Sandy My Name

“August, 1987: Sandy is learning the way we do things at our house. She ate her last bite of dinner so she could have ice cream. She takes naps but sometimes doesn’t want to and has a fit. She loves to play with Sam and Molly. Sandy likes books and puzzles and dollies and going places. Sometimes she says ‘no’ when she really means ‘yes.’”

When the kids were growing up, we were a very well documented family, maintaining a series of scrapbooks with stories and glued-in memorabilia of all kinds, from graphs of scarlet runner bean growth to valentines from Great Aunt Mary typed in Selectric script. Of course, when Sandy came, we reported in on her, too.

Above is an entry from when Sandy had been with us less than a month. We were confident and optimistic. For a two-and-a half-year-old who had been through trauma, her behavior was very appropriate. We thoroughly expected her to improve. I love this image of Sam and Sandy, as we first learned about and adapted to each other. It was the start of a long process. It was the start of our education about FASD.

As a culture we are as yet unaware of the widespread impact of fetal alcohol brain damage--in our schools, on the streets, in connection to mental illness. But this one contributor to the ills of our society is entirely preventable, and there is much hope for improving its outcomes. 

We were too late in recognizing Sandy's invisible disability, but for others there is still a chance. In SANDY MY NAME I tell her story, for the awareness and action that still need to come.