Pretty Good for a Girl Read online

  Until I was thirteen, the biggest challenges of my life were simple decisions like whether to take soccer or softball, play the recorder or the violin, paint or draw. Things were familiar and uncomplicated. But in one night, Christmas was suddenly over and the fairy tale ended fast.

  Home sweet home, 1984.

  CHAPTER 2

  ANOTHER OPTION

  I woke up to my mom screaming my name over and over. I ran to the doorway and saw her frantically dragging my brother into the kitchen to get to the phone to call 911. I didn’t know what to do or what was happening. My mom was crying and yelling at the 911 operator that Michael wasn’t breathing. I thought my brother was dead. He was just lying there. I felt helpless. My heart started beating so fast, but I just stood still, frozen in the doorway, staring at my brother lying on the ground.

  While my mom was still on the phone, Michael came to and started breathing again. The paramedics arrived and explained that he had suffered an epileptic seizure. I was thirteen years old; I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t know that this would also be the beginning of a long journey for Michael and my family.

  Instinctively, I think we knew how to help Michael with his epilepsy, but it was so frustrating. Doctors didn’t have all the answers about epilepsy back then and my parents knew that. My mom had to keep searching for what she thought was the best for him and just didn’t stop. She was so determined and had stacks of books that she’d read late into the night. If a friend suggested a book that might help, she’d buy it and read it—even if it was about autism, not epilepsy—just in case there might be something in there. When the doctors would give us conflicting solutions, which happened all the time, we’d just keep going with what felt right. The doctors all said my brother would have to be medicated for the rest of his life. My parents would say, “We’ll keep looking.” But things got even worse.

  Having a blast with Michael.

  Michael was put on medication to help with the seizures, and at one point he was taking drugs three times a day. His eyes started to glaze over and he began to withdraw more and more from us and the outside world. It happened gradually, when I look back on it, but he eventually was unable to speak and communicate. It wasn’t only the medication making things harder to deal with—there was something else going on.

  We didn’t know why he couldn’t talk and it seemed like he couldn’t hear us either, even though my mom had his hearing checked so many times and the results were always normal. I felt like I was losing my brother—my best friend—yet he was right there still living next to me and I wanted to talk to him and play together like we used to. I felt so sad. My mom started writing letters to all sorts of doctors around the country: “My name is Donna Basich and my son has epilepsy and learning difficulties…. He has a difficult time understanding over the telephone, he doesn’t seem to have verbal understanding of sounds in relationship to letters, he makes errors copying and presses very hard with his pencil…. It’s almost as if he reads lips…. He is intelligent, a hard worker, artistic, and does very well with numbers and shapes…. I hope you canhelp us and lead us in the right direction.”

  My parents took Michael out of school because it had become too overwhelming for him and we spent most of our time at home, working on art and woodworking projects with him. The best way for him to speak was making things with his hands. Or he would look at us in a certain way to communicate what he was thinking because we could tell he had an idea or something to say. We had a project going at all times that involved all of us because we wanted to know what he was thinking and that was the only way we knew how. We wanted him to feel confident about himself and thought that would overcome the physical part of his illness. Like mind over matter, only more than that.

  But it was so hard to understand what was going on with Michael and it felt like I was going backward, because we used to do so much together and talk and come up with ideas. Now he lived in his own mind. I didn’t know how he would be each morning when he woke up—if he would talk to me or understand me or not. Sometimes he would have good days where he would say a few sentences and he understood what I was saying, then just as quickly, he’d have hard days and not be able to say a thing and I felt like I lost him again. He would slip into his own world, blocking off all motion and sound, and he seemed like a different person and not like my brother at all. Not the Michael I knew. Each time he would fade into his own world, I kept hoping, Please return the same person.

  Playing architect with Michael.

  My mom was always looking for alternative ways to heal, and she followed her intuition rather than listening only to the doctors, no matter what they said. In one of her stacks of books, she came across a description that fit Michael’s difficulties—aphasia. It meant inability to communicate and understand verbally. She took Michael to the Scottish Rite Institute for Childhood Aphasia in San Francisco. His test scores said that he was “unable to think and respond to verbally presented material,” yet he “demonstrated higher than average intellectual skills in the nonverbal areas.” She went to New York on a ticket her mother gave her for her birthday to try to find help at a community in Spring Valley and came home with more books. We tried everything because having Michael on medication for life just wasn’t an option. But neither was another suggestion: teaching him sign language. My brother wasn’t deaf.

  Finally, after seeing a movie called Sonrise based on a true story about a boy and his family struggling with his autism, my mom discovered the place that this family founded in Massachusetts, the Option Institute, which specializes in helping families with special needs. She ran out and bought the book on the institute, called, and applied for an appointment.

