Echolalia

It mostly shows up on those mornings when he's managed to take out his oxygen in the middle of the night. We know his blood O2 levels drop like a rock when he's off it. Randy checks it both ways when she's here. We just don't know how much permanent damages it does him not to have it. The echolalia gives us a hint. Fortunately, it does not last. Return of the O2 stops it after a short bit. A typical conversation might go like this:

"Good morning, Daddy."

"Daddy daddy daddy."

How are You?"

"Are you? Are you? Are you?"

"Would you like a sip of water?"

"Water water water."

As he's coming out of it, he might start counting his repetitions. I tend to end my sentences to him when he's confused with the word, "Daddy," trying to help orient him to where and when he is and with whom. "Daddy, Daddy. That's two daddys. Daddy daddy." And then he'll look up at me with innocent pride and inform me, "I know my numbers."

The first time I encountered it, it rapidly became annoying. I asked him to stop it.

"Stop it. Stop it."

Sigh. Time for me to just shut up then.