Twice Exceptional or Half Capable?

In high school, I laughed too loud and too long. Shushed a thousand times, I never realized how annoying I was until our French class videotaped a comic recital. When we re-watched it after school, my lusty guffaws drown out the players on stage. My whole body blushed. Adding to my mortification, our teacher, Ms. Lucia, commented, “And here is Lori laughing…”

She did not say this in a jovial manner, to ease my embarrassment. She sounded defeated, sad for me, as if my laughter was a sign of incurable illness or impending disaster.

This hurt. I thought Ms. Lucia enjoyed my good spirits. After all, I spent hours writing comical journals and assignments for class. Classmates encouraged my boisterous antics and skits. I longed to be her favorite!  But that honor went to another. Michelle. Plop a Tonya Harding haircut on Snow White, add mom jeans and a Peter Pan collar and you have Michelle. Starched and stalwart, her seriousness contrasted sharply with my over the top exuberance. If I sat next to her, she scooted her erasers and highlighters opposite me. (I was in the habit of transforming them into smiley faces mid-lesson). She stifled her discomfort but eventually,  I felt it–an electric current of stay away.

We did not begin as adversaries. French class meant the world to me and I liked Michelle. She worked hard for every quiz, test, and assignment. I, however, aced exams and sailed through lessons with barely a glance at the material.

Grasshopper in Snow
Winter at last.

Since routine classwork bored me, I created little narratives.  I never handed in six-sentence verb exercises or blasé paragraphs about the library. Instead, I illustrated three-page epics replete with new vocabulary and painstakingly researched grammar.  My teacher commended my stories, but since I took my time handing them in, I seldom got credit.

Michelle, however, was always on time. She completed assignments as instructed, in neat and precise handwriting. I worked, when and how it suited me. Below average grades on my late masterpieces didn’t matter because I enjoyed writing them. Michelle worked with daily determination for good grades. She was the ant, and I was the grasshopper, except winter never came.

My senior year showed me where I stood with Ms. Lucia. Without enough students for a French III class, the ambitious could petition to study an extra year under her guidance. Michelle was accepted, and I was not. When I made a fuss, Ms. Lucia handed me a book and told me to study on my own during a free period. Without support, I drifted away. Decades have passed, but her rejection still visits me. In dreams, I sit forever alone before an open textbook, sad, bored, and failing French III.

Twice-exceptional* students struggle with rote and repetitive classwork. This grind is hard in a non-intellectual way. Results seem so distant that it feels like climbing an endless stairway to a pointless destination. Just sitting still was an effort for me, so I respected Michelle’s tenacity as she hauled herself up each long and boring step. I managed by completing projects with a flourish. Unfortunately, the world finds flourishes less valuable than deadlines, so I’ve failed plenty of courses. Every time, the recipe was the same–I mired myself in interesting tangents and details while neglecting routine assignments. Somehow, I skipped over skills that others had been building since kindergarten.

I’d like to change the past–but not to improve my grade. I want to go back for Michelle.  She never realized that I equated her between-class studiousness with my story-writing industriousness. We both worked hard for French and thus, were sisters. I tried my awkward best to be friendly, to make her smile, but somehow I managed to only alienate her further. The more I bumbled, the more anxious I became. Anxiety fueled future stupid and off-putting behavior, to my eternal chagrin. Friendship isn’t something Michelle owed me,  but if she understood that my behavior was neurological and not conceit or ridicule, my heart would be at ease.

Get Along Together

In retrospect, I wonder if Ms. Lucia was worthy of the affection I held for her. She could have spoken kindly to me about my unintended laugh track. She could have sat me further from the microphone. She could have paired me with Michelle instead of setting me adrift in an empty classroom.  Michelle and I could have collaborated and emerged twice as capable.  Come to think of it, Ms. Lucia’s every wince, sigh, and impatient gesture taught students like Michelle that I was somehow less-than.

Fortunately, the “needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few” educational philosophy of the 80s is vanishing.  Feeling less-than, unliked, and discarded can haunt students well beyond grade school. I am grateful my son’s school has a progressive and positive atmosphere.  When his neurology kicks into overdrive, his teachers support him and set a strong example of acceptance. As I write, he has found his own Michelle, and I cannot wait to see what they create together.

