from my old blog, posted in 2010.
A piece I wrote this past summer (I guess summer 2009). It was a very desperate time. I still don't know what happened then; it's like Mendel was teetering on the edge and started to slowly slide that summer. It's not like he was making miraculous progress before; perhaps it was only the subtle shift from three to three-and-a-half that fueled this desperate desire for visible progress, but nonetheless, something, however slight, happened that summer. How? Why? We talk about this all the time but don't know the answer. The worst is that we were aware of it as it was happening and couldn't figure out how to stop it.
Here's what I wrote that summer night:
…So tonight, I get dressed up all pretty and drive an hour myself to a cousin's wedding. It's lots of fun and I can forget, for a few hours, the vacant stare that has haunted me for the better part of a year now and the surging, raging desperation that has become the dominant emotion my husband and I feel constantly. He is not doing better, he is not doing better, he is not doing better!!! Our son Mendel has autism, he must do better. Not doing better is doing worse. The clock ticks relentlessly. I'm always pretty vague about my kids' exact ages and usually need to do a finger count for a precise number-- but Mendel's I know perfectly. He is 3 years, 7 months old. He is closer to four than to three. He is not forming sentences. He will barely acknowledge his siblings. He is not progressing and we are desperate, desperate for a miracle.
Wedding fun over with for the evening, I'm thinking of all this as I drive home, down Flatbush Avenue, toward the Brooklyn Bridge. Stopped at a light, I see a wheelchair, in mid-street, propelling itself against traffic, and upon closer look- it's a black woman, one-legged, wheeling her wheelchair with one arm; the other outstretched to the car windows on her left. A white SUV pulls up fast into her lane and nearly hits her head on. She does not react at all, her face a plea as she looks up at each car, and then she is at my window. The light has turned green, cars are already honking. But good lord, I thought I had it hard! I feel nothing but pity and reach into my glove compartment for the one of the singles that are always floating there.
One bill comes up- it's a twenty. There's nothing else in there.
Now here is where I pause. Certainly I feel pity but I don't have a twenty to spare, and I never give twenties to panhandlers. I think of the bills-- and the grocery order tomorrow, and the doctor bills that have not yet been paid, and the personal debt that rises daily. I don't have a twenty to spare; I really don't.
But here she is- she's seen me fish around, her arm is outstretched, eyes lit in anticipation.
I roll down the window and give her the twenty. "Ohhhh my G-d" I hear her say as I speed off. "Ohhh my G-d."
And, appropriately, it's G-d I'm talking to right now as I turn onto the bridge and drive home. Because you see, G-d, I'm that desperate. Desperate enough to wheel down a barely lit street against the traffic. Desperate enough to do whatever in heaven's name I have to do to get my son back- if I could just drop all the other balls I'm juggling with no consequences and knew what exactly it was I should do. I'm not panhandling in a wheelchair but I'm that desperate, G-d- I'm that desperate!!!
And I gave that woman a twenty and it made no sense. Because you know, G-d, that I don't have it.
So give me a twenty, G-d. Okay? Just give me a twenty and let's get this thing over with.
Here's what I wrote that summer night:
…So tonight, I get dressed up all pretty and drive an hour myself to a cousin's wedding. It's lots of fun and I can forget, for a few hours, the vacant stare that has haunted me for the better part of a year now and the surging, raging desperation that has become the dominant emotion my husband and I feel constantly. He is not doing better, he is not doing better, he is not doing better!!! Our son Mendel has autism, he must do better. Not doing better is doing worse. The clock ticks relentlessly. I'm always pretty vague about my kids' exact ages and usually need to do a finger count for a precise number-- but Mendel's I know perfectly. He is 3 years, 7 months old. He is closer to four than to three. He is not forming sentences. He will barely acknowledge his siblings. He is not progressing and we are desperate, desperate for a miracle.
Wedding fun over with for the evening, I'm thinking of all this as I drive home, down Flatbush Avenue, toward the Brooklyn Bridge. Stopped at a light, I see a wheelchair, in mid-street, propelling itself against traffic, and upon closer look- it's a black woman, one-legged, wheeling her wheelchair with one arm; the other outstretched to the car windows on her left. A white SUV pulls up fast into her lane and nearly hits her head on. She does not react at all, her face a plea as she looks up at each car, and then she is at my window. The light has turned green, cars are already honking. But good lord, I thought I had it hard! I feel nothing but pity and reach into my glove compartment for the one of the singles that are always floating there.
One bill comes up- it's a twenty. There's nothing else in there.
Now here is where I pause. Certainly I feel pity but I don't have a twenty to spare, and I never give twenties to panhandlers. I think of the bills-- and the grocery order tomorrow, and the doctor bills that have not yet been paid, and the personal debt that rises daily. I don't have a twenty to spare; I really don't.
But here she is- she's seen me fish around, her arm is outstretched, eyes lit in anticipation.
I roll down the window and give her the twenty. "Ohhhh my G-d" I hear her say as I speed off. "Ohhh my G-d."
And, appropriately, it's G-d I'm talking to right now as I turn onto the bridge and drive home. Because you see, G-d, I'm that desperate. Desperate enough to wheel down a barely lit street against the traffic. Desperate enough to do whatever in heaven's name I have to do to get my son back- if I could just drop all the other balls I'm juggling with no consequences and knew what exactly it was I should do. I'm not panhandling in a wheelchair but I'm that desperate, G-d- I'm that desperate!!!
And I gave that woman a twenty and it made no sense. Because you know, G-d, that I don't have it.
So give me a twenty, G-d. Okay? Just give me a twenty and let's get this thing over with.
Wow! Brilliantly written
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