  That same year, 1984, we sold the house that we had grown up in and moved to the property behind it to build a new home. Building a house from the ground up, my mom had read, would be a helpful project for Michael—it would be hands-on and let him work with my grandpa and my dad. Our temporary home was a tepee: my mom had always wanted to live in one because she thought that living in round spaces was healing and good for our family. The whole family was helping Michael with home school, because this was the summer to focus on being there for Michael, helping him communicate and come back to us. We set up camp in our teepee for the summer, complete with a fire pit in the middle, and started construction on our new home.

  My brother and I give yet another performance.

  Our temporary home consisted of a portable toilet, a refrigerator powered by an extension cord from the neighbor’s house, and a telephone line coming in from a power line attached to our phone that was mounted in our paint shed. We had a propane stove and battery-operated lamps. For entertainment we had a backgammon game and a trampoline that we jumped on every day that summer. Whether Michael was speaking or not, we always had a blast jumping on the trampoline. I was also trying to do my own things for entertainment; I had an extension cord for my synthesizer, and I would sit for hours and play “Jump” by Van Halen over and over again.

  We got plenty of looks from the neighbors. I would hear people in the line at the grocery store talking about us. “Have you seen that family over on New York Avenue living in a teepee?” I wondered if Michael could hear them. I sometimes wished I didn’t. Sometimes I really liked living in the teepee because I was so close to my family and I could see that it was helping Michael. But other times, I wanted to just get away. It was pretty tight quarters and, as a teenager, I was definitely ready for my own room with privacy.

  I rarely argued with my mom, but one time, I was so frustrated with her about something that seemed so important to me, whatever it was, that I stormed out of the teepee, slamming the burlap door and yelling back, “And for your information, that was me slamming the door!”

  It was one of the hottest summers in Sacramento that year, topping out at 100 degrees for days in a row. It was tough living outside, no air-conditioning, no privacy, but I wanted to be there and help Michael and that’s what my parents w
anted too. I didn’t feel like I wasn’t getting enough attention and I wasn’t jealous or anything, but the three months it was supposed to take to build our house was turning into six months because some of the supplies hadn’t arrived on time. I wanted to get back to normal and needed to create my own space. I wanted a flushing toilet and a real shower again. I was so excited about getting my own room eventually that I’d spend time designing the colors of the walls and thinking about different color coordinations with the carpet that I would get. And in the meantime, before we finally moved in, I converted the paint shed into my own domain and moved my synthesizer, a desk for school, and my propane curling iron in there.

  In the middle of August, we finally got the call from the Option Institute. On the first ring my mom sprang out of the teepee and raced across the pasture to my paint shed. We’d been waiting for them to call back all summer and felt like this could be the answer to our struggles. We finally got an appointment. But my parents hadn’t been able to gather together the money in time and we couldn’t afford to go. It must have been heartbreaking for them—it was for me—but I remember my mom being so strong, not complaining, and turning back to her books and continuing to read. “We have to keep doing the best we can do,” was all she said.

  Michael and I jumping the summer away on our trampoline, 1984.

  A month later, an anonymous friend gave us the money to go to the Option Institute. We could not believe the opportunity and generosity and were so excited. Our ten-day trip there changed our lives. It was confirmation for all of us that our intuition was on the right track. The people at the Option Institute shared with us the importance of living in the moment and learning to appreciate life for what it brings to each of us every day. The idea was to help Michael feel comfortable in his surroundings in hopes that he would find his way back to us. By living in the moment, and appreciating everything, we could be there for Michael, unconditionally, in a way that would let him know it was OK to be where he was, right then, even if he was confused or frustrated. We had to be completely nonjudgmental and go with whatever was happening, whether he was talking a little bit or completely lost. We would ask him what he was thinking, and if he would talk we’d do big reactions to everything. We’d change our voices often and my mom would try to talk in a rhythmic way—phrases and words that rhymed, because Michael could relate to that and liked musical expressions. I’d try to be there for him in his world, and if Michael wanted to build a fort out of the branches in the backyard, I instantly made that my whole world and would go outside and help him build it.

  A few months later back at home, we were playing in my room in the new house and Michael began to talk. He hadn’t communicated with words in such long sentences in over a year. We did cartwheels and jumped up and down all over the room. It was one of my happiest moments growing up that I can remember. It felt like my brother was back or at least that he could come back completely. I felt so hopeful and didn’t realize how hard it had all been for me, thinking about him so much and wanting him back for myself so badly. But we didn’t know how long it would last—we never knew. We took each moment as it came.

  It took three years before Michael really started to use his voice again and was able to go back to Waldorf full time. He didn’t have to go back because my mom would have home-schooled him if he wanted to, but he chose to go back on his own in the eighth grade. I thought that was very courageous of him—to go back to school and face the challenges of making friends and reading and writing.

