By Katie Blackburn
@katiemblackburn

I notice the redness on his gum as I’m dropping him off for school. “Cannon, come here buddy, can I see your mouth?” He comes closer, but is reluctant to let me hold his lip up so I can take a good look. Right then, his teacher opens the side door to the school, the one they let the alternative inclusion kids enter through, and with less than a full second to assess the glimpse of red I saw on his gum, he turns and runs through the door and around the corner to his classroom, leaving me and his teacher behind chuckling and shaking our heads.

“I think he might have irritated his gum, it looks red,” I tell her. “But I didn’t get a good look. If he is whiny or messing with it today, can you let me know?” 

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll text you after school.” The unspoken agreement between the teacher and the parent of a nonverbal child is that we do our best to report to one another what he can’t. But all I hear after school is He had a good day!, so I don’t think much of the redness again.

Until the next day, when it’s both red and swollen.

And the next, when it’s a small bubble.

And then finally, on day three when it’s a large bubble, I call the dentist. Again.

“Hi. I know we were just in the week before last, and we scheduled the sleep appointment for Cannon for July. Well, I’m afraid he’s got some kind of infection on his gum. Top right. Yep. Do you think Dr. Molly can see him soon? Today?! Great. We will come by at 1:00.” 

Of course I want to tell both the dentist and the hygienist, again, for the fourteenth time in Cannon’s life, the same thing I told them when we were in this exact seat two weeks ago: we do brush his teeth. But it’s complicated. He won’t allow us to use toothpaste, only water. Toothpaste makes him spit and gag and nearly vomit. He chews on the brushes. We have to move quickly or he starts protesting with his body. It’s just … a whole thing to brush my 8-year-old’s teeth. But they know. Cannon is not the only child with autism they’ve ever treated. And they’ve tried themselves to get close to his mouth, to no avail. The sleep appointments are the only way to go for Cannon. 

At least, that’s what I tell myself to keep from breaking down in tears over what a terrible mom I am. 

Our kind and gentle dentist gets one quick look at Cannon’s mouth—as a quick look is all Cannon is going to allow—and says “That’s a pretty bad abscess.” She turns to the dental hygienist and says, “Let’s go ahead and put an ASAP on the sleep appointment. I’m just concerned there might be other infections in his mouth. Also, I’d like to get an antibiotic going for him, until we can clean this out.” 

I nod my head, thankful for the rush on his appointment, dismayed at the need for an antibiotic. It’s never as simple as “just get him an antibiotic” when it comes to Cannon. Like the aversion to toothpaste, he won’t take medicine. Once, when he had a bad case of strep throat, we had to go through three different kinds of antibiotic prescriptions for one with the least taste, then mix it into heavily chocolate-syruped milk before it was disguised enough for Cannon. But I don’t tell Dr. Molly that. I just nod in agreement, conjuring up new ways we might get some antibiotic in his system because his chocolate milk phase is over, anyway. 

“Thanks for seeing him on short notice, Dr. Molly,” I say. “We’ll be ready when you can fit him in for the sleep appointment.” 

A day passes. And another one. His abscess is growing. His discomfort is obvious. His refusal to take the antibiotic is only growing in resolve, and my creative ideas for getting him to take it are running real low. 

Finally, three days later, I see I missed a call from the dentist office and listen to the voicemail: “Hi Katie, this is Hayley from Dr. Molly’s office. We had an opening come up next Tuesday at 12:30, and I wanted to see if you would like to take that for Cannon. Call me back when you can.” Relief washed over me. 

The call is time-stamped at 10:21 a.m. 

At 11:45 a.m., right after I drop Cannon off at school, I call the dentist’s office back to confirm my excitement that they were able to move him up to next week, only to hear something different.

“I’m sorry, Katie, someone else took the appointment.”

I stand still for a moment with nothing but stunned silence, then finally respond. “Someone took the appointment? But, you just called a little over an hour ago. How could someone have taken it?”

