Miracles

"Anger is a killing thing:  it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before - it takes something from him."

Louis L'Amour

I have always had two conflicting, futuristic visions of myself.  And in the past few years, these visions of my future self have become more pronounced, almost well defined descriptions.  It's possible that they've become my actual options.  The potential for either is very real, but I can move towards whichever I prefer.  I have a choice, I think.

The first is that of a deeply embittered, sickly skinny, hunched over old woman, with matted gray hair sticking out of a make-shift bun on the back of her head.  She's probably around seventy years old, but looks ninety.  She smokes two packs of cigarettes per day, walks wobbly using a cane, and dresses in worn, black, second-hand clothes.

She lives in Paris, of course, so that she can soothe herself by wandering the Louvre every day alone, completely undisturbed by interruptions.  She speaks to no one.  Even in Paris, she refuses to even try to speak French (and if you've ever been to France, you know well that goes over).  Instead she spits angry, unintelligible, smoker's hacks at anyone who tries to talk to her, ensuring her alone-ness with perfect completion.

Her very demeanor sweats bitterness (ever met someone like this?), the dripping of which can be plainly seen by everyone.  She knows that it repels people, and she hates it.  She knows she makes it clear that she wants to be alone, but at the exact same time she suffers from an almost indescribable longing for companionship.

She's spent her life needing to be sure, needing to be safe, and needing to be right.  But she hasn't always been sure, certainly hasn't always been safe, and everyone else has usually been "wrong."  She's needed for things to go a certain way, but things have never seemed to go that way.  And she's been angry about all of this for a very long time.  Eventually she dies alone, in her Paris apartment, having missed all the things worthwhile in life because she never could get past herself. 

The second is that of a content, upright and healthy, beautifully maintained old woman, with shiny gray hair smoothed into a little bun on the back of her head.  She's probably around ninety years old, but looks seventy.  She quite smoking so long ago that the doctors can't tell that she was ever a smoker.  She takes calcium and eats vegetables (and makes her husband do the same:), walks comfortably with the exception of a little arthritis, and dresses in a well worn, light gray sweater.  She gets chilly.

She spends her days with her husband.  They take care of their sixty year old, non-verbal, Autistic son, and dream of wandering Louvre and trying to speak French.  Their other children live far away and don't get around to visit that often, so she visits with her husband, the people at the grocery store, and the post deliverers, ensuring her not alone-ness with perfect completion.

Her very demeanor oozes love, the dripping of which can be plainly seen by everyone.  She knows that it attracts people, and she likes it.  She knows she makes it clear that she enjoys companionship, but at the exact same time she doesn't long for it.  Her children never worry about whether or not they visit enough, because they know their parents are happy.  And that's all children ever really want from their parents.

She's spent her life wanting to be sure, wanting to be safe, and enjoying it very much when she was right:)  But she's been okay not being sure, okay not always being safe, and has consistently let go of the desire to make others "wrong."  She would've liked very much for things to have gone a certain way, and she's occasionally become angry when they haven't gone that way.  But she's always recognized anger itself as an enemy, and she's always refused to feed it with much attention.  Anger starves inside of her, so it eventually moves on of it's own accord in order to find better feeding ground.  

She has no regrets, because she's usually done everything she could think of for her son.  And even though none of it ever made any difference for him, she knows she's tried.  She knows she's done the best she could with the knowledge that she's had, which is the only thing she's ever had any power over anyway.  And she doesn't worry about the things that she's missed, because she couldn't have possibly known everything all the time.  She isn't God after all.  But she's done her little part, usually to the best of her ability, and she can smile about that.

She makes it to a hundred years old before her husband dies (that would put him at 105:), and to about a hundred and five herself before finally institutionalizing her son.  She tells her son that she loves him.  She tells him that his parents will always, always be with him.  Then she leaves, trusting that he will be taken care of.  And she dies with the housekeeper by her side, in her house, having participated fully in all the things worthwhile in life because she was usually able to get past herself.

It does seem like, with almost every action I take, I can foresee which vision I'm moving toward.  And lately I've been moving towards lady number one.  In spite of this, the people in my life have literally been taking my hand and pulling me towards lady number two.  You know who you are, and thank you for being brave enough to give me the truth in spite of what I might think of it.  We've had a couple of miracles happen.

We still have hope for Cale getting into Montana's early intervention program.  My husband made the phone call because, frankly, I've been a bit of a bitch lately.  My darling, gorgeous, wise and wonderful husband, called and asked the "women in charge," in Montana, to put my son's name onto Montana's "lottery" list without actually having moved there yet.  And he happened to get a hold of just the right woman at just the right time.

At first she was very discouraging.  She told Shane that there would be a very slim chance of Cale being selected because not only does he need to be on the list before he turns five, but he also needs to be selected before he turns five next month (see, this is where I would've lost it and ruined the whole thing).

Shane responded by telling her that we are under no illusions about Cale's "chances" at anything, but that we are his parents.  He told her that we believe their program might be Cale's last best chance of learning how to talk, and that we need to know we've done everything we can for our son.  He told her that we at least need to try to get him on that list, that it's more about knowing we've done everything we can than it is about him being selected.  Naturally, this woman fell in love with Shane.  And she has bent over backwards to get all of our information in on time to put Cale's name on the list before the next drawing.

She made us commit fully to moving back to Montana in time for Cale to start therapy, should he be selected.  And we did.  If Cale is selected, it will be on or before Sept. 8th of this year.  And if he is selected, then Shane will quit his job if need be and we will move back to Montana.

When Shane got off the phone, we asked each other how on earth we could afford to move if we need to.  And we decided that if it was supposed to happen, it would work itself out somehow.  The next day, Shane brought me a rather curious piece of mail.  A friend of ours has sent us a check for enough money to MOVE if we need to.  We both cried.  And it's going to go into our savings account for that purpose and that purpose alone.  And I don't have the first clue how to thank you enough friend.    

Obviously, my hopes are up high for Cale again.  And I'm in real danger, if he isn't selected, of giving lady number one a hell of a lead.  So I've been making a conscious effort to make peace with the worst case scenario.  And you know the thing that's become clear to me?  Again?  It's never going to be ABOUT whether or not Cale gets better.

Cale is exactly as he's supposed to be right now.  But, at the same time, I have to do the thing my husband told the lady in Montana.  I have to try.  It's all I can really do.  We have to keep doing our part (in this case, simply getting Cale on the list) whether it has any influence on Cale or not.  Because it's more about being able to look ourselves in the mirror and like who we see than it is about anything else.

Finding out that Shane and I are willing to give up our lives here in Arizona, to try to help our son, has been an incredibly awesome and wonderful thing to find out about ourselves.  It means our priorities are in the right place, and that God will take care of the rest.  We've already succeeded I think, whether Cale is selected or not.  Because we're quite happy with who we are at this moment.

You know the other thing that's become clear?  I'm not sure that lady number two existed at all before my son came along.  Maybe Cale's Autism is a gift in itself.  I mean, it's brought out the worst in me at times for sure.  But it's brought out the best in me as well.  And it's made me aware of the choice.  Shane asked me the other day if I really wasn't aware of the choice before Cale.  And I said, "I don't know.  But I do know that Cale has provided lady number two with lots and lots of good practice."

He laughed.