I have the kind of brain that gets knocked down by the sad things. I have many joys in my life, but I won't list them. A heart that breaks for my child, takes my focus, when I know that all my tears won't change a thing. Will they?
We are living the lives our ancestors dreamed of. My life is more comfortable than, perhaps, the royalty of ancient times. I don't have to swelter in the heat of summer or freeze in the winter. Swat mosquitoes all night or have my food fouled by rot and vermin. Bathrooms, lights, refrigeration, photographs. I don't have to watch my children die from many of the illnesses that took our grandparent's children from them. Didn't they weep and ache for their children's pain, and their own helplessness to save them. Someone was so moved by that pain that they vowed to look for ways to spare future generations from that anguish.
I know I'd be one of the ones saying, "Why do we have to walk so far to gather water? Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could put dirty clothes or dishes in a box and then open it later to find them clean? Or some easy way to cook food without gathering wood to make a fire?" I'm just someone who thinks of impossible things, but I haven't the slightest idea how to accomplish them. What a miracle to give a potion to a sick person and have them come back to health, from the edge of death. I would have thought it impossible to have a box that plays music or shows pictures and tells stories. Or a device that would let me talk to someone far away. Wished that a journey to a far-away place could be faster and safer. I would have wished for a way to take the pain away from the injured; to fix a wound without it festering, maiming, and killing. These were some of the dreams of our ancestors. Impossible to them, but they dreamed them for us, and now they are real.
I don't think Cleopatra had it so good.
All the tears shed for the suffering are, in part, what has led to so many wonderful things. As you know the greatest sadness in my (and my husband's...) life is watching our youngest son experience schizophrenia. I thank all those people who develop new medications and, perhaps, someday, cures for all the incurable conditions that our loved ones suffer from. But today, I weep.
Savant is slipping away, but even he doesn't know where the stream is taking him. He has been panicking and miserable. I called his big brother and his wife to see if they could help him a couple of weeks ago. His sister-in-law has lots of knowledge about Savant's condition and how to help calm some of the panic. They took him to their house and fed and cared for him for a few days. They were wonderful.
He dropped class, after class, hoping that fewer classes would be the answer to his inability to concentrate, the panic and fear that has hold of his body. There are no classes left to drop. He was hoping that going back to school would be the answer to his boredom and feeling of directionlessness; to help him get... back. Can he get back?
School can wait forever, it's not going anywhere. It is not necessary for him to go.
But, this series of events, has brought home, again, that his struggles are so real, so lonely and painful for him. We haven't had a chance to move Savant's things out of his dorm room and he wanted to spend a couple of days there, so his Dad drove him to the town where the college is this weekend and dropped him off.
We spent last week going through the process of withdrawing him from school, through the Disabled Students Office. They said that for him to be able to withdraw, in good standing, the Withdrawal Office would need a letter from his psychiatrist. It was near the deadline to withdraw from classes with just a W, not a WP or WF; so as soon as Savant could get the letter to them, they would make his withdrawal date retroactive to the day I talked to them.
Savant had called us frequently, saying that he was miserable and just couldn't concentrate enough do the work, and he had not been going to many classes, and he hadn't been able to remember to take all of his medicine. Friday I took him to his psychiatrist's office and his counselor had the letter ready. He sighed the release and she faxed it to the University.
I wrote this entry in the morning. At 3:00 PM I called him to see how he was doing and Mr. Buckley, or Savant on --??, answered the phone. He has been writing, getting ready to go to his Fiction Writing Class. He said he had some realizations last night and he thinks he can do all the make-up work and is ready to be serious about taking this class and continue to live in his dorm room. I said I thought he had dropped out of school last week. Did he remember having the letter faxed to the school? Now he has me confused. He thinks he has to get on the school's web site and personally hit the button to finalize the withdrawal; and since he has decided to keep taking this class he won't be withdrawing. I'm confused. He sounds muddled. I assume he's not thinking rationally, so I tell him that I'm glad he's decided to buckle down and I hope his class goes well and hang up the phone. I'm frightened, confused, and I can't stop the tears. I call his Dad. His Dad calls him, and decides that we should leave him alone for today, hope for the best, and talk to him tomorrow, and hopefully he will make more sense, and we'll have a better chance of sorting it out if we aren't talking to Mr. Buckley.
Can't kiss this booboo and make it better.
We dream of an end to war and evil and suffering; for everyone to have food, health, shelter, love and to only weep for joy.
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