*My exceptionalities are autism and Tourette’s syndrome

Lyme Disease in an Autistic Household


One July, an angry, quarter-sized rash appeared on my husband’s abdomen. Red as a raspberry, puffy and erythematous, it looked like a smaller cousin to the hives that sent our son to the hospital for a penicillin allergy. Under hot, bright halogen lights, I saw no telltale bite marks. The troubling blotch mystified us.

The next morning the spot doubled in size and fury.  It crept across Egor’s chest, spreading unwholesome shades of red and purple.  I wondered if by midnight he would be craving brains.

Egor lifted his shirt on the third morning with a somber face.  I gasped.  Evil ruby rings engulfed his torso.  Despite the alarming exponential growth, E rejected a doctor visit. His refusal must have been a cultural formality since it took little subsequent argument to send him off.

The doctor confirmed our fears: Lyme disease.

A googling frenzy comparable to the one following my son’s autism diagnosis followed.

While the information on Lyme frightened me, overall the consensus relieved us: Lyme is like a bad flu, take your antibiotics, rest, drink water, and you’ll be fine. Yet, I did not find what I needed to navigate my husband’s illness. As an autistic adult, I needed more than facts–I needed a plan! Plans let me ramp up my executive function. Plans also limit my brain’s natural tendency is to generate innumerable horrific outcomes.

Since plans come from the experience of others, I needed to find a Lyme disease narrative I could trust.

Sorting through the uninformed bickering and alarmist tomfoolery that accompanies online information is a headache. Opportunistic shills cash in with proprietary teas, oils or elixirs. No better are Munchausen-esque blogs with prominent donate buttons and reality show melodramatics. I never found that “just right” article to pave the way.  So, I decided to document our Lyme journey, in case someone needed an idea of what to expect. You don’t even need to be autistic!

What We Learned


The top two risks are location and the time of year. From the map, you can see that 96% of the disease occurs in the Northeast. The majority of all those infections (68%!) happen in June, July, and August. Egor contracted his illness at Lake George, New York in late June.


We still don’t know how my meticulous, shower-hungry husband missed a tick on his stomach. The creature must have been as tiny as the bacteria it carried! Otherwise, Egor did everything right.

He wore clothing as a barrier, sprayed on insect repellent, and did tick checks. Nevertheless, the tick stayed on his body for the 36-48 hours it took to infect him!

We now know the popular deep woods mosquito/tick repellent we used was not a good tick repellant. It contained DEET, but permethrin is far superior repellant. Coat your clothing (not your body!) with permethrin, and you should have better luck than us!

Symptoms and Treatment

Thanks to the publicity given to Lyme disease’s distinctive rash, we quickly spotted Egor’s Lyme and sought prompt care. Nevertheless, panic hit hard because the CDC’s picture of a Lyme rash paled beside the monstrosity plastered across my husband’s torso.

We learned that rashes vary, just as people vary. In fact, only 80% of people develop the classic bull’s eye rash. Despite the gruesomeness of Egor’s rash, his infection was average (according to our doctor and oodles of Google).

If you are at risk and notice a circular spreading rash, see a doctor! The sooner you get antibiotics (doxycycline is often prescribed); the sooner the Lyme bacteria will be killed off.

Antibiotic treatment will last 21-30 days.  A word of warning— the antibiotics that treat Lyme can cause intense sensitivity to the sun. Double check with a doctor or pharmacist. We learned the hard way when Egor became ill after mowing the lawn on a sunny day.

What Lyme (and Post Lyme Disease Syndrome) is Like

Until antibiotics wiped out Egor’s Lyme, he describes his experience:

“Lyme is flattening. Aches and pains like the worst flu I ever had, but for weeks on end. I would sweat and shiver, soaking the sheets. I felt so weak, all I could do was lay in bed. The first week was the most miserable. After the rash faded, I slowly improved. Antibiotics do not give instant relief and (over the counter) painkillers did not help much.”

Without treatment, Lyme can devastate a person. Even with treatment, the infection can leave you experiencing symptoms for months. When Lyme symptoms persist after an antibiotic course, it’s called “Post Lyme Disease Syndrome.” When Egor became ill more than three years ago, post Lyme syndrome was viewed with skepticism. Now, it is widely accepted.

Doctors still debate over the treatment of post Lyme disease syndrome. Some believe more antibiotics should be given, while others maintain that the initial infection disrupts the immune system, causing the body to overreact until it re-achieves homeostasis.

