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Better Late Than Never

Archives: April 2009

ADHD Vs. My Big Trip, Part 4

In giving in to my frantic ADHD brain overload, I had lost my moorings - lost sight of what made my life mean something...

Okay, I’m at my desk, in my office hyperventilating and staring at our dog, Danny-Boy, who’s staring at me with his eyebrow cocked while resting his head on my desk. He lets out a big disappointed sigh. I’ve been running around the house upsetting him and my son with my panicky preparations for leaving on a trip to L.A. to open my show about living with ADHD. Now my wife, Margaret, and my daughter are back from the store and my banging around and cursing in my office is upsetting them. Danny-Boy seems to be a clam, concerned emissary.

Maybe I’m crazier than even the most pessimistic psychiatrists I’ve had think I am. One once warned my wife that, though I seemed to be stable at the time, she should call him immediately if I woke up in the morning and told her I wanted to buy Japan – he said he wasn’t joking. But I don’t want to buy Japan, though I do like the shoji screens we have in our house, I don’t know what I’d do with a whole country full of them. What I want is to get to L.A. without forgetting something important.

Danny-Boy, in our secret cross-species mind-reading communication (I know there’s a specific word for that, but I can’t think of it due to word-retrieval and short term memory problems – which are a real pain in the neck for a writer-performer, let me tell you. And I’m in L.A. writing this at the moment and in a full-tilt panic about THAT. But as Gloria Gaynor says – I will survive.) So – anyway – Danny-Boy says, “I’m a dog and I know what’s important. And you are forgetting it, Frank.”

Right then Margaret and my daughter and son come into my office. Margaret has picked up some stuff for my trip at the store, and the kids want to know what they can do to help. I look at them. My family. My best friend/wife, my two funny, shining children and a dog who talks to me with his eyebrows. They are what are important, of course.

These people and this dog and the love we have for each other are the only really important things in my life. And Danny-Boy’s right – in giving in to my frantic brain overload, I had lost my moorings to what made my life mean something – to me.

No wonder I was hyper-ventilating. And no wonder I’m upset. I don’t want to be away from them. I turn off the computer, they refuse my apologies, so I thank them for being in my life, they say yeah, whatever and we all decide to go to Burger King and blow off anything else.

On the way out the door Margaret gives me a quick kiss and whispers, “We love you, you lunatic.”

Boy, I don’t want to leave home, but I know how lucky I am - look who waits for me when I get back. Next post – In L.A. staying with friends and rehearsing my show – pride and panic, neck and neck. And a note – I’m going to be posting less until after the opening weekend of the show May 1st, due to the intense schedule and intense everything. Be back regularly after that.

ADHD Vs. My Big Trip, Part 3

I want to stop and appreciate my son and tell him how much he means to me, but the overbearing ADHD emotion of frantic urgency is still running things...

I hoped to wrap up this moment-by-moment deconstruction of my travel preparations this morning, but I’m late for rehearsal and I meant to write this last night, but I was fried after taking the wrong freeway while coming back to my friend’s house, where I’m staying while in L.A., after a meeting at the theater and laid on my bed going over what I forgot to cover in the meeting and other negative blather – but pulled out of that self-obsessed nose-dive by talking to my friend’s son about his basketball game, but spaced out the blog. So I’m afraid Big Trip might go to a Part 4, but I swear after that installment I’ll move on.

So, here’s where we are. Harry, my twenty-year-old ADHD son has found my scotch-tape tabbed, yellow pad perfect list that I, in a panic-attack fueled frenzy, was ready to tear our house apart down to the foundation to find. Also, he didn’t flinch at my frantic behavior or my flash of impatient temper; he just did his best to help. In that moment when he handed me the list I looked at this big, strong young man my son had become and marveled at his maturity and his ability to empathize with what I’m going through.

