I try not to spend too much time fantasizing about alternative realities, such as the one where Elias arrives full-term with a brain not injured during birth.
But at times, I’m guilty of letting my mind travel to this country I can't claim as my own. I sneak across the border, like a refugee, just wanting to taste a small bite of the freedoms I imagine in a land without a child with disabilities.
I never stay long.
In a recent fantasy, Elias hikes up Mt. Alice with me, steps over rocks and roots on the trail through the moss-covered Spruce until we stand side by side on the mountain’s shoulder and look out towards Resurrection Bay, across to Foundry Peak, to the mountain we call home.
I put my arm around his broad shoulders as we gaze down at how far we’ve climbed. Elias smiles, turns toward me and looks directly into my eyes.
He looks directly into my eyes.
Elias looks directly into my eyes.
Words come easily and we discuss more than elevators, schedules, dinner plans or the latest weather report, as he lobs questions that run deeper than details. He asks about the stories Nick and I carry, about the meaning behind our choices, the philosophies we wear like crumpled clothes.
More likely, we’d climb in brooding silence, as my parent role rubs the teenage developing soul in all the wrong ways, as I continue my attempts to connect in places where doors only close.
His stride would out pace mine.
But even in this alternative reality, we might pause as we emerge from the woods to the snow-covered tundra, where the view widens, and silently watch a pair of eagles play in the currents of the wind as the bay catches the light of the sun.
We might pause and watch the world as one.
Either way, both fantasies end before we decide to ascend or descend. Before I lose myself in a world of ghosts fueled by the smoke and mirrors of lost expectations.
A dream hike to nowhere.
Last week, Elias erupted at school, the bear in the classroom, swiping his muscled paws at the teachers he loves.
Nick picked him up at lunch and drove him to the cabin. By the time I made it home he sat next to me on the bed, with circles under his eyes from crying, from energy dispelled, and when I asked him about the cause of his meltdown the answer surprised me.
The wind.
I wanted to dismiss his response as an excuse and yet the wind grates on me and my nervous system remains fairly intact. My vision clear. Balance within my control. My brain able to process the changes in my environment, able to recognize my feelings and find ways to cope.
"I didnt want to go to school because it was so awful outside," Elias told me.
The wind blew at 30 to 50 mph for two days, almost ripping the car door off the hinges when Elias opened it for school that morning.
“Have a good day, “ I said, as I always do.
My boy shook his head: No.
When I emerged from a meeting at 12:30 and saw I’d missed a call from his teacher my stomach dropped.
Before I could check the message Nick called. “I’m on my way to pick him up.”
With his iPad banned, Elias spent the afternoon sitting next to me on the bed as I worked on a piece of writing I planned to share at a reading at Rez Art coffeehouse that night.
In the piece, from a blogpost almost six years ago, he and I dance together in the kitchen, after another aggressive outburst. I attempt to teach him the box step by calling out appliances—step to the stove on two, now fridge one two…
I remember dancing to let go of my need for him to feel sorry about his actions. Dancing to let go of the hurt I carry after each violent episode. Dancing to reconnect with the boy who clawed at my face an hour earlier, my boy I don't always like but love endlessly.
The only son who will ever emerge from this body of mine, with eyes as blue as glaciers, eyes like his Dad's, eyes that look everywhere but at mine.
We did not talk as the wind shrieked through the trees, railed against the windows, as the cabin trembled from the gusts, instead we sat in our own silent stews. Elias mumbled to himself at times, words I couldn't catch as I played with sentences, trying to align them in a way that shows the struggle and the beauty of this particular brand of parenthood.
The only reality I know.
Every once in a while, his knee would touch mine, as we sat with our backs against the wall, somewhat connected but apart. Not quite a mountain ridge with water views, just a windy Wednesday afternoon in this one and only life of ours.
In this one and only life of ours.
I actually really get that about the wind. It can be so unnerving. Have you ever seen the movie "The Martian"? Right after Matt Damon's character loses his potato crop meant to sustain him until supplies would arrive, he has secured his living environment and is counting the remaining potatoes and the wind continues to howl outside and makes the plastic of his shelter crinkle and flap loudly and Matt's character just grits his teeth and closes his eyes until the moment passes. We live on a windy hill and twice our trampoline took flight ripping a gash in the side of a metal downspout and landing dangerously close to our cars which were 100 degrees away..I still wake up and clench my fists in a big storm and my nervous system is fairly in tact as well. Sensory stuff is so tricky because the tipping point is always changing.
Posted by: Fleming | 03/12/2018 at 04:37 PM
That is well said Flem, that "the tipping point is always changing", it makes it so hard to know when he's goint to blow!
And yes, the wind makes me grit my teeth at times too. Its calm here today but we often get bitter cold north winds or winds that come straight from the sea. Glad your trampoline missed your cars! Love and hugs my friend:)
Posted by: Christy | 03/13/2018 at 11:39 AM