Swiss Cheese & Spooning

Alex & Ruby enjoying the water; canoeing in Uncle Jake's canoe. Lehi, Utah, October 2012

I am a girl who always has a song in my head. And, in case you were wondering, I am also a girl who is usually singing the wrong lyrics to that song. One of my other talents include: taking the lyrics from one song and unknowingly inserting them into the music of another song. I think I’m inventive, an original….creative. My husband thinks I’m bat crazy. Anyway, last winter when “Les Miserable” came out in theaters, I went to watch it with a friend while visiting Jackson. First of all, it’s worth noting that I should not have gotten the X-large diet Coke and drank it, in its entirety, before the previews even finished, because as a rule, I usually have too much guilt to inconvenience anyone as I awkwardly climb over them so I can use the bathroom; thus my bladder was pulsating in synchronized harmony to the opening notes of Hugh Jackman’s solo (unlike me, my bladder sings first soprano).  The other item worth noting was that about the second song into the film, (which in case you haven’t seen the movie, the most recent version of “Les Miserable” is done like the play….entirely in song) from the dark, relative calm of the theater boomed a man’s voice, “Hey, LaRay, what’s with all this singing?” he wondered, perplexed. LaRay, in obvious frustration hissed back, “Well, Harold, as I mentioned before, this is a musical. The whole movie is done in song!” Then, as Harold burst to his feet, his popcorn bucket flying into the air, he cried, “Dammit LaRay!  What did you drag me to???” So, once Harold had exited, and I did some meditative breathing in order to ignore and accept my sloshing bladder, I was able to settle into the show, absorb the story, and loose myself in the angst of those suffering during the French Revolution.

 
“Les Miserable” which in translation means; “The miserable ones, the wretched, the poor ones, the victims.”  Is based on a novel written by Victor Hugo.  And without remotely getting into the story line (You can Google it if you really want to know) let’s just say, the heart of the message of Les Miserable is love and compassion are the most important gifts one person can give another and unfettered love can literally change the course of a person’s life . The show includes some stunning, tear inducing, flag waving, jump to your feet and cheer music (Harold had NO IDEA what he missed out on…plus, I’m guessing he didn’t get any spooning when he and LaRay made it home that night).

Same old same old: Alex enjoying what he's always enjoyed: Sea World.
San Antonio, Texas. November 2012

So, with so much musical material pulsating in the very synopsizes of my brain, I spent the whole weekend immersed in 19^th century France.  I would jump from song to song, flitting from “Master of the House” which to my utter frustration, the only lyrics that I could remember included the opening stanza of…”Master of the house” and from that point on it was….dun duh dun duh dun….” To “I Dreamed a Dream” to “Red and Black.” I work for the airlines and I remember being in the gate area, and because (as mentioned previously) I make up my own wrong lyrics to songs, instead of “Red, the blood of angry men/black the dark of ages past!” I was thinking, “Red! The color of Delta/Blue! The color of U-nit-ed!” and I REALLY wanted people to line up in a military fashion and march in synchronized time and beep their boarding passes to the downbeat of the song…but alas…I’m sorry to report passengers NEVER want to march in syncopated time (sigh).

I flipped from song to song, all weekend long, except, every time the aching notes from “Bring him home” slipped past my myelin sheath, blipped like a heartbeat on the electrical pathways firing through my gray matter, I blinked back, shook away the transmission. I knew if I was ever to board a plane on time, or close the door, or make sure Mr. Choy got on the flight headed to SLC and not the one headed to ORD, that it would be best if I was not in the fetal position in front of the gate reader, (clunk clunk go the roller bags over my torso...).



Assume the position: Alex & Boo Bear in their traditional spot; waiting for dad to come home.
San Antonio, Texas. October (thus the spiderwebs) 2012

Bring him home, is a song that reminds me so much of my first born. Specifically it’s linked to a memory that usually grows dusty in the vault of unspeakable sadness. But, because I am apparently a sadist, I will plunk it from its rusty cage to examine it with you; A few years back when Alex was 12, and awkward at best, I took the boys to go see a movie. They had just finished the last day of school before Christmas break started and their excitement was almost palpable. Snowflakes hung in wispy puffs in the frigid night air as we walked into the theater, and as we settled into our seats, some friends came walking down the aisle. We had not arranged to meet them, but Alex was especially excited to see them there. He approached them timidly, recklessly, asking if he could sit by them. I watched from the back of the theater as they pointed to the row behind them, explaining that some of their friends were meeting them and they were saving seats for those friends, but Alex could sit behind them if he wanted. I watched my son trip through the row behind his peers, and sit down apprehensively; wondered if he knew he had been dismissed. The lights dimmed as two other kids joined Alex’s friends, flanking them on either side, but empty seats remained on that same row as the opening credits to the movie started. As a mother I watched the scene unfold, torn between contempt for the kids for their wreck less unkindness, mixed with understanding; they were twelve too. They were in sixth grade too. They wanted to be cool too. And Alex could be difficult, awkward and would admittedly bring their pre-pubescent coolness level down several notches.  I wondered, “Does he know he’s being blown off?” But he seemed ok, and eventually I turned my attention to Spencer and Logan and became immersed in the story line.

About twenty minutes into the movie, Alex approached me, the hood from his jacket hiding the side of his face as he leaned in and said, “I want to go home now.” I was surprised. Alex had wanted to see this movie for weeks. “Why don’t you sit by me,” I started, as I traded seats with Spencer, “Here, have some popcorn,” I offered, trying to distract him. He hesitated, and then sat down for a moment, taking the popcorn bucket, but before he even grabbed his first handful, he gave it back to me saying more loudly, “I want to go home now. I really want to go home. Just take me home.” “Ok” I said, noting the panic tone of his voice.  We stumbled to the aisle as I whispered to Spencer and Logan that I would be right back. By the time we reached the parking lot, Alex was uncharacteristicly crying, by the time we reached our car, he was sobbing. By the time we made it through the first light, turning left onto the highway to drive the few miles home, Alex’s sobs had turned into ragged, stuttering staccato gasps, “They don’t want me,” he lamented in heartbreaking gulps into the dark. “They don’t want me.”

