Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Lost In Translation

Friday is here – exactly 2 weeks have passed since that day of gloom and doom. Clearly, it was not one of those Fridays when both body and soul become antsy and the air inside the office matches that of outside. Not for us, at least. I remember feeling exactly the opposite: my whole being was locked down in the deepest dungeon from a world of happy people, my chest heaving for air that seemed to be thinning by the seconds and eyes crying for tears that would not come. I don’t know how I did it, but I not only managed to sit through 1 hour of staff meeting with people whose presence reminded me of my imprisonment but also stayed extra hours that day. The truth is: I did not want to go home to face the music.

I have been there too many times. This time, I was even well ahead of the game, subconsciously preparing myself for the worst. History has that effect on you; it’s a survival instinct. After repeated blows, your body and heart will harden such that pain would not hurt that much. The impact is still present; you just don’t care. That is exactly where I was the whole day, carrying on with my work load as if nothing had happened. At well past 4, I called the father, comrade, partner-in-suffering to meet at a quiet restaurant where we could commiserate with the aid from food and spirits.

Two hours later, we stretched our party to its max with all food consumed and misery poured. The world finally seemed less cruel from the help of the half pitcher of red. We were actually laughing silly on the way home. Too soon, I knew even in that brief state of escape, when we would sober up to find the same life with no light at the end of the tunnel: a little less than 2 hours, to be exact, as we sat, too many times already, to face our “problem”. What is a problem when there is no possible solution? I wonder. The tricky question is: what do you do when such problem exists with no faults of its own? The “problem” was sitting across just a little more than a few feet away, his head down, body frozen and voice broken up with rasp breathing. It felt more than déjà vu after 20 years of reenacts. And yet somehow I was more consumed by his pain than my own. It is one thing to agonize over an unsolvable problem and another thing to be the problem, alienated in a world so confusing and hostile.

I thought about when it started, just about 2 years after he was born. Ironically, he was the perfect child before then: obedient, independent and smart. The light of our life, he brought the needed comfort and assurance in the midst of the turmoil when we first found out about his brother’s diagnosis of autism. For just as intruding and overwhelming his older brother’s impact was, so much hope and healing arose from his existence. I remember standing afar at the parking line watching him playing with other children, how I fought back the tears that had shed too often for different reasons. I remember too how he folded his little hands praying for his brother when I was lost in my frustration with Luke, both mother and son screaming and crying in anguish. I remember the pride and hope of seeing a little 5-year old cellist elevated on a platform because of his size playing with the orchestra in that church of Williamsburg, how he glistened under the dim chandeliers of that beautiful old sanctuary… A shooting star he was, the Cinderella glory ended not exactly at midnight when the clock chimed, but soon enough. Even with all evidences at home and reports from school, we failed to see him as he was. For the longest time he was lost in translation at a world so up close and personal and convicted guilty when innocent. Imagine a life of tragedy having to walk in darkness, speak in a language you don’t know and survive without means. Now imagine the guilt of being part of that jury on your own flesh and blood, resenting what he was and losing yourself in self-pity, simply because joy was replaced with gloom, hope by despair and that the blessing turned into a curse.

So there he was, facing his 2nd failed class and his panel of judges to account for the cause and resolution for this failure. He had given up to tears completely, even worse, hope. For almost 20 years, he has taken us to a roller coaster ride less the thrill and excitement, many times bringing us to the lowest of the pit and causing us to lose faith. But there and then, that Friday evening after sobering, I saw the real victim once again loud and clear in his broken admission (or question) “there is something wrong about me”.

As my ears ring with those words, I found my eyes moistened with tears that did not come that night. I was then the objective accuser and savior, aiming to save the soldier in defect, but now I am back to a mother with a broken heart. The reality has finally hit me that the mission of rectification was proven impossible -- How do you rescue someone from his peril when the peril is himself?

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Happy Mother's Day

May 9, 2010 marked the 22nd Mother’s Day for me. It was uneventful as the rest of the past Mother’s Days: no breakfast in bed, gifts or dining out. Both sons were home, but neither one offered any tokens of appreciation, which has become an unspoken expectation since they passed their young days. The father of the sons, however, surprised me with a bouquet of roses. The card reads: best mom (& wife – though it isn’t “wife day”) EVER. Mouthful yet precise, his usual to-the-point way. The kind compliment brought some smile on my face, although I couldn’t help wondering about its validity then and there. Never a gracious receiver, I did, however, return this thoughtful gesture with a polite but warm “thank you”.

The rest of the day was spent no more than any usual Sunday except that I actually remembered to call home and talk to my mother for well over an hour and half. Since my working career launched exactly 2 years ago, I have not been faithful with my phones calls as a good daughter should do. For dinner, I made a semi-elaborate meal with a roast, vegetable and potato -- another rare thing these days for a busy mom with a full time job. After dinner, the dutiful mother watched 2 episodes of “Breaking Bad” with son and husband, earning her “best mom/wife ever” title before the day ended.

4 whole days have passed and my trophy is still standing proud and tall in the vase with her dazzling crimson red, spelling out loud to me the title of “best mom”. In the 22 years of service, I have indeed received several similar compliments such as this and yet I continue to feel unconvinced and even uncomfortable with them. If anything, I am at times as perplexed with “motherhood” as the first day when I held my first born in my arms. On paper, I am the stereo type of straight A student: responsible, motivated, puts in her 24/7, sits through recitals and swim meets and monitors and tutors school, but the true test comes in the question what I would do given the 2nd chance of redoing this assignment. The answer is: I wouldn’t do what I did or be who I was.