We subscribe to the immune system disruption theory.  Every minor bug crossing our threshold caused mono-like relapses of Lyme symptoms for 3-4 months after Egor’s illness. Nevertheless, within eight months he was back to normal.

Our Experiences

This is a list of our personal observations and advice based on notes I kept for almost a year after Egor came down ill. Of course, I am not a doctor, nor is this medical advice or intended to be taken as such. 🙂  We hope this helps if you or someone you love gets Lyme disease.

Warmest wishes,


For the Sufferer

Our advice to anyone stricken with Lyme: assume one week of misery. Take time off from work and rest! Nighttime sleep will be fitful and not refreshing so you will be exhausted during the day. Neuralgia is a common symptom and was Egor’s worst. Body aches and joint pain responded better to Tylenol than Motrin, but drinking water was the best medicine. Drink a glass of Gatorade for every two glasses of water to keep your electrolytes balanced. Salty chicken soup helps too!

For the Caretaker

For the caretaker, nourish yourself, especially if you are prone to depression. Build up your support network because you will need to devote extra time to your household while your partner recovers.  I struggled most with schedule changes because I am autistic. Weird, I know, but understanding what will happen and when keeps me functioning and regulated. I prefer all my difficulties to make appointments in advance, thank you very much!

Below is a timeline of our Lyme experience.

Week One

Companion’s Symptoms:
• Bull’s eye rash
• Flu-like symptoms
• Chills and sweating, chills were “intense and worst I ever experienced.”

What We Did:
• Get partner to a doctor. Support daily antibiotic routine.
• Encourage partner to sleep as much as possible.
• If you share a bed with your partner, use separate sheets and have spares handy as they might sweat through a few during the night.
• All that sweating can lead to dehydration. Eight cups of water are needed daily. Pedialyte powder was a godsend. Half of all fluids should contain electrolytes.
• Do not use steroids (hydrocortisone) on rash unless directed by a doctor.
• We found aloe vera juice on the rash to be soothing.
• Sleep, rest, water, heating pad. Pain meds were not helpful, but drinking water, Pedialyte, and Gatorade provided most relief.

Weeks Two and Three

Companion’s Symptoms:
• Rash fades.
• Muscle aches come and go. Worse in evening and morning.
• Joint pain on waking up.

What you can do:
• Help your companion alter their sleep schedule to allow for extra time in the morning to get moving.
• Extra sheets are still helpful.
• Limit caffeine, it is dehydrating and won’t help sustain energy. We found it just caused anxiety with no “boost.”
• Epsom salt baths. This is a good time to spoil your household with bath bombs! Eucalyptus, mint, and citrus gave us the best results.
• Herbal teas helped replace coffee. We chose strong flavors like ginger, red hibiscus, and rosehips to satisfy the stimulating effect of coffee.

Weeks Four Through Six

Companion’s Symptoms:
• All symptoms have eased, but minor illnesses (like a cold) caused an almost full relapse in body aches and fatigue.

What you can do:
• Continue to avoid coffee.
• Electrolyte drinks reduced by 2/3.
• Continue to drink eight 250 mL cups of fluid.
• Yay! We re-introduced green and black tea!

Weeks Seven Through Eleven

Companion’s Symptoms:
• Symptoms in remission, but, again,  minor illnesses caused a moderate relapse in body aches and fatigue.

What you can do:
• No extra electrolytes needed.
• Coffee is back!

Next Four Through Six Months

Companion’s Symptoms:
• Be mindful that minor illnesses will cause body aches and fatigue.

What you can do:
• The flu season right after Lyme was more severe for my hubby—fatigue, aches, pains, chills were intense. We repeated Week One and Two advice. By the following year, he was back to normal. When an episode recurs, up the water and rest.

Closing Thoughts

Each person’s response to illness differs. Lyme is especially perplexing because of the range of symptoms each person can have. I hope our story helped you and encourage you to reach out and share yours. Best of luck to you!


Sharing Autistic Family Stories

This conversation took place March 2017. Art from our travel journals.

Twelve years ago, I Livejournaled a cozy confessional–A Quiet Week in the House.  My life, pregnancy, and motherhood were detailed with adorable nicknames and shoddy graphics.

And then.

My husband left the company he built for ten years.

