Racing the Clouds

“I know a lot about dinosaurs.

My favorite is the Velociraptor.”

“Is that a big one?” I immediately regretted encouraging this boy to carry on with what was clearly going to be more information than I could…or would want to… process.

We were at a birthday party, and my little son was playing ball with a few older boys. I had been standing in the shade in a rare moment of solitude when the dinosaur boy came upon me.

He answered the question that I wished I hadn’t asked.

“No, it’s small. It’s the size of a turkey. It has a tail that’s all feathery.”

The boy was six or seven years old. His dark brown hair was neatly trimmed. He wore a golfer’s polo with a collar that fell just right, pressed tan shorts, and clean running shoes.

He continued, offering words that I did not expect to hear on a sunny Saturday.

“And they eat meat. YOU are meat.”

With that haunting thought, I took my attention elsewhere.

Three has been a challenging age this last time around.

“Shut up, Mom. I hate you.”

I thought of that Velociraptor, coming at me when my back was turned.

I know they are just words, circles and lines from the tongue. Still, I fall in defeat. I cannot stop them. I cannot stop him. I cannot stop anyone.

For the times that I stood alongside you yet could not hear what you were saying, for the times when my own thoughts were too loud to hear your words, for the times when you felt that what you had to say did not mean enough to me, I am truly sorry.

I took the three little boys to visit Sam and Emily at their new house. The drive was nearly three hours. We spent a great day in the late summer sunshine, and before we were ready to go home, night had fallen. As we drove into the darkness, the stark evening sky called up emotions from my soul as a tiny three-year-old voice.

“I see the moon.”

Indeed, it was bold and full, holding stories and mysteries of cheese and an enchanting man who lived there. This small boy, too, would know them.

“I hate you, and I love you.”

Moving from one highway to another, across an illuminated trestle bridge, into more darkness…senses reeling. I still had a vision of the string lights as they lit up the backyard at the house of my grown son, my small child, my backpack baby no longer.

We were not used to these evening drives.

“It feels like we’re racing the clouds,” piped one boy.

“You’re like a race car driver! We’re going to win,” announced the youngest.

The oldest of the little boys sat in quiet solitude, but I know he heard everything.

We drove on into the night, stripped to our senses, and I was grateful for the chance to share the space in the old black van, alongside an abandoned camp backpack, a couple of baseball mitts, and treasures from today’s trip, with these three small beings that have given me the chance to care for them, to be their mama, and to take a day’s journey in the car to visit a brother who was once this small, and who would still appreciate the wonders of the night sky.

Three hours is a long time; twenty-four years is the blink of an eye.

There was truth in what the dinosaur boy told me, whether I wanted the information or not.

Sometimes I hear you, but I don’t know what to say. Though my words are elusive, I am listening still. Your chatter confuses and overwhelms me. YOU are meat; WE are meat. Please, keep talking. Keep talking, my son. Help me face what I cannot see.

Race the clouds with me. The moon is amazing, just as you are.

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Going Home


It could have been a driving snowstorm, or maybe the thickest, most dense fog that I had experienced; I don’t remember the precise conditions, but the fear will never leave my memory.  I’m a nervous driver anyway, but this night, travel would have been unsafe even for the seasoned race car driver.  I should have stayed at my friend’s apartment, but I was eager to make it home after my night class.  I was so afraid, once in the thick of it, gripping the wheel as tightly as I could, that I might not make it home.

My own words played incessantly in my head: so many years, so many services and specialists, twenty medications, and no answers.  I wonder how we have landed here, in a place of self doubt, where we feel lower than the last few nuts that the squirrels have abandoned along the exposed tree roots on the frosty ground as the inevitability of the cruel cold looms just ahead.

This time, it was driving rain and, more than that, the emotions screaming from inside my head, that obstructed my vision and made me wish I could just turn around, or that I could just keep driving and everything would come clear.

“I’m not sure psychiatric hospitalization is the answer.”

This was the doctor that eight days before had sent us home on a safety plan because no hospital within three hours had a place for our little boy.

What, exactly, then, is the answer?

I am pretty sure he didn’t know.  I am pretty sure nobody does.  No, hospitalization is not the answer, but it is an all too necessary step along the arduous journey.

It was, on this day, to be the course, though certainly not the answer. He must have known, because the fight left him for a good while, and he walked to the ambulance from the school.

It dawned on me that I should put the finch feeder away for the season.  No finches would be coming, at least not until springtime, when the torrent will have subsided and the birdsong will play vividly through the open window.

The baby crib, for decades a fixture in our home in one form or another, has also been taken down and stored away, for its season is now behind us.

What if we are destined, as beings that walk this earth, to be good at one thing?  What happens, then, when that one thing is done?  What happens to us?  Does our purpose fade?  Can we take what we have been, what we have learned, and offer a new kind of energy to our spent course?

There was a bed this time, at a hospital  not far away and on a unit for children with autism.  He would be transferred soon.

It was all too much for this boy, or he was too much for them.  It was as if the driving rain continued within the walls of this emergency room.  There were four people, all wearing scrubs of the same blue, jumbled together as one mass.  I couldn’t see their heads, or perhaps I did not look at them.  In a flash, through the screams of angst, one of the headless figures pumped the shot into my son’s soft pink flesh.

They left the room with the same fury as when they had entered.  Nobody noticed my tears; maybe nobody noticed that there were any emotions at all.

I tried hard to listen to his stories; his speech was rapid and his tone was convincing.  He spoke of Lego figurines and of how the mother of his classmate was going to take six months leave from her jobs, which included helping people that had wheezing, working as both a doctor and a computer programmer, and managing a company that fixes basements.

My own thoughts, though, interrupted his spoken stream of consciousness and distracted me from honoring him with my full attention.  I couldn’t really hear what he was saying.  I wondered what any of this was even about.

Who will help him in the bathroom?  Will he like what he is offered to eat?  Will someone sit in his chair at the kitchen table while he is gone, or will it serve as a lonely reminder of the demons that continue to invade his childhood?

“I’ll be in the hospital for two weeks…,” he piped matter-of-factly,  as though he was accepting of his fate.  “We can build our castle then, when I get home.”

Yes, we can.  And it will be much better than any video game.

I remembered the donut store from another time.  It had closed at midnight, less than fifteen minutes before the end of this ten hour ordeal, when I had found my way to the storefront with hopes of bringing breakfast for those at home.  The  door was locked, but the lights were on.   There, proclaimed in red and blue neon letters, was a tiny saving grace after a day of sadness and humiliation: “DRIVE-THRU.”

So, there would be donuts after all.  Ethan doesn’t really like donuts anyway, which is good, because he wasn’t going to be home to eat one.

We have seen him a few times now, and he has let us know, through his  no-nonsense descriptions of the rhythm of his days at this new hospital, that he is doing okay.  Today, as we make our way through the season’s first snow on the way to visit, we will be hopeful: hopeful that the new medication may be the one that helps, hopeful that he will be home soon, and hopeful that there will be new paths on the horizon.

No, it’s not the answer, but it helps, if even just a little bit, to guide us home through the storm.

Blessings for a safe and joyous holiday season, at home or wherever your journey leads.