Cover My Dreams in Ink: A Son's Unbearable Solitude, A Mother's Unending Quest. Jessie Dunleavy

Paul had come into his own in the home stretch, and I was interested in the school’s perspective and, frankly, still hanging on to a thread of hope, I called the summer program’s lead teacher. I told her about the medication transition. She said she did see Paul becoming more interactive and alert in the final days, as had a couple of other teachers. She suggested I write a letter to the school explaining the details of Paul’s transition, which I did in short order—even jumping at the chance, while knowing in my heart that it was a lost cause and that they were probably sick of me and my letters. Dr. Watkins called the same teacher who told him Paul was never a challenge behaviorally, that he’d endeared the teachers and, if his attentional issues could be better remediated, he would fit within the parameters of the program.

      As my hopes steadily plummeted, I began to try to accept the fact that Paul would have to attend Harbour School, a Level V school just outside of Annapolis serving children with multiple handicaps, which I had visited a couple of times and did not feel was right for Paul. My heart was broken, but I had to resign myself to the reality.

      I called the county and was astounded to learn they had somehow assumed Paul was enrolled at Lab School for the coming year and, because of this, had passed up a space for Paul at Harbour School, which I foolishly had thought of as a perpetual backup. Nothing more could be done, I was told, until the next ARD meeting, set for mid-September.

      Yet again, the first day of school was upon us, and Paul had no place to go.

      I was in for another big surprise when, on that first day, a school bus arrived at our house to take Paul to Lab School, representing a detail the county overlooked and one of a string of snafus on the horizon. Was I ever tempted to put him on that bus!

      I was upset with the county for the balls dropped. Making matters worse, I was the only one to show up for the scheduled ARD meeting, which then had to be rescheduled for later in the month.

      Because Paul was staying home alone while I went to work, even a small delay was painful. When we finally had our ARD meeting, I was offered ten hours per week of homeschooling. I petitioned for more hours, and was prepared to go to battle on that front, when I learned of a space for Paul at Harbour School, where he enrolled as of November.

      As far as Paul knew, I was delighted with the placement and, as always, I formed good relationships with the teachers. Paul complained about the school, but I told him to look for the good. He did make a new friend, another Scott, a boy whose love for playing the guitar matched Paul’s and led to them forming a band with another boy in Scott’s neighborhood in Laurel, Maryland. While Paul liked saying he was in a band, practices were limited by the distance between the boys, and they didn’t exactly have any gigs lined up. But I do remember them performing once at school and another time in a line-up of other bands, an opportunity kindly arranged by Paul’s guitar teacher. Despite Paul’s challenges, he was innately musical, and these experiences for him warmed my heart.

      Often I was asked if Paul’s disability had a specific label. Was it merely Attention Deficit Disorder? Or, maybe, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder? But the fact is, Paul never fit a precise description of any one diagnosis. I remembered Dr. Denckla had said, “ADD with other neurological involvement.” Considering Paul was not hyperactive, maybe ADD was most fitting. But I knew it was more than that.

      Dr. Hyde, the neurologist Paul had seen when he was eleven, said Paul had elements of Pervasive Development Disorder and that his episodes of unresponsiveness likely represented an abnormality related to an underlying disorder of the central nervous system. Years later, I would come to think Paul was on the autism spectrum, as Pervasive Development Disorder suggests. No matter what, I knew it wasn’t the label, but the treatment, that mattered.