  The whole experience had quite an impact on me. I couldn’t imagine my life without my brother. Instead, Michael became my teacher really—I looked at him and took every good moment that came and was appreciative for that moment. He’s always reminded me to live life to the fullest because he’s true to himself and looks beyond the normal path, creating new ideas and adventures for both of us. That’s the kind of brother he is. He taught me the simple mind-set of not needing a reason to be happy and loving unconditionally for the moment that you’re in. This would become a thread throughout my life that I would base every important decision on. As a teenager, I was facing different challenges and was often confused about my own life. But forming that bond with my family and my brother gave me an unbelievable appreciation for life, which I think made me into the person that I am.

  My treasure map of the backyard.

  Freshman, sophomore, junior, senior.

  CHAPTER 3

  DEL CAMPO HIGH

  That year my parents and I decided I was going to go to a public high school. I wanted to keep up on my sports and learn more about photography and the public school had more of those things to offer. Plus, I was looking for a more social existence even though I was very shy. I was just curious to see more and know what was out there beyond the white picket fence.

  Trying to get ready for my first day of high school, first in the teepee, then in the paint shed with my propane curling iron, was insane. I was so nervous. Up until then, I had only twenty-five kids or less in my class. I wanted to look good and wore my new Esprit outfit. I timidly walked to the bus stop, trying to arrive like a normal kid and hoping no one just saw me step out of a teepee. I was ready to observe my new surroundings, but was only willing to reveal myself in small doses. I didn’t want to be too different right off the bat, but I knew that I already had a head start.

  Del Campo High School had 1,400 kids. I was overwhelmed to say the least. I made new friends, but didn’t fit into any one group and kind of drifted between different cliques. My main niche was with a couple of skateboarders who were the only ones in my school. We’d go by the local skateboard shop, GoSkate, on the way home after school and hang out. I liked the vibe around this shop—it was cool and we could kick back and people did their own thing. I was attracted to the individuality that the skateboard crowd represented. And there was something about those cute skater boys with their hats on backward that got me. I was this newwaver/skater chick who listened to groups like OMD, 7 Seconds, Yaz, and Billy Idol. To this day if I hear 7 Seconds, I recall the smell of that skateboard shop, the grease for ball bearings, and the salty skater guys from sophomore year. I wore tapered jeans with my Vans skate shoes to school with pride and rocked an asymmetrical haircut with a bad perm.

  The cool thing about high school was that there were more opportunities to get involved in other sports. I ran track and took swimming and diving. I loved diving because it tapped into my gymnastic skills. However, Del Campo was more competitive than anything I’d ever been used to with so many other classmates and I definitely felt insecure. Even though I was in sports, I was one of many now and found it hard to stand out in the crowd. It was all about being popular, and I didn’t fit into the cheerleader mold. I didn’t feel like an outcast, just different. Like a tomboy who wanted to be a girl but not too girly-girl, like a pom-pom queen. These kinds of girls were new to me and I felt jealous because they were the popular ones. I used to be popular, but because I played a mean game of tag football or threw a baseball really hard. That didn’t matter anymore, and I had no idea how to compete with this new kind of girl. Not that I wanted to compete, but maybe, just a little bit.

  I couldn’t help being in awe of their perfectly feathered hair and makeup and I wondered how they got their hair so perfect. They must have gotten up so early in the morning. I didn’t spend much time getting ready for school because there was no way I could look like them—they were so beautiful and confident. My way to deal with this situation was to wear gold eyeshadow, thinking it went with my hair color. I had lots of friends in high school, but I wasn’t considered “popular,” which is a big difference.

  There was only one guy that I knew of who liked me. He was a new-wave rocker kid and he’d put love letters with lyrics from Depeche Mode in my locker. I would avoid him at all costs, running the other way if necessary, with my heart beating fast. Guys at Del Campo freaked me out, which is probably why I never got asked to any of my school dances. When it came to prom,
I knew no one was going to ask me, so I ended up inviting my friend Randy Smith who worked at GoSkate. I had the biggest crush on him because he was a good skateboarder. He bought a new baseball cap and a new pair of Vans for the occasion. I wore a dress that my mom and I had made, which was completely inspired by the movie Pretty in Pink. All my friends and I wanted to be fashion designers after seeing that movie. It was so DIY. My mom and I spent days combining four different dress patterns until we got the right look. My prom dress was off-white satin, ’80s style, with shoulder pads and a cut-out circle in the back.

  On prom night Randy and I got into our rented limo and went straight to the skateboard shop. We cranked 2 Live Crew on the limo stereo and watched my friends skateboard—me sitting there in myprom dress on the curb. I tried to read into every glance from Randy because I had to know once and for all if he liked me or not. I never got kissed on prom night and wasdisappointed. Maybe my dress was lame. Maybe he was lame. I think we went to the prom for about five minutes to have our picturestaken. Since probably no one would ask me to the senior ball either, I figured I might as well ask Randy to that too, on my prom date. So, a year later we went and did the same thing: took our picture at the ball then went straight to GoSkate to hang out. And again no good-night kiss. I was so over him.