What then would I not do if I were to do it all over again? I would first of all not do all the extra curriculum activities just because everyone else is doing it. I would be less consumed with their development and instead more focused with mine and that with my husband. Last but least of all, I would not spend all those years wishing time away when I should savor every single moment as if it were the last minute of being a mother.

Bottom line: I got everything backwards. Motherhood is not about raising children. It is about her discovery of humility and her own growth. The longer it is, the more I realize the object, my children, is actually the subject of the whole process. They are the teachers and role models. It is they that taught me to trust without fear, to forgive and forget, and to love unconditionally. Most of all, they show me the oxymoron of life in that less is more, curse is blessing, and brokenness is whole -- if I were careful to see it. For the longest time, my eyes were so blurred from my own ambition and agenda that I missed all the heaven hidden behind my children’s labels and wasted all the time in grief instead of joy.

Yes, if ever I were to be called “the best mom”, it would be in that I would finally come to my senses. Laying aside past regret, I am indeed older and wiser to stop my vain endeavor to be the perfect mom. I am learning to experience perfection through the hug I receive everyday when I walk in from a day of frustration and evil. Even in the midst of his desolation and tears, I see the other son’s innocence and, yes, perfection too. They have come into my life never meant to be changed but to change me.

Friday, May 7, 2010

How to lose a gal in 3 days

The long anticipated trip to New York after months of planning (and changing) finally arrived. Among 3 participants across the states of VA and NH, there had been numerous emails and phone correspondence to coordinate this major event. After all, there were hurdles to overcome, such as time-off from work, family coverage in time of absence and traveling means. I have never thought that it would be painstaking to leave all decisions to a group of 3 of the same sex, the female, when all evidences and experiences pointed to the frustration of working with the other inflexible sex. The reality is: too much freedom proved to be too much for comfort. Decision unmade means stagnation and thus regression and even depression. But the final hour did come for us to pack up and head out: two from VA and the other one from NH, meeting up in Jersey as our lodging point.

It started well: the weather was fair, the route choice was wise and the company, my partner-in-crime, more than pleasant. Except for the dent of some work emergency from a phone call from the boss, it was almost a perfect start. The trip was but a 6.5 hours of smooth drive with no delay and plenty of blue sky, spring air and splendid scenes to satisfy both body and soul. My initial anxiety about spending hours in a confined space with anyone other than my family proved to be wasted. S1, gentle and kind, provided not only comforting conversation but also precise navigation that the drive flew by in no time. We arrived in Metuchen, Jersey mid afternoon. While we waited for our host (cousin L and wife) who were still at work and the other accomplice driving down from NH, we took a walk around the blocks saturated in spring’s full bloom with colors and fragrance. Life was good; we felt almost as perfect as the sight itself.

The plan was to explore New York for 2 whole days. We took the train to the city, which was about 45 minutes away from Metuchen. With little agenda set, we proceeded with our exploration after a good night’s rest. S2, the other musketeer from NH, assumed the lead with her iPhone and natural sense of adventure. She was my first new friend in our life in VA 2nd time round, but ironically moved to NH, where we had moved from. With emails and phone calls, we miraculously have kept this long-distance relationship for over a year and half. She was in fact the instigator of this NY expedition. Independent and outspoken, she is the ideal friend with her sensibility minus sensitivity. I have always thought of her as a man trapped in a woman’s body, which constitutes all the qualifications for a perfect girlfriend. S1, on the other hand, is none the less inferior as a friend in her femininity and gentleness. While S2 may be the perfect girlfriend, S1 is the girl I want to be when I grow up. The three of us, different and unique inside out, played well and finished our first day of attempt in conquering the Big Apple from Central Park to China town.

As a born worrier who is also socially inept, I had my reservation about spending time with people for extended amount of time. 3 days would definitely fall into that category, not to mention playing, eating and rooming together. My anxiety had not been completely selfish; I worried not only for my own sake but also for my two friends who had never met prior to the trip. The later fear turned out to be superfluous as I witnessed their friendship budding and flourishing in as short as one day. Being the common denominator of the two, I noticed I became the outsider on the 2nd day. They talked on with each other effortlessly, while I struggled and failed to stay engaged or fit in. When we were together as 3, I found myself experiencing an out-of-body experience, looking on from above as if I was there but not there.

Was I bothered? I wouldn’t be thinking about it if I had not been. The more serious question is this: is 3 a crowd? I have to confess that I have been there, the 3rd wheel, more than once, or twice, though not necessarily every time. I have marveled at others’ dealing in any social situation and wondered if they are as engaging and at ease as they appear to be. I may look just like them, but the fear though well concealed is always there that they might find me out – the social imposter, fraudulence and fake. What of the topics and even qualities of the conversation? I find myself disappearing as they become uninteresting, which others never seem to notice. Then when they are interesting, I have to fight not to take over for the regret later! And there is rule of the eye contact, the listening, the response…. The whole process is exhausting!! Mayhap that’s why I become the 3rd wheel when I finally reach my limit and retreat. Above all, the more unbearable reality is the awkwardness afterwards. Try as I could to pretend nothing had changed, it strained and stretched to the end of the trip. Even after a couple of cover-up exchanges of emails and voice mails, I am afraid that S2 and I will never be the same. I had told her from the beginning that the trip was not a good idea, that we would ruin our friendship at the end. Never the wiser one, but my prediction then as a joke already had its valid basis for a fated doom.

Coming back, I was asked: how was the trip? I answered: it was great! Behind that smiling façade, I know well that it was not completely untrue: how can one not have fun and excitement in the Big Apple? Sad maybe in some way, it was still “great”-- considering a rediscovery of a valuable lesson learned: never do 3 again – 3 girls or 3 days.