Tag: FamilySupport

Brain-Protecting Glasses

Posted on by andrew

Kiranjeet Kaur (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

 

The simplest way to describe coping strategies for ADHD is to compare them to putting on a pair of brain-protecting eyeglasses. When my child was diagnosed with ADHD, I was fortunate enough to be able to access assistance. Growing up, I remember one of my friends exhibiting symptoms, and with her permission, I’d like to share her experience.

 

It wasn’t easy to be a woman of colour and be diagnosed with ADHD; the difficulties she encountered growing up in Canada were really challenging. This was especially true because she had immigrant parents who didn’t understand what ADHD was, and refused to recognise or support her when she needed it. They considered ADHD to be a stigma or condition that they needed to conceal.

 

Coming from an Indian society where women were expected to be experts in cooking and social skills, she lacked both. If she didn’t go to social gatherings, people would think she was arrogant. She was under pressure to perform to high standards, yet she failed every time.

 

She grew up in a brown household, and when she was diagnosed with ADHD in elementary school, her father was upset. He didn’t believe it at first and blamed the school system. Her journey for support began at Renfrew Elementary School in Calgary. Her class consisted of a total of six students, and she was taught the school curriculum in a manner that accommodated her ADHD. After spending a year there she was transferred to a regular junior high school, where she was frequently taken out of class to study subjects using a different method. Her father was always trying to hide her ADHD, but he never realised that you can’t conceal it. She was born with it and required assistance in determining the best techniques to help her.

 

When she was in fifth grade, her father attended a parent-teacher interview, and she was thrilled because her teacher had so many positive things to say about her. For the first time, she felt someone was focused on her strengths, and she hoped her father would be pleased. Halfway through the interview, her father expressed dissatisfaction with the educational system and requested that the teacher ask her if she understood her left and right. She didn’t know, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she wanted to vanish into thin air. She went home with her head down, convinced that she would always be a failure and that she would never be good enough. The next day, the teacher sat down with her and held her hand, tracing the letter L on her left hand, and said, “My child, here is your left,” since she knew my friend learned best using visual aids.

 

She will never forget how one of her high school teachers pointed out to her that on all of her examinations she would always get the difficult questions right and the simple questions wrong. The teacher stated that while she would often mark the first page incorrect, she was impressed with how the most difficult questions were successfully completed on the following ones. She began to see this in other parts of her life as well: she could prepare foods that were tough for the typical person but couldn’t brew a simple cup of tea.

 

Her dad refused to enrol her in the only high school that provided assistance to students with ADHD. She ended up attending a nearby, academically rigorous high school. Knowing her condition, she thought she would excel at a vocational school, but her father was pushing her to become a nurse. She failed two university classes in her first year after taking math grade 12 three times. It was a mental, emotional, financial and academic battle for her.

 

If she didn’t get into nursing school, her father threatened to send her to India for an arranged marriage. She was afraid, and she felt deep down that she wasn’t prepared. To save her life, she forged an entrance letter from the institution where she was studying nursing. Her father was overjoyed and her heart was broken since she didn’t like to lie, but she wasn’t ready for marriage. Her parents assumed she was enrolled in a nursing degree, but she was actually taking psychology and sociology courses. Her father was outraged when she told him she wanted to transfer to a technical college, and she was married the next year in India. All of this occurred as a result of her parents not accepting her ADHD diagnosis.  

 

Fortunately, today she is married, has two great children, and has received ADHD treatment. After receiving the appropriate assistance, she saw that she was able to return to school and hold a steady job for a longer period of time. With her brain-protecting glasses, she was able to absorb and remember material in ways that were beneficial to her. ADHD should not be stigmatized, and is not something to be embarrassed about. We all learn in a variety of ways.

 

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Kiranjeet Kaur is married and a mother of two teenagers. She grew up in Alberta and British Columbia after being born in Castlegar, BC. Her academic institutions included Mount Royal University, the University of Calgary and Bow Valley College.

