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?