On the Ground

If Marathon Helicopters flew over our house, as they often do, shuttling tourists around Resurrection Bay, if they passed overhead on a certain evening this week, at what seems to be our family’s witching hour, the pilot and passengers might have witnessed a mother yank the crutch right our of her boy’s hand, storm across the clearing, and chuck it as hard as she could into the thick woods.

Gasp! How could she?! Who does she think she is taking that poor boy’s crutch away? That poor crippled, handicapped, disabled ….

That strong-ass kid who, a moment before the chopper flew into view, raised that crutch and crashed it down on his seven-year-old sister’s head. A replica of the previous night, when he jabbed her in the chest with the same spear of a cane.

This same helicopter, full of imagined indignant passengers, did not stay overhead long enough to view the scene that followed a half-hour or so later, when this same frazzled mother held her son’s hand, to help him over the uneven ground, over the Alder roots and rocks, when we walked into the woods, together, to find the crutch I hurled, despite his denials that he hurt his sister, despite him being unable to express why he chose to crack her in the head, despite my fleeting anger and deep sadness, I laced my fingers with his, I adjusted my weight on my feet as his balance shifted, as he pulled on my arm and relied on my steadiness to keep him from falling.

Despite words I regret that seethed from my mouth in the aftermath of a red circle on Olive’s forehead: “Elias if I can’t be out of arm’s reach of you and your sister for two seconds without you hurting her, without you hurting your family, than you may not always be able to live with us!”

Oh that was hard to write—-easy to spew when angry, when my brainstem fires off guilt-laden threats but hard to admit, after the fact, publicly, that I said those words to my thirteen-year-old son. And yet two nights in a row of responding to the screams of my girl, of Elias using his cane as a weapon, of his voice changing, eyes wild, has left me a little unhinged.

“Maybe I’ll be the one who ends up locked up someplace.” Yes, I think I actually said something like that too, not long before I reached out my hand, and Elias grabbed it with his larger one, and we walked into a stand of tall Alders behind the green shed. 

I saw the handle of his forearm crutch first. “Do you see your cane yet?”

“No.” We stood atop a small rise, his cane a few feet down from us, a straight line of black and grey amidst the verdant brush.

“Walk forward a few steps and you’ll find it.” I let go of my son’s muscled palm and he walked awkwardly away from me,  swaying his way down the slope.

“Mom, Mom,” Elias said, as he held onto an Elderberry bush and reached down to grab his cane, “I found a breaker! I think I might get distracted by breaking!” He looked up at me with that light-filled grin of his, as if he never transgressed, as if he wasn't growling at me moments before in that estranged voice of his that emerges when he descends: Mom you don't ever ever take my cane away or I’ll hit you! 

As if I hadn't just threatened abandonment, the tearing loose of the threads of our family, unraveling what I work so hard to hold together.

As if neither of us carries regret in the cells of our skin.

As if we had just been taking a walk, as we often do, looking for dead trees to snap in half, to pull straight from the ground, roots and all.

Roots and all!

The following evening, Elias went to town with his Respite Provider, Stephen, a young man who is cool with riding elevators at the few hotels or hanging in the Teen Rec room playing pool with Elias, who doesn't use cue sticks, but just grabs the white ball and rolls it with excessive force towards his targets, often knocking balls off the table, loving the sounds of the collisions and the unexpected directions the spheres fly.

After Elias drove down the driveway with Stephen, Nick started a fire and Olive and I brought out fixings for smore’s made with rice crispy treats instead of graham crackers.

“Can I have two marshmallows Mom?” Olive raised her eyebrows and looked at me with her big brown eyes.

“Sure,” I said, wanting to indulge my daughter— even if she is not all victim but part instigator, a sneaky one who pokes the bear, taunts her brother and denies her role in the game, a competitor who flaunts her speed and agility, who changes the rules before he can follow them, who lies and cries when caught, holding her fabrication like a beloved blanket, swearing she’s innocent despite the red stains on her hands.

“And two pieces of chocolate?” she asked.

I smiled at this girl, so like me as a child, and answered:  “And two pieces of chocolate.” I cut the rice crispy treat in half lengthwise, making two skinnier pieces, and lay them on the flat rock atop our fire pit, where Olive placed three squares of Hershey’s on each piece.

