Susan Senator

Nature is red in tooth and claw. — Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Mothers are even more. — Me

Still not over it. Nope, so don’t expect that I’ll move on. Or rather, it has morphed into something else. Action. My grief over what happened to Nat — maybe it will always be with me because of the responsibility I bear. Because I failed to keep him safe. Twice. Yes, there was a quieter horror, lower down, in the shadows of an X-ray. There lurked the other, older healed broken rib.

No, it was not my fault, of course not. I would rather die than hurt Nat. Any of my sons. Take the bullet, no question.

We don’t know how it happened — violence or an accident that was then overlooked.

The other day I interviewed a psychologist who has made some inroads into treating trauma in people with communication disorders, people who cannot easily tell someone what happened to them. She was very insistent upon the likelihood that this will happen again. That the numbers of people with disabilities who are abused or traumatized are higher than the non-disabled population. The CDC backs this up indirectly — the research seems to be only about children with disabilities. But if you extrapolate — 1) the disability doesn’t go away, and 2) neither does some degree of vulnerability. Couple that with the low pay and lack of training for adult caregivers — as opposed to special education teachers — and you have a far worse situation.

Emotionally I’m back where I was when Nat was first diagnosed. I am at sea, nothing but my husband to hang onto. He’s a rock, an island of safety but he knows only the other half of what I know. Together we come up with some strategies of how to deal swimmingly with autism but it is in the end shit we made up. Our best idea was the Nat books (I also called them Crisis Stories). You would know them as social stories but I invented the Nat books before I even knew Nat was autistic. 1992. Carol Grey had only just invented hers, in 1990. Anyway, I sure didn’t know about them. That would have meant that I knew Nat had special needs, and I did not. Another failure. I did not stick up for myself, and consequently, for Nat. I knew something was going on with him but I did not push the doctor. Anyway I think the Nat books are better because there are actual photos cut up to fit Nat’s needs — not stick figures. (Stick figures are abstract; how would that work at all with my concrete thinker son?) And the sentences are simple but not insultingly so. They are written the way I talk to Nat. I wrote a Nat book about his traumatic event from July and he seemed to really be drawn to it. But then he took it with him to the group home and so now I don’t know what he does with it.

Surprisingly, I have not talked to Nat a whole lot about what happened to him. I am afraid to because I don’t know if that’s what he needs. But the other day I tried a new thing: I created a Nat book about rules he should follow. The rules are actually things like the right to not talk, the right to eat what he wants. The necessity to tell me, Dad, or anyone in his caregiving circle when and if he’s been hurt. Or if he’s sick. I spell out that no one may touch Nat on the penis or tush. I have to do it that way to be absolutely sure he knows what is what. No one may hurt Nat.

I also put in that Nat has the right to live where he wants. And ever since his injuries, he has made it clear that although he likes his group home, he would prefer to sleep and eat at our house. I take that very seriously.

Although — I have to add — that Ned is not convinced this is true. Ned thinks if we put things on the calendar he will prefer what’s on the calendar, whether it’s to sleep here or not. This may be true.

I am beyond relieved that he is happy living at his group home for some of the week. But I cannot just ignore the fact that he wants to be with us more than them. Anytime he’s given the choice of where to be, it’s our house. [Although like I said, this may only be because of how we offer the choice.] Nothing to do with the amazing manager there, the warm staff. The staff is frankly wonderful, on top of everything, they make and keep schedules, they smile, you know…

But I have decided that this is what must happen, someday, maybe soon:  My future will eventually be wrapped up with housing him, keeping him not far from my wing. Not keeping him in a bubble, but a nest right below my nest, same tree. In giving birth to my boys I did not realize that I was entering into an irrevocable contract. I was to nourish them, nurture them, educate them and help them grow up into wonderful capable adults. Then stand back and let them do it.

But if they cannot at some point, I will be there for them. And right now, Nat cannot do it. I now see that. He will always need my protection. And so he must have it. This is an axiom in my life, as true as I need to breathe oxygen and I have found my soulmate in Ned. The truth is that if my sons need me, then I will drop everything to help them. Right now, at this point in his development, Nat needs me, and needs to live at least part-time with me.

Ned and I are now looking into selling our glorious home and buying a two family with the downstairs apartment for Nat, a friend, and a caregiver. Tying up all our assets in that. Not a green golf course pied a terre in New York retirement.

Too fucking bad. This is my path. My children. This is how I feel I can keep him safer. It may not even have rational truth to it, but it is what I feel I have to do. It’s not a beautiful declaration of pure white love, it’s not some noble thing. It just is. A raw and heavy truth, with piercing claws. I’d have to rip my heart to get them out.

Nope, not a saint. Just a mother.