Our son was diagnosed autistic.

My Dad was diagnosed autistic.

I was diagnosed autistic.

The cutesy nicknames felt disingenuous so I dumped them.

We will not shirk or deny our neurology because autism, Tourette’s, and other differences are not wrong or shameful! “Passing” as a typical person is not the goal of childhood or life in general.

Accepting other people, however, is.

Years have passed since I posted about my son’s journey. How could I be upfront about family neurology while respecting his privacy and agency?

Simple–involve Liev more!

At ten years old, Liev will co-author stories about him. He will control every article featuring him, including past articles. Nothing about him without him.

Our family stories reaffirm our place in the world.

Writing about experiences as an autistic adult, parent, and daughter amplifies the autistic voices in our family.

I hope our stories bring you joy and thoughtfulness.  This site is about family, after all!

E.T.A.”Liev” is a pseudonym but I really am Lori.  Identifiers such as last name, location, schools, and people are obscured. 

A Lesson in Patience

I hunch over the laptop, hyper-focused on a task I must perfect now.

In the next room, my husband, Egor, sprays cleaners furiously. Can he, by scrubbing the carpet, mirrors, and windows, also scrub out worry?

I protest the toxic onslaught, shouting, “Stop! Put on a fan! Open a window! You’re killing me!”

With a sigh I hear two rooms away, he opens a window. Once he realizes it needs cleaning, sprays erupt anew.

Minutes pass. Egor asks a polite question. Frustrated with Windows 10 and our shitty Epson printer, I snap back “I can’t talk right now!”

I curse wireless printing and over-complicated word processing programs as if they were his fault.

As I grumble, E selects this very moment to unleash his Dremel tool in the nearest bathroom. The plan? To rip the grout out of the bathtub in the loudest, untidiest, most bothersome way. The grinding whine of the device feels like a dental drill zipping up and down my spine. “NNNNrrr-nnnnrrrr. Nnnnrrrrrrrr-RRRR-rrrrr.”

I want to yell, scream, shout, “Quieeeeet! I am consolidating months’ worth of thoughts into neat paragraphs for the consumption of others!!!” Instead, I frown deeply and worry my favorite scab.

Why the furor? A school meeting looms. Autism, Tourette’s, and noisy classrooms have collided to make school a miserable experience for our son. We intend to fix it.

The printer dings to life and spits out documents.  I shout to E for a stapler. I shout again. The Dremel tool is LOUD. After five long minutes, he pops his head in the door, “Where are the staplers?” If I were a cartoon, steam would now whistle out my ears. Yet, I calmly reply,  “I dunno. Downstairs, on top of the microwave, in the little catch-all basket.” In a flash, he hands me two mini-staplers and returns to dremeling, which is a good thing, since neither stapler has any staples and my curses definitely need drowning out.

I rummage through his desk for staples and remember that the world’s finest stapler is in the art room—a vintage Swingline in faux wood and black. It never twists or mashes a staple. But I don’t leave for fear the printer will fail if I am not scowling at it.

In minutes, my perfect report is printed, collated, and stapled.   I scurry off to read my missive to Egor.

He shaves as I ramble on, pacing and popping my toes. Suddenly realizing I made a formatting error, I dash off, wailing when we run out of paper after a single copy. Toilet paper soaks up bloody spots on E’s face when I return. I regret intruding on his routine, being wound up, cranky, and self-centered.

Nevertheless, I pick up reading where I left off.

Egor assures me my work is excellent and that one copy can be xeroxed into many at school. He uses the tone reserved for our son’s difficult moments, so  I am annoyed (my agency!) but also delighted with the praise.

The Dremel tool whirs anew and the caulk gun stutters and wheezes. In an hour, the bathtub looks fresh and new.

As we head off to our meeting, the nicks on Egor’s face give him a warrior air. My papers feel like a cudgel.

Though the meeting winds up being more progress than victory, we are satisfied.

As I wind down, I visit our clean-cornered bathroom. Lines of caulk flow like satin ribbons, smooth spotless tiles gleam. Not a trace of paint smears the wall. I recall the crumpled copies of my papers littering our post-meeting table. They seem ephemeral compared to his stalwart paint and tiles.

I reflect.

My husband is patient. He is patient with me, patient with Liev, patient with the school. The perfect bathroom and politely delivered stapler stem from a place of focus and purpose.

