. If I could only get Kat to obey when she goes to the mall…