See, we’re both ADHD but I’m severe ADHD combined type – with comorbid disorders that accentuate the hyperactive side and Harry is moderate ADHD without hyperactivity; comorbid with auditory processing delay that tends to accentuate the non-hyperactivity. Basically, Harry, when faced with a problem, will stop all movement, get quiet, and stare into space until he sees a solution, while I faced with a similar problem, will run around in circles grabbing at stuff and yelling.

I want to stop and appreciate my son right here and now – tell him how much he means to me. I know that’s the important thing to do. But the overbearing emotion of frantic urgency is still running things, so all I want to do is confirm my rental car right now before all the rental cars in the entire greater L.A. area are rented and there’s not one car left for me anywhere because I was disorganized and forgot until it was too late.

I can see that Harry sees the ADHD-cooked brain look in my eyes.

"It’s stuffy in here, Dad," he says, and opens the sliding door to the back yard before he heads back into the living room and gets back to the Family Guy episode that he and our dog were watching on his iPod on the couch.

The computer isn’t cooperating – the car website keeps crashing halfway through me filling out the form. And now day-biting mosquitoes are attacking my legs through the door Harry opened because I haven’t gotten around to fixing the screen.

I slap at my legs, cursing. I think I'm hyper-ventilating now. Then our dog, Danny-boy, the oversized standard poodle comes in, puts his head on my desk and raises an eyebrow at me (I swear – he does this.) He apparently wants to know what’s going on with me and when I’ll cut it out.

Well, me too, dog, me too.

Next in Part 4 – The rest of the family step in.

ADHD Vs. My Big Trip, Part 2

I feel a panic attack coming on. I stop tearing apart the house looking for my packing list and try to relax, breathe, visualize...

Its 3pm - later than I thought. But that’s okay. Packing, getting on the plane and all the rest of that trip stuff is covered in the perfect, beautiful list calmly sitting on my desk, in front of me.

I decide to leave it there and to walk, not rushing, out to the garage to choose a suitcase. I pass my son, Harry, and our over-sized standard poodle Danny-Boy lying together on the living-room couch watching Family Guy on his i-Pod, and give them both a calm, fatherly nod.

In the garage, I stop and look at the locked door to the storage closet where the suitcases are kept and realize I need my keys to open it. No problem. Still calm, I walk back inside past my son and poodle who don’t look up from the iPod this time, to get my keys from the desk drawer and maybe while I’m there check my beautiful list for any information that might help with the suitcase decision.

The list isn’t on my desk. I left it right there, before I walked out, I know I did. Back to the garage, moving into a trot – list not there, but take a minute look around the garage carefully – check on the art table, on the junk shelves – no and no. I zoom back through the front door to the office. Danny Boy barks as I fly by.

In my office I start tearing through drawers and bookshelves. I feel a panic attack coming on. I stop and activate an ADHD coping skill from my psychiatrist – relax, breathe – slow and steady then visualize… I’m supposed to lie back in a chair or lie down when I’m doing this but this is an emergency and it’s not working anyway.

Where is it – where is it – where is it? I swear I’ll rip this whole house down to the studs if I have to. I hear Harry behind me, stepping into the office.

“Um, Dad…”

I’m tearing into the back bookshelves. “What, Harry? What!?”

“I just…”

I turn to him, my face flushed in frustration. “Can’t you leave me alone for a second?”

“Sure,” he says, “But out in the driveway? I found this yellow pad of yours on the hood of the Jeep.”

Harry holds my beautiful list with scotch tape tabs and promise of sanity out to me. As I take it I say, “Harry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I yelled, and I’m… well, I’m going to miss you.”

Harry smiles and pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll miss you too, Dad,” he says, “But you know, you gotta calm down.”

He’s right, of course he is. But I’ve just realized I forgot to confirm the car rental – I didn’t even put it on the list. Harry turns to walk back out to the couch as sit down and start clacking furiously away on the computer keyboard.

Next – in Part 3 - Harry, Margaret, Coco and Danny Boy, the oversized, standard poodle, all try to help.