Patience has been in scant supply with me of late, perhaps because I lost sight of the bigger picture of my life. A picture that is more than one meeting, paper, or doctor’s appointment. A picture of equality for the misunderstood and marginalized.

A thousand crumpled narratives may be written to make the world a better place. Each word is a sword, every sentence, a slice of justice–a reminder of my focus, my purpose.

I vow to add patience to my arsenal of words and writing.

“Patience is not simply the ability to wait – it’s how we behave while we’re waiting.”

—Joyce Meyer

Crisis Across the Street

Scientists shower us with studies emphasizing the negative effects of isolation. Mental health declines. Heart disease, arthritis, and diabetes flourish. Meanwhile, my husband marvels over the health and wellness of coworkers involved with churches and clubs. I wince, imagining rooms full of chatty, optimistic people, dazzling us with blue-white smiles and small talk. We are introverts and keeping up with more than a few people at a time exhausts us.

So, we are the neighborhood family who keeps to themselves. We dispense cordial waves, check the mail at midnight, and blacken our house every single Halloween. Because we thrive on the information we glean in solitude, we watch instead of talk to gather data and plot future conversations.

Across the street from us live the Smiths. Juan and Maria are a decade older than us with grown children and a love for their lawn and garden. Lean and muscular, Juan resembles a petite Jason Statham. Every other day, he mows his grass and lavishes fertilizer on innumerable potted plants.  The beauty of their property is not their only gift. As Maria and Juan putter about, legions of dog walkers and affable neighbors swing by to shower them with compliments. Their driveway is a soup kitchen of hospitality—open to all and fully nourishing.

Sometimes we do step across the street. Twice a year when birthday balloons float above their mailbox, we give happy hugs.  I deliver a joke I looked up on google, like “Now the birthday candles cost more than the cake!” When offered a beer, we excuse ourselves and skitter home to watch festivities from behind our curtains.

We adore the Smiths for more than “the mere exposure effect.” What they do with their days charms us: driveway barbeques, bike rides in matching hoodies, and games of fetch with their big floppy mastiff.  

Utter shock shook me when I peeked out for my daily snoop and saw an ambulance and fire engine, lights flashing. Adrenaline-soaked blood shot to my legs; I could have pushed the ambulance to a hospital faster than any driver. As anxiety squeezed my throat closed, I paced until they brought Maria out on a stretcher. I gaped through the curtains as Maria’s contorted, pale face lolled.  Juan whisked a sheet before her, presumably to shield her from view.

I left my tiny peephole, loath to impede on their private moment. Trembling and tearful, I sat on the bed racing to put together a picture of what happened. Was this a heart attack? A stroke? A mental health crisis? What was so awful Juan had to conceal her? How could I help? Distraught, I called my husband at work. He reassured me that Maria was getting the help she needed and not to worry.

Later that day, when Juan came home, I slipped over to ask if Maria was okay.  Juan disclosed that Maria had been experiencing worsening vertigo for the past few weeks and was diagnosed with labyrinthitis, an inflammation of the inner ear. In Maria’s case, this was caused by tiny calcium deposits rolling around her inner ear disturbing her balance. When she woke up, the vertigo was so intense she could not make it to the bathroom without vomiting or toppling over. Juan called 911. To block the sunlight, which added to her dizziness, Juan held up the sheet when the paramedics wheeled her outside.

As Juan explained that Maria’s condition was benign, relief rushed through me. She would be released after positional manipulations moved her ear stones. Since my mom had been through a similar ordeal, I understood what Maria was going through. Flowers and food were in order.

A week later, Maria and I shared hugs and warmth as she told me firsthand how disturbing her vertigo attack was. Could you imagine being so disoriented that you don’t have the mental resources to fear for your life? Re-orienting her brain after her episode took a great deal of strength, she said. “I just can’t think or answer questions. All my energy goes to feeling level, balanced.” I hugged her and dabbed at a tear.

More heartfelt words were exchanged and I let her go to rest. Her example left me feeling strong and appreciated. In her driveway, Maria and I could conquer existential fears, support our children, and handle any crisis.

Months have passed and we still spy on the Smiths. They spot our creased curtains with a smile. Are we really so isolated, so different? Community and connectedness are unique for everyone. We can be healthy and feel loved from behind our curtains.