As she speared two marshmallows, she said, “Mom, why can’t Elias always be with Stephen or Andrea?”

I watched her hold her stick out above the flames and responded, “Because he’s part of our family, Babe, he belongs here with us.”

Olive pulled her stick out to make sure her marshmallow wasn't on fire. “I know, I mean just every night he could go with them.”

I looked across the fire at this tough fragile girl who didn't cry when Elias hit her but sobs if we call her bluff, who is beginning to understand, beyond the surface but heart-deep, that her brother is different in more ways than the fact that he walks with a cane. “Olive are you happy to have a break from him?” 

“Yeah,” she said, without regret.

“I know, its ok, me too.” I leaned back and put my feet up on the fire pit stones as Olive peered at her marshmallows turning gold.

A few hours without my boy--a teen in body but not in mind-- as my shadow, in my personal space, cutting me off with his steps, bombarding me with repetitive questions, constant interruptions, without: Mom, can you…? 

Without the feeling that any minute he could turn, he could lash out, he could…

Without an invisible string that ties me to my son, to Olive, never letting me walk too far without worry, without fear, without wondering what will happen when I step away.

Respite: Without it who knows what that red helicopter might see, who knows where you’d find me, find us, this frayed family on the edge of Resurrection  Bay.

And since we don't have family in town, we rely on the social services we receive through Medicaid.

And yet as I write, pin-striped men make decisions behind closed doors to cut back these lifelines, without ever truly understanding the need, without standing in my muddy Xtra Tuff boots, as a piece of my heart lashes out at another, as I respond with all my human failings, as the ravens call out in one of their many voices, as if mocking us, or cheering us on, or merely lamenting another grey summer day as the rain begins to fall. 

Or maybe they just sing about some sort of feeling we’ll never know, us ground dwellers, not blessed with wings.

 

Comments

[Alden Blodget]

Hi, Christy. It's been a long time since I have read one of your postings. Alexandra sent me this one because she thinks it's very good, and it is. It's much better than very good. You bring to life a family--the love and frustration and fear and guilt--and a need (a life-line) that together provide an important perspective on the political decisions of people even more removed than those in the red helicopter. I think you should consider sending this posting to the Washington Post or, better, The Atlantic. At some point, some sort of humanity has to penetrate the miasma of terminal stupidity and greed that hang over the swamp of Foggy Bottom. Rocky would be impressed by the mother and writer you have become.

[Valerie Demming]

forgive yourself always...

[Joanna]

This is so beautiful. We contain multitudes right? I wish I could always dig deep with my autistic son but sometimes I just don't. I really needed to read this. Thank you as always for sharing!

[Linda M]

Christy, as mothers our hearts break when we say or do things we never imagined we would. And yet we aren't superhuman... Our love remains in incredibly tough situations, but our stamina doesn't. Regrets seem as much a part of life as joy is - and you express them both beautifully.

[Richard Everett]

I agree with Alden. New York Times could be added to his list. This is so much worthy. Plus its timely due to political view expressed so legitimately. I have an autistic son. This resonates deeply.

[Julie A]

As a special education teacher (and as a mother who sometimes wishes she wasn't one....) I always really value your posts.
I too think you should try to have it published.
Julie A

[Christy]

I am happy to say we've had a smoother week since I last wrote and I apologize for the late reply but I do love all of your comments. We do not yet have internet at our place and have had non-stop visitors so I have not been able to sneek away to write. Love to all!

[Greta]

I second, or third, Alden. There's no denying the humanity you capture with this piece, and if there is, then those who deny forsake their humanity.

[Susan]

Christy, I have been following your posts for years now and am long overdue for letting you know how they have made me a better person. I did want to tell you that I wrote a blog post based on yours, sharing the perspective I have on the health-care debate. Should you want to read it, here is the link: http://rabbidaniellapin.com/im-not-scary/ . The stories my children tell me are horrifying.

The issue is so difficult that sharing different viewpoints and acknowledging that most Americans are compassionate and good people wanting to do the right thing needs to be a first step in coming up with a workable solution, in my opinion.