ADHD Vs. My Big Trip, Part 1

In my mad rush to not panic over packing I’ve mucked up my packing list so much with arrows, boxes and underlines that it’s illegible. Start over. Change it all. Breathe.

I'm in my office furiously making a list when my twenty-year-old son, Harry, walks in.

"Um, Dad, I was wondering about something..."

"Look, I really can’t talk now, Harry. Maybe later, okay?"

Harry muses about almost everything in existence and comes up with questions that I usually find interesting and enjoy talking with him about. But right now I’m busy freaking out because the day after tomorrow I’m leaving home for three months to rehearse and then open my solo show about being ADHD, “Pay Attention,” in Los Angeles.

One – doing this show in L.A. scares me silly. Two – this will be the longest I’ve been away from my family and Hawaii in years and that scares me more. Not exactly a profile in courage, I know, but I’m trying to be honest here. Maybe I should dial the honesty back when I start looking pathetic, but let’s talk about that later, okay?

Now, I’m aware my separation pales in comparison to deployments that troops and their families in the Armed Services deal with. All right, it also pales in comparison to separations sales reps, corporate V.P.’s and airline personnel deal with regularly too. The fact is, my plight pales in comparison to almost any hardship suffered by any parent or spouse or family anywhere.

So what? It’s still making me nuts. And that makes me irritable. And puts me way on edge, especially since I have to stop wallowing in self-pity where I’m comfortable and get myself organized for the trip.

Harry walks out as I refocus on my packing list – but by now I’ve mucked it up so much with arrows, boxes and underlines that it’s illegible. Start over. Change it to three lists – Show / Trip Info & Tickets / Clothes & Toiletries. Does show wardrobe go under show or clothes? Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter – just choose. I give each list a sub-heading – Have / Don’t Have. Wait, I need to add a fourth list – Stationary & Computer related stuff. All four lists are on one yellow pad each starting a few pages after the previous to give them room – thinking ahead. I make scotch tape tabs on the side of the first page of each list. Looking gooood.

And suddenly I’m burning through this four-part list – its working great. I’m remembering stuff I forgot I needed – cross-referencing – double-covering in case of error and it’s all neat and legible. It shines. It is a thing of beauty. It has almost magical depth and meaning. Over the top, maybe, but still -

It means you can pull it together.

It means you can be prepared, be structured, and be rational.

It means you can end up calm and organized at airport check-in and stroll through security with your shoes off, ID and boarding pass out, and head held high with the bemused attitude of a seasoned traveler in your smile and no trace of the ADHD-fueled “fight or flight” panic in your eyes.

You have remembered everything. You have forgotten nothing. With your beautiful list strapped on like bullet-proof vest, you know you can handle whatever curves and confusions life throws at your unusually wired brain. ADHD doesn’t stand a chance.

Stay tuned for my next blog, titled "ADHD fights back..."

A Year to Forget: My ADHD Birthday

In our ADHD household, even a 60th birthday is not sacred. Some things, it turns out, are not OK to forget...

My kids and I are always forgetting everything all the time, of course. But we figure in our house anyway, we’ve got a low-consequences zone going on. You forget, okay do it now, or say next time, or whatever. The point is to keep the drama down, which keeps the tension down which keeps the frustration temper flare-ups down for all of us.

Both kids, awhile back when I was laying into my daughter, Coco, about flying off the handle, made it clear to me that I yell and go nuts at them, foaming at the mouth like a rabid lunatic out of nowhere for the tiniest stuff, quite a lot. And, by the way, Coco loved her big brother sticking up for her, and it didn’t matter we all knew it was an opportunistic family political play to get me to stop yelling at him, too. I granted them the point and we called a truce on frustration-fueled irrational insane flaming outbursts. Hence, the low-consequences zone.

All three of us do snap to, however, when Margaret quietly points out something we should draw a red circle around and put some effort into remembering to do -- whatever that thing is she wants us to keep in the normal-consequences zone.