“Well, we called the next person on the waitlist. I’m sorry. I can still move him up from two months out to one month out. Would that work?” Hayley asks optimistically.

“Ma’am,” I can feel the emotion in my voice with only one word out of my mouth, but slowly, I try to keep going. “He has an active infection in his mouth.” My voice is cracking. “He cannot wait a month. He’s hurting.” Then my tone changes. My typical calm and kind, you attract more with sugar than you do with vinegar demeanor shifts. “And you didn’t give me time to call you back! I just … “ my voice trails off and crying fills its place.

“I’m sorry, Katie, I’ll let you know if something else opens up.”

I crack wide open, sobbing over all of it. I cannot clean Cannon’s teeth as they need to be cleaned. Cannot get an antibiotic in his system. Cannot secure the one appointment he needs, and for the 100th time in his short life I want to crawl in a hole and tell God he picked the wrong girl for this job. 

“This is so frustrating!” I raise my voice, surprising myself by how overcome I am with anger. “I cannot believe this! I called you back just over an hour after you called me!”

“I am sorry, Katie,” she says again.

And I hang up. 

I cannot remember a time I have ever hung up on someone that was not a telemarketer. 

I have spent so much of my motherhood feeling like an imposter, as if I am just waiting for my own parents to show up and do the things they always did for me: call the insurance company, secure the appointments, sign the papers, pay the bills. It seemed to me that they were always grownups, always ready for all the stuff that came with being one. 

I’m the one who is faking adulthood. I’m the one who is failing motherhood. Run-ins like this, where I’m immature and emotional and lose my composure and hang up on people, just show it to everyone watching. Or listening on the other end of the phone. 

I go into my bedroom and cry a little more. I know I need to call the scheduler back to apologize. But I also know Cannon needs me to be his advocate. There are so many things I cannot control for this wonder of a boy, but a phone call and a plea? I can do that. I dial Hayley’s number.

“I’m so sorry I was rude to you, Hayley. It’s just that Cannon is nonverbal, his communication is so very limited,” I manage to hold the tears in as I tell her this. Sometimes, even though you’ve said a certain sentence 1,000 times as factual and non-emotional, it can devastate you on the 1001st time you have to say it. “I know his mouth is hurting, but he cannot tell me about it. He won’t take his antibiotic. He’s autistic, and I’m his voice. I feel like I have to fight for him right now, and I need to beg you to find a way to get him in for the sleep appointment sooner than a month.” 

She is kindly affirming my words with mmmhhmms and ahhhs on the other end, so I continue. “All of that does not give me permission to be rude to you, though. I just hope you understand, I was so emotional, because this is so hard. I want to be able to do something for him and the only thing I can think of is to tell you how badly we need this appointment.”

“It’s ok, Katie,” she tells me right away. “I appreciate your phone call. I promise to do everything I can.”

“That’s all I can ask for. Thank you, Hayley.” 

I text my husband to tell him I made up with Hayley. And I feel better immediately that I have. You know, don’t let the sun go down on your anger and all.

The very next day, Hayley called me back. “I have good news, Katie,” I can sense her smile on the other end of the phone. “We have a cancellation on Tuesday. Does Cannon want the appointment?” she asks, an intonation of joy at the question because she already knows the answer.

Maybe losing my composure and feeling overwhelmed by all I cannot control and admitting my shortcomings and momentarily turning into a raging defensive animal over my children does not disqualify me from adulthood. Maybe that all does not mean I need a real grownup to come rescue me.

Maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t make me an imposter, but a mother. 

Katie Blackburn is a wife, mama to six, a teacher, learner, and storyteller. She’s been a writer at Coffee + Crumbs since the beginning and joined the C+C podcast as a co-host last year. Her book, Gluing the Cracks: Reflections on Motherhood, Disability, and Hope comes out September 20, 2022. Subscribe to her newsletter for all the updates right here. 

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.