Struggles
Yesterday as Erik and I were getting ready to go to school, I heard updates on the story of a 21-year-old woman who disappeared from this area in 2003. They found her body in the last week or so buried in a shallow grave in the woods, and two arrests have been made. An autopsy revealed that she was killed by blunt force trauma to the head. She did not die a pleasant death and was terrorized by her killers before she left this world. Her father cannot afford her funeral, which takes place this week. He is a bus driver here, and his coworkers set up a bake sale at a bus stop off the main drag. Erik and I loaded into the Jeep 15 minutes early and went in search of the bus stop. I saw a couple small folding tables manned by volunteers on either side of a small street. I parked in an adjacent lot and approached one table, where a sleepy-looking woman without makeup wearing a brown, flannel shirt sat. Behind her in the back of a truck sat a bearded, silent, tough-looking man and a large dog. There were muffins and brownies scattered over the surface of the table in crudely labeled plastic bags. I chose three of each and gave her the contents of my wallet. After she thanked me profusely for my extremely modest donation, we made our way to school. I lead Erik up the hallway to his classroom, where he walked in by himself and demonstrated his skills removing his jacket halfway. A therapist led him to his cubbyhole and helped him deposit his things, hanging his jacket on a metal hook. They made a big fuss over the new football zipper pull I just purchased. Bev handed me a stack of information on Therapeutic Listening(tm), including the phone number and name of our local specialist, and I headed down the hallway to parent group.
Parent group was packed. I set my collection of baked goods on an end table. There were three children present, including two babies and a 6-year-old autistic boy who grabbed one of my muffins and proceeded to scatter banana nut-flavored crumbs evenly over the carpet and furnishings from one end of the room to the other. I resisted the intense urge to search for a Dustbuster. There was no set topic of conversation this week. We talked of being teenagers and of the stupid things we did. Of course, my misadventures paled in comparison to the women's tales around me. The stories they told were knee-slappingly funny, but there was an underlying sadness to them all. Their stories seemed to hint of various levels of abuse, absent parents, alcoholism, and custody battles. One woman told of her child jumping a train at age 12 in an attempt to run away. He was missing long enough to print and post missing posters. One woman was shot in the buttocks by an angry landowner with rock salt after she and her friends refused to stop trespassing. Most of the time I forget that these women differ from me at all anymore. While they seemed completely foreign and almost unapproachable a year ago, I found that we have a lot in common, and I now feel at home with them. It is obvious they love their children as much as I do my own. However, sessions like this remind me that I am indeed from a different world, and Erik will be, too. I have learned to count my blessings. As I watch textbook cycles perpetuate before my eyes, I sometimes feel the world is hopeless, full of struggles with no end. We all seem to pass our struggles on like a dark legacy, no matter where we come from or what we have experienced.
After our sessions were over, I picked Erik up and we walked down the hall and out the door. He said nothing, as the children bustling around us were happy and noisy. Once we escaped into the fresh air and relative quiet of the outdoors, I heard his voice say a word I have not heard from him before.
"Volkswagen."
I looked down at him and stopped in my tracks, completely forgetting we were obstructing the waiting taxi and buses in the tiny parking lot.
"What did you say?"
He repeated it clear as day.
"Volkswagen."
He lurched forward again, looking at the sky. I looked to my right. Sure enough, there was a silver Volkswagen Beetle parked there. One of the new jobbers. I laughed out loud. When I told my mother about this later, she informed me that during their afternoon sessions watching vehicles drive by from their comfy seats in front of the picture window, she is absolutely certain about a car's make and model before she reports it to Erik, as she knows he will remember. He can also now identify a Jeep Grand Cherokee from a mile away.
No matter where I am in my head, the boy can always get a smile out of me.
Parent group was packed. I set my collection of baked goods on an end table. There were three children present, including two babies and a 6-year-old autistic boy who grabbed one of my muffins and proceeded to scatter banana nut-flavored crumbs evenly over the carpet and furnishings from one end of the room to the other. I resisted the intense urge to search for a Dustbuster. There was no set topic of conversation this week. We talked of being teenagers and of the stupid things we did. Of course, my misadventures paled in comparison to the women's tales around me. The stories they told were knee-slappingly funny, but there was an underlying sadness to them all. Their stories seemed to hint of various levels of abuse, absent parents, alcoholism, and custody battles. One woman told of her child jumping a train at age 12 in an attempt to run away. He was missing long enough to print and post missing posters. One woman was shot in the buttocks by an angry landowner with rock salt after she and her friends refused to stop trespassing. Most of the time I forget that these women differ from me at all anymore. While they seemed completely foreign and almost unapproachable a year ago, I found that we have a lot in common, and I now feel at home with them. It is obvious they love their children as much as I do my own. However, sessions like this remind me that I am indeed from a different world, and Erik will be, too. I have learned to count my blessings. As I watch textbook cycles perpetuate before my eyes, I sometimes feel the world is hopeless, full of struggles with no end. We all seem to pass our struggles on like a dark legacy, no matter where we come from or what we have experienced.
After our sessions were over, I picked Erik up and we walked down the hall and out the door. He said nothing, as the children bustling around us were happy and noisy. Once we escaped into the fresh air and relative quiet of the outdoors, I heard his voice say a word I have not heard from him before.
"Volkswagen."
I looked down at him and stopped in my tracks, completely forgetting we were obstructing the waiting taxi and buses in the tiny parking lot.
"What did you say?"
He repeated it clear as day.
"Volkswagen."
He lurched forward again, looking at the sky. I looked to my right. Sure enough, there was a silver Volkswagen Beetle parked there. One of the new jobbers. I laughed out loud. When I told my mother about this later, she informed me that during their afternoon sessions watching vehicles drive by from their comfy seats in front of the picture window, she is absolutely certain about a car's make and model before she reports it to Erik, as she knows he will remember. He can also now identify a Jeep Grand Cherokee from a mile away.
No matter where I am in my head, the boy can always get a smile out of me.
Labels: murder, parent group, struggles, Williams syndrome
posted by Nancy at 10:04 AM
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