Alex & his faithful companion Boo Bear, Jackson Wyoming December 2011

In the house I said the same things I’d said in the car, ending once again with, “I’m sorry buddy. I know how much it hurts to feel rejected.”  I tried again to hug my son, but he shrugged me off as he peeled his jacket from his retreating form. “I just want to go to bed,” he said between sobs. “Do you want me to run you a tub?” I asked, putting my hand on his back as we climbed the stairs. “Yes.” He said, reaching the bathroom. I turned on the water, pulled pajamas from his bottom drawer and clean underwear from his top one. Placed a folded towel (the one he likes best because it’s new and the terry cloth is soft and not rough like some of the older towels) on the edge of the sink, I closed the door and stood awkwardly in the hall until I heard him sink into the water and turn the facet off.  Through the door I explained I needed to go get his brothers. “It’s okay.” He said through the wall, his delivery monotone, his unusual display of emotion drained from his voice, all inflection gone he answered, “I’m fine now.”

In the car, as I drove, numb, waiting for the blast of cold from the heater vent to finally turn to warmth, I unconsciously flipped on the radio, forgetting Les Miserable had been playing on the CD player, and wouldn’t you know it, but what song was just starting? None other than, “Bring Him Home.” (Merry Christmas to all! Break out the eggnog and the confetti guns! I’m feeling festive!!) The anguish suffused musical plea filled the space inside the frigid car as I drove, “God on high/hear my prayer/in my need/you have always been there. / He is young/he’s afraid/let him rest/Heaven blessed. /bring him home/bring him home/bring him home.” By the time I reached my boys in the theater, I shook with the pathetic unvoiced heartache of a mother. As I slipped into the seat next to Logan, he turned to me, his eyes alight with excitement from the movie and whispered as best he could, “Such an inspiring portrayal of a hero giving his all for the world leaves me feeling the same way you are mother, just more towards the excitement level and not so much the crying level, but, as dad pointed out, you are a girl.”  

Logan, Alex and Spencer checking out Alex's new Ipad he earned. Jackson, Wyoming. December 2011

When Alex was six, and diagnosed with autism, the doctor explained, “Alex’s brain is sort of like Swiss cheese. Some areas are highly developed, some areas are holes.” That night, after I got Spencer and Logan to bed, I stood in the open door dark of Alex’s room, listening to the hitch in his otherwise normal breathing. Distraught, I padded down the stairs to lie on the couch next to the Christmas tree; allowing myself to lamented about the holes. I knew no child, no person for that matter is immune to suffering (everyone has to endure middle school) but I ached for the missing parts of Alex, for the way he would always stumble in social settings, unsure how to navigate through the nuances of life. I wondered how the holes came to be… and where that sugar cookie cut out piece of him was? Was his soul intact when it came from Heaven? And if so, how could I help him be whole again? And so my plead, like Valjean, became a cry to Heaven, “He’s like the son I might have known/if God had granted me a son/ the summer’s die, one by one/how soon they fly, on and on/and I am old and will be gone/ bring him peace, bring him joy/he is young, he is only a boy/ You can take, You can give/let him be, let him live./If I die, let me die, let him live/bring him home, bring him home/bring him home.”       

If you were like Harold and bailed early, what you might not know about Les Miserable is that when this song is sung, it’s in reference to a boy, “Marius” who has been shot during the revolution. Also worth noting Harold, is that this boy is in love with Valjean adopted and beloved daughter Cozette. Initially, Valjean had forced Cozette to flee from Marius and the possibility of where their love would lead, because he was afraid of being exposed, afraid of losing Cozette and the love they shared, so he ran,  made the decision to flee based on his own pain, fear and grief. This song is sung because he realizes he was selfish and wrong. He doesn’t want to stand in the way of his child’s happiness.

Spencer, Logan & Alex: Enjoying the sunset in Maui, Hawaii. April 2012

Le Miserable’s (which is to say, the miserable ones, the wretched, the poor ones, the victims) story line has apparently grown to include twenty first century America, and specifically me. Because as time has marched on, I’ve recognized I am the pathetic one because I am the one who really has the holes. With aching clarity I can count off my inadequacies, list my gaping, swaggering missteps and like Valjean, as I’ve started to absorb my mistakes, I know one hole (a chasm of space really) includes the times I have made my grief more important than my child’s grief.

My prayers have ceased to be prayers where I plead for God to make my son “whole” but rather, prayers of petition, the pleading of a mother, whose sole desire is that God can help this Swiss cheese soul of mine to somehow become cheddar, (and a good cheddar, solid cheddar like Tillamook cheddar). I have prayed that my thoughts and words and actions will always grow from the root of love. That I will remember the most important gift one person can give another is the gift of love and compassion.  

And so it’s good for me to occasionally caress the lyrics of this song. To remember it’s not all about me, in fact, it’s not about me at all, and as I remember, my pleas to heaven become pleas for redemption; “If I die/let me die/let him live/Bring him home/bring him home. Oh Harold, if only you would have stayed….you could have had popcorn, insight and spooning too.

 

Uncle Jake, Sammy, Spencer, Alex, Grace, Logan & Issac, celebrating Old Faithful (finally) going off. Yellowstone June 2012