Susan Senator

Counting your blessings, no matter how positive a person you are, is not always possible. Sometimes I am left counting my burdens, instead. On my birthday, which has always been one of my favorite days of the year because of how my family made such a big deal of it, I now find myself aware of all those who no longer call me, who are gone from my life in one way or another. In spite of my exquisite joy on that day, there is now a small stab of bitterness that I cannot help feeling.

I was raised to by optimists, by parents who, when in doubt, make a joke. This is how my father approaches life: nothing is sacred, everything is open to humor, even — or especially — the difficult things. In Yiddish this attitude is called, “laughing with yashtikas,” literally translated, “laughing with pins.”

Recently I had a sharp pin-like experience. I drove Nat to school rather than have him take the bus because he had a doctor’s appointment. I took my mother and father with me to Nat’s school so that they could see it (a brand new facility) and meet his teachers, whom I adore. At the school, we were greeted by an enthusiastic program director, his smiling teacher, and helpful receptionists. The hallways around us shone with bright sunlight due to the wide skylights and large windows all around. We chatted with his teacher while Nat walked ahead. “He’s doing so great,” she said to us, which we knew already, but loved to hear.

But when we opened the door to the classroom, and my happiness fizzled. I kept smiling, introducing my parents to the other teachers, but my eyes started aching with unshed tears. All around me were Nat’s classmates, autistic kids, flapping and staring off into space, or stammering and trying to speak. One girl was sprawled on a mat, taking a break.

After all these years, why is it still so hard for me to adjust to the sight of disability? Why is my first response, and my mood thereafter, one of sorrow? Even knowing what I know — that Nat is doing so well; that his teachers are wonderful; that the school is top-notch — I dip below the surface back into my oldest feeling as a mother: loss.

But I know that I have to force myself back. I must swim against that gripping tide by keeping my eyes on Nat, pacing around the room with a huge grin on his face, getting out his work to begin his day. I tell myself that he seems out of it, just like the other kids in here. But I know the other kids. J might have Down’s Syndrome, but once you start him talking, he is aware of everything going on around him, and he is also pretty funny. R is huge and frowning, even a little scary, but he comes over to us and in his high-pitched voice he shows us that he got “all checkmarks” today. And there is D, screaming as usual, but catch his eye and he’ll give you an age-appropriate, teenage boy leer.

They are all just people, who happen to have less control over their bodies than some of us. They’re doing okay. Really.

“Great school,” my parents said appreciatively.

“Yeah, Nat is big man on campus here,” I joked with my father, as we walked out to the parking lot. We laughed, became quiet, and then drove home, ignoring the pins.