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Mom: How Asperger’s changed my family
Shonda Schilling writes about her struggle to understand her son

Video: March 24: Baseball great Curt Schilling and his wife Shonda talk candidly about their son’s battle with Asperger’s syndrome as detailed in their book, “The Best Kind of Different.”

By Today | MSNBC

Shonda Schilling, the wife of retired Boston Red Sox pitcher Curt Schilling, shares the painful and joyous story of her son Grant’s struggle with Asperger’s syndrome, and how it changed her life and her family. In this excerpt from her book, “The Best Kind of Different,” she recounts her breaking point as a mother who didn’t understand what was wrong with her son.

To those who know my son Grant and me, I frequently referred to it as the summer that one or both of us would end up medicated.

It was 2007, and Grant was seven. I was rounding the bend toward forty, but there were moments when I was so worn out I felt more like seventy. Every day was filled with exhausting challenges, one after another.

On a visit to my hometown of Baltimore, Maryland, that summer, I somehow got it in my head that I should take Grant along with my other kids–Gehrig, then twelve, Gabby, ten, and Garrison, four–to an Orioles baseball game. I suppose it was wishful thinking on my part. There were so many reasons it could have been a special evening–so many reasons to be sentimental. Not only had I grown up going to Orioles games at the old Memorial Stadium, taking in game after game there with my dad, mom, and brother, mostly in the one-dollar bleachers, but the Orioles were also how I met my husband, Curt, who used to pitch for them. To make that particular game in the summer of 2007 even more exciting, Curt was pitching again, only this time for the opposing team, the Boston Red Sox. I wanted the kids to be there for that–to see “our” team play my home team.

When we got to the stadium, I proudly led the kids up to the stands. Then . . .

“I wanna go!”

Grant was visibly upset, his face a bright red.

“I wanna go! I wanna go!” he started chanting over and over while holding his hands over his ears. He draped his upper body over my knees and started rolling back and forth aggressively as he screamed.

Luckily it was loud in the stadium. People were milling about, shouting at one another, and cheering. There were announcements and music over the PA. But it wasn’t so loud that Grant’s tantrum went unnoticed. All nearby heads turned in our direction. People had the most concerned looks on their faces, as if to say, “What did you do to your kid, lady?” A few more I-wannagos and the expression morphed into an indignant “Jeez, why can’t you get control of your kid?”

And then they opened their mouths.

“Grant!” one of the men shouted. “You need to listen to your mom!”

“Calm down, Grant!” one of the women said.

Have you ever heard the expression “If you want to help, don’t”? It’s a good one. Those people meant well, but they were only making matters worse, not to mention making me feel even more humiliated. Despite entertaining vivid thoughts of killing those people (or perhaps just seriously injuring them), I managed to smile through gritted teeth. I needed to put on a good face. People might recognize me, and they were clearly judging me, assuming I didn’t know how to control my kid. They weren’t too far off base, but I didn’t need them to point that out to everyone around us. Plus, it just made Grant more upset.

“Grant, we need to stay here,” I said as firmly and quietly as I could, still all smiles. Grant didn’t stop, though.

“I wanna go, nooooow!” he shouted again. He continued flailing, and I worried that he might hit himself on the aluminum chair in front of him. I tried to hold him, but he wouldn’t have it.

Then I tried bribing him. “We’ll go to the toy store tomorrow, Grant,” I offered.

Nothing.

“You can pick the movie tonight.”

“You can stay in my bed.”

“You can have cotton candy. We can have popcorn.”

Still nothing.

Frankly, at that point, I would have let him eat a hot dog with cotton candy for a bun and ice cream on top just to get him to stop. But none of my offers worked. (Of course, the next day he would still remember I’d promised a trip to the toy store, and he’d insist on it.)

“Let me take him for a walk,” my mom offered. I felt bad. I didn’t want her to miss this game, either. “Grant, come for a walk,” she said, reaching for his hand, but he kept rocking and screaming. He only wanted me. But there was nothing I could do to make him happy.

I felt completely defeated. I wanted nothing more than for Grant to want to be there. But not only did he not want to be there, he didn’t even understand what was going on. For a long time I had been trying, unsuccessfully, to get Grant excited about baseball. I wanted him to be able to bond with his dad the way his siblings had, but in his seven years, that hadn’t really happened. There was a disconnect that I couldn’t understand, and nothing I tried seemed to fix it.

At the game, I couldn’t even get Grant to grasp that it was his father down there on the field, that he was one of the greatest pitchers in baseball, playing right there in this game that had brought all these fans to this huge stadium. I just kept thinking, If Grant sees Curt out there, he will take an interest. He will understand it, and he will be proud. I thought about how many kids would give anything to be sitting in those stands, let alone watching their father pitch for the Red Sox. What would it take to get Grant to realize what this all meant?

Preview the book : The Best Kind of Different

Source: http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/36003115/ns/today-today_books/

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