Susan Senator

Standing at the crossroads
trying to read the signs
to tell me which way I should go to find the answer,
and all the time I know
plant your love and let it grow.
–E.C.

So, yeah, this came on at the best point of my bike ride: the uphill that feels like a downhill, a.k.a. Warren Street in the “Estate Area.” It was one of those bright bursts of music I get on my bike, when suddenly the song fits the terrain perfectly. And, of course, my mood. I almost switched past it, nevertheless, because I knew it was going to make me think of Nat and rip open that same bloody laceration in my heart.

I was raised to take care of things, to deal with problems head-on, to confront honestly and directly. I don’t always succeed, but that is my goal. I am a child of people who come up with solutions, who repair and fix. No sitting around on your ass and wallowing. (See, in that way I’m a little different) So when I see a loved one in pain, I need to swoop in and do whatever I can to fix it. As a young mother, I could offer my arms, food, singing, jokes, stories. I could fight the bad guys, the bullies, the evil program directors. I could slam the door in the face of the stupid, insensitive doctor and smack down the idiot on the playground. Or at least I could fantasize about it until I felt better.

So yesterday, when I dropped Nat off, back at the House, and it seemed kind of low-affect in there, with a TV on in the middle of a sunny day, and Nat wandering around like a lost puppy, I had to fight back tears and a sense of overwhelming impotence. I drove away and thought, What can I do, what can I do? Is this okay? He seemed so down.

I had a dull pain in my chest and throat and all I could think about was getting away from this relentless sadness. What do I do, what do I do, the thought kept going.

So, as I approached Boston, I thought, but there is nothing to do. I have done everything. If I take him out, he will only have to get used to living somewhere else when he’s older, and possibly even less flexible. How much worse is it to leave home at 22 or 25, when all you’ve known is your parents’ way of doing things, and all you’ve got is a state-run home who doesn’t even know him, to transition him? If that? What are my frickin choices, anyway? He needs to learn so much, Goddammit. And they can teach it to him better than I can, and I know it, ick ick ick.

And — a new and old thought occurred to me: how much did I suffer at the very same age, as a freshman in a college that was utterly wrong for me? For I went somewhere else before I got to University of Pennsylvania, and transferred after freshman year. At Trinity College, I felt like I’d landed in Bizarro Land, the land of the thin, beautiful, blond pink and green Preppies, and I, with my peasant blouses, curly brown hair and ample — proportions. I had one friend. I gained a ton of weight. I got sick drunk several times. I went out with a horrible young man who would only date me under cover of night, so that none of his frat brothers would know. I was totally out of my element. I knew by Thanksgiving that I had made a huge mistake.

“So? Transfer,” said Mom, her best advice to me ever. And so I did. I found Penn and went there (and found Ned and other delightful friends) and never looked back.

The House is the lesser of two evils. And, let’s face it: it’s not even evil, not by a longshot. It is filled with caring, kind staff and sweet boys who are Nat’s age and into the same things as he is. It is 25 minutes away. It is part of his school, which I love love love even with its flaws and dogma. And then, there’s Nat, who, God bless him, has that compelling smile and a sparkle to him that attracts people and makes them fall in love with him.

And what would Nat be doing if he were here, rather than there, on a sunny day? TV, maybe a brief bike ride, maybe a walk. If we were up for it. But yesterday, at the House, he went to a semi-pro baseball game. His first ever. And I hear they are planning to see the Revolution play one of these days.

So the problem is, he and I are sad, just sad, about the change. We are feeling feelings that quite frankly suck. There is nothing to be done at all. Nothing to fix. No one to yell at. Just feel and live. Feel and live and feel and live and have faith, I guess, that it won’t always always feel like this.