Susan Senator

Every weekend that Nat is home — and we are now starting to wean ourselves from that pattern, to prepare Nat and ourselves for Post-22 November — there is tension.  This is not to say that the tension is Nat’s fault; it is no one’s fault.  It is a dynamic.  Maybe I shouldn’t say “there is tension,” using the passive voice.  Because the thing is, it is I feeling the tension.  I am, and maybe Ben.  Nat and Max:  birds of a feather, ducks with water rolling off their backs, or some such foul analogy.

I feel the tension because I know Nat so well.  I know what he is looking for when he runs upstairs and then runs back down.  Well, actually, I don’t know why he runs upstairs first; maybe to burn off some of that high-octane energy of his.  But I do know why he runs down:  to check on everyone else’s routine.  I have written about this many times.  Nat gets very focused on what others are doing given a particular time of day, and he repeats to them what he believes they should be doing — over and over — usually until they do it.

We have been schooled over the years not to give in to this kind of behavior.  This may seem high-handed and centered on us and what we want, rather than on what Nat wants, but it actually is not, because giving in is sometimes actually escalating to Nat.  Nat often craves the safety of a firm remark, the closure of crisp, stark-edged reassurance:  “Nat, I will eat my eggs after my workout, and you have to stop talking about it now.”

I feel tense as I wait for Ned to finish whatever he is doing on the computer at any given moment, so that he can deal with Nat.  The tension happens with Ned because I usually anticipate Nat’s anxiety and I structure some of my routines around avoiding that.  I am a a wimp and I have failed Behavior Modification 101.

Ben also feels the tension.  He used to run away or capitulate at once, running to put on his shoes the minute Nat said, “Ben will put on his shoes.”  Even if Ben wasn’t going out.  I get a creepy feeling when I think about Ben feeling forced to do this unnecessary thing just to keep the peace; kind of like someone being forced to dance when a bad guy shoots the ground, saying, “Dance.”  Or a hostage who has to give the criminal all of his stuff.  I hate seeing loved ones humbled.

Now Ben makes faces at Nat when he is being bossy.  Or he mimics him.  I have such mixed feelings when I see this.  On one hand, I am so glad that he is no longer a victim, that he stands up to Nat, who is a foot taller and very strong.  But on the other hand, I feel bad for Nat who may be confused as to why Ben is shoving his angry face into Nat’s face.  Does Nat feel bad, like he is being harassed, or teased?  Is this just, that Ben should do this?  It makes me very uncomfortable.  I often say, “Ben,” with a little bit of exasperation in my voice.  And he’ll say, through gritted teeth, “But he’s SO ANNOYING!”

Nat just looks at him and blinks, but what does he think of that?  And what does Ben think — that I feel bad for Nat and no compassion for him?

The other day, however, I thought of a new thing to say:  “Ben, does it ever help to remember that he does stuff like that because of his disability — that his neurons have grown together kind of wrong, and they are making him really anxious?  What does that feel like to you, to think that way.”

Ben’s voice was rough and quiet:  “Uh, it makes me feel really sad,” he said.

“Oh,” I gulped. Oh. My. God. “Yeah, I know,” was all I could say, because my heart was in my mouth.