Taking Care

Posted on by andrew

Emily Iorio (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

 

When I think back to my earliest memories, I often wonder if I’ve dreamt them into existence. Memories so lapsed that they appear to me as blurred colours, as scents or feelings. I remember spending afternoons hanging off my mother’s legs as she spoke to the neighbour, Debbie. I can recall the vibrant colours of her skirt and the smell of the hot driveway asphalt as I ran circles around her feet, peeking through her legs at Debbie’s perfectly manicured lawn. I remember racing across the hall to my parents’ bedroom after waking from a bad dream, the feeling of refuge under their heavy beige duvet (because even the most relentless of monsters couldn’t get me under there). No matter how foggy the memories, I never forget the feeling of safety in the presence of loved ones. From my earliest memories, I was cared for – deeply. 

 

Let me begin by acknowledging how fortunate I was for the childhood I reminisce about. I grew up in a home with a wonderful family who loved me tremendously, and for that I am grateful. But as many of us do, I took for granted that feeling of security, of knowing that someone would always be there to make calm of my chaos. Even as I matured into adulthood, I looked to my parents for advice – after all, who really knows anything about winter tires or taxes? No matter how sticky a situation I found myself in, my parents had a way of reassuring me that all would be okay. That speeding ticket or ex-boyfriend wouldn’t be the be-all and end-all of my existence.

 

I suppose I was naïve in my belief that I had decades of trial-and-error left ahead of me, with my parents there to pick up the pieces. My mid-twenties panned out quite differently than I had hoped. One by one, my older brother, mother and step-father were diagnosed with terminal illnesses, each of them requiring a significant amount of care.

 

This threw my world into chaos, into entropy, if you will. The hierarchy I trusted no longer existed, and I felt I had no one to confide in to ensure I stayed afloat. With so much on everyone’s plate, there was no room to entertain my mundane tribulations. I stayed afloat nonetheless because my options were to sink or swim. What mattered was looking after my family, a brand-new, full-time commitment that prompted me to quit my job in order to be a present caretaker and to spend more cherished moments with the ones I loved before they were gone.

 

Perhaps you can relate. And if you can, I am incredibly sorry. The pain and trepidation of caring for an ill parent is unexplainable. All of a sudden, the unwavering individuals who held your hand through summertime scraped knees, academic failures and gut-wrenching heartbreak, are helpless – unable to act as the safety you’ve always relied on.  

 

There is something incredibly unsettling and downright scary about physically caring for a parent. Especially as a young caretaker. Accidently hurting my parents or being unable to understand their needs were very real fears of mine. Seeing the fear that my parents expressed caused me to spiral at times. I figured that if they were fearful, I certainly should be as well. Putting on a brave face was no easy feat. There were arguments, frustrations and miscommunications almost constantly. We memorized hospital hallways, morning and bedtime bathroom routines, and the monotonous alarms that signified an empty IV bag. There was lost sleep, emergencies and countless mistakes. 

 

But above all else, there was a mutual, deep appreciation. 

 

Amid the fear and unknown, I felt especially grateful for the opportunity to show my family the love and security that they have always shown me. When it came to gratitude, we left nothing unsaid – although there were days where gratitude manifested in defeated glances, tears and half-smiles.

 

It is curious to me why I was destined to be a caretaker. What I do know is that my capacity for empathy and compassion has become my most honourable trait. The wisdom of my mother’s last months, the courage of my brother’s final moments and the way my step-father approached his situation with his strong will and humour will sit with me for the rest of my life. The memories of these days will grow foggy, and to be quite honest, I hope they do. But unwavering in recollection will always be the gratitude I feel for what I was able to provide my mother, step-father and brother – the comfort of that heavy beige duvet during what felt like a nightmare we’d never wake from. A place where even the most relentless of monsters couldn’t get them. Safe in my presence, and cared for – deeply. 

 

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