I just turned sixty. I’m not big on birthdays, don’t need presents, and due to the especially nuts time we were all going through this year – I made it clear weeks earlier that I didn’t want a party or anything like that. But as the date grew nearer I started obsessing - Hey, this is my sixtieth birthday. You see movies where family members come from miles around to hug and kiss and shower love and presents on the father figure who turns sixty. Aren’t there movies like that? It’s traditionally a big deal, I think.

So, without any outward signs, I’m freaking out that this big day has been nudged by everyone, including Margaret into the low-consequences zone. I know, I know, I told them that’s what I wanted, but still. Since everybody’s busy and stressed I go to get the stuff for the birthday dinner myself. At least for my birthday I can go off my diet and indulge the one sin left to a recovering alcoholic non-smoker: Safeway bakery oatmeal raisin walnut cookies. I roll the cart into Safeway past all the vegetables and stand stunned looking at the empty display kiosk where the boxes of oatmeal cookies should be. Safeway, for the first time in my admittedly poor memory is out of the only thing that will make it all better. At the bakery counter they say it’ll be a couple of days. A couple of days? I didn’t tear the store apart screaming “Hey! Me! What about me? I want my birthday cookies NOW!”

The weekend goes by with apologies from Margaret and the kids and I keep saying who cares, forget about it, I hate birthdays – and I do, but I can’t get the mushy father-figure movie out of my head and I’m about to roll into some serious self-pity when I overhear my son, Harry tell Coco, “Really, don’t worry about it, Dad’s never cared about his own birthday. He’s cool that way.” Okay, that did it. Suddenly it was time to live up to my son’s vision of me and let the birthday, soppy movie and all, stay where it belonged in the low-consequences zone.

Two days later in one of Coco’s plop-downs at my desk after school she said, “Here, Happy Birthday, Dad,” and handed me a paper box she had hand-made and decorated inside and out with pastel unbelievably gorgeous and carefully executed drawings of palm trees and islands and rabbits and quilts and masks and a skull and flowers.

It was my only birthday present this year. The only one that I needed.

Distraction Techniques & ADHD Empathy

It makes sense that since I bang around in the same kind of ADHD brain that my kids do that I’d naturally be extra empathetic and patient with them... right?!?

It’s last week, Friday afternoon – I’m on a deadline, trying desperately to finish an article that I’ve procrastinated even starting for days, and now it’s down to the wire. My wife and twenty-year-old son are at work and I’m home alone hunched over the computer calling myself stupidlazystupidstupidstupid when my thirteen-year-old daughter, Coco, comes slamming home from school. She grabs a banana from the kitchen, walks into my office, and with a big sigh plops down in the chair across the desk from me.

“I need you to look at my knee, Dad. It’s really killing me.”

Coco’s knee is always really killing her. Or her shoulder, or her ankle, or her nails that she won’t stop biting, last week she thought she might be going blind. I nod and give her a quick smile.

“Honey, I’m swamped right now so…”

She puts her leg on my desk examining her knee.

“I swear - the nurse said I should stay off it.” She takes a bite of banana. “My shoulder hurts too. But that’s ‘cause Jay hit me. He got kicked out of class today. But not for that. And coach says I need a new sports bra.”

I tell her I’ll look at her knee later but I have to get this work done first. She says okay, starts to limp away then turns back and says oh she forgot but could I sign this envelope for her – its nothing – just field trip stuff.

I need to get this article done that I rigorously put off all week so I quick sign so she’ll let me work. Thing is, I want to believe that being an ADHD adult should make me a more understanding parent to my two adolescent ADHD children. It just makes sense that since I bang around in the same kind of brain that my kids do that I’d naturally be more empathetic and patient with them than their non-ADHD mom. I know what they’re going through. I know what it feels like to try and fail, and all that rigmarole. Fat lot I know.

It took Margaret, their non-ADHD mom and my non-ADHD wife to find the note from the teacher about homework not turned in and projects not completed that was in that envelope I signed.

I forget that my kids know I’m ADHD too, they know what I’m going through and boy, do they know how to use it.