parallel universe

With tears in my eyes I tell my husband, "I would have been a good mother." He says that I am; he also knows what I mean. Like all expectant mothers and fathers, I had faith in the promises of parenthood—pretty much counted on them, even in my dreams—only to find out those promises are for some parents but not others.

We live near a small liberal arts college where Michael teaches photography, on a street which divides the main campus from the athletic fields. When school is in session, the nearby sidewalks and paths pulse with streams of energetic students. Whenever I walk Smellie to the fields, students nod or say hello to me. Masked up, I smile with my eyes and, at the beginning of the semester, I tell them how great it is to have them back in town. As they disappear over my shoulder, my smile melts. With stinging eyes, I think of Calvin. I wonder, again, what he might have been like if not for his brain anomaly. I ask myself:

What kind of student would he have been? Might he have been a math lover, professor or photographer like his father? Would he have been a skillful illustrator, designer or writer? Would he have been a talented athlete? What kind of conversations would we have had? Would he have had a zany sense of humor? or would he have had nothing in common with us to speak of? 

I allow my mind to wander to a parallel universe, aware that if things hadn't gone south, Calvin might be looking into colleges by now. Maybe he would've preferred one close to home. Perhaps he would've wanted to head out west to our beloved California. Maybe he'd fall in love there and never return. Perhaps he'd take a year off to travel.

I imagine these scenarios often, knowing none of them will transpire. The loss of those options, those dreams and promises of parenthood, weighs on me with each missed milestone, and probably always will; (we'll never know the joy of being grandparents, for instance.) Maybe that is partly why I cherish the relationships I've made—and kept close to my heart for years—with some of Michael's students: Arnd, Nick, Ivano, Emma, Micah, Hector, Ouda, James, Aspen, Moira, Raisa, Margot, James, Macy, Pawat, Ben, Jean-Paul, Daniel, Salam, Maina, Garrett, Izzy, Trevor, Nevan, Preeti, Colin, Henry, Alice, Octavio, Darius, Nate, J.P., Brennan, Niles, Katie, Jude. They are all incredible young folks—smart, kind, creative, confident, humble, generous and thoughtful—just like we would have raised Calvin to be ... in some parallel universe.

But Calvin, who is seventeen and is inching up on me, and whose face I heartbreakingly shaved for the first time the other day, still chews baby rattles, wears diapers, and loves to be cradled. Though some doctors cited a developmental hiccup, I still grieve whatever it was that caused his brain to be so messed up. I often wonder what kind of boy he would have been, what kind of grownup. I wonder what kind of parent I would have been if things had turned out differently. I like to imagine I would have been a rock star mom to an ordinary, healthy child. You know, one with high expectations though not too strict, one who encouraged autonomy, inspired confidence, offered praise, taught introspection, one not hung up on some of the puritanical aspects of American society. After all, I've always loved children—babysitting them, teaching them, coaching them—even the rambunctious, sometimes irreverent tweens and teens, perhaps because I never really lost touch with my goofy, rowdy, childish self.

But rather than excelling at motherhood in the ordinary ways, I've had to be my son's primary companion (he has no friends), his doctor, his physical and occupational therapist, pharmacist, caregiver and nurse, all rolled into one. That's the kind of mother Calvin needs me to be, and so I'm down. And I know I'm not the only parent who faces deep sorrows, losses, challenges and struggles. I just wish I lived in a certain kind of parallel universe—one which feels light years away—if only for a moment.

collective breath

On the way to Woody's, walking hand in hand with Calvin and Smellie, a friend approached on the other side of the street riding his bicycle. We shouted above a passing car or two, then he peddled across and stopped a safe distance in front of us. After chatting a bit, I asked how he and his family were doing.

"Oh, we're struggling," he said in a resigned tone.

My heart sunk.

"Yes, everyone is struggling in their own way," I replied.

He smiled, put his head down to find his peddle and nodded. We said fond goodbyes as he rode off.

When Calvin, Smellie and I reached Woody's house, I called him on the phone. When he picked up, and from opposite sides of his window, we complained about the biting wind, and I told him about my conversation with the neighbor. Woody's silence made me think he agreed that life is strange and difficult right now.

I've been thinking about the tens of millions of unemployed Americans struggling to make ends meet. While I believe we need to continue to shelter in place to mitigate the stress on the healthcare system, I'm sympathetic to the need for hurting people to get back to work. So, too, I've been lamenting those who are sick and suffering and who have lost loved ones to this insane virus. I've been missing seeing friends, gathering around a table to share food and drink and to shoot the shit from across a table. I miss the college students terribly; their absence is palpable and I know it has been hard on them to be away this semester. I feel things have been particularly devastating to doctors, nurses and teachers, especially those with young families.

Strolling home from Woody's house, Calvin turned to me for a hug, and while I embraced him I took a deep, collective breath for everyone.

dear students

The field behind our home belongs to Bowdoin College. On its eastern edge sits a small dorm which used to be a retirement home. In the center of the field is a picturesque, one-room schoolhouse painted all white and raised up on cinderblocks. It has been vacant for decades and now serves as a toolshed of sorts. Every year from August to May, we watch students come and go from classroom to dining hall, to dorm. In the spring they play frisbee in the back field, or lay on blankets in the sun and study. On weekend nights they walk in groups to and from parties. In the spring and autumn, I wave at them when I'm watering the garden as they stroll past. I learn to recognize and get to know some of them. I come to love others.

A couple of nights ago we got the news that the college students will not be returning to school after spring break because of the coronovirus. Their belongings will be put in storage or sent back to them at home, wherever that is. They'll spend the break with their families—at least those who have families—and some of them will come back to collect their things in a few weeks. Those who cannot return to their homes due to hot spots of coronovirus, like Italy, are allowed to stay on campus where they'll be mostly alone, though fed and supported. Classes will resume online somehow.

The absence of close to two-thousand students in this fairly small town is already palpable, and will be for some time to come. We won't see them at local establishments. We won't pass them walking to athletic practice, won't hear them laughing and cheering when the weather warms, may not enjoy seeing them in them dressed in their spring best and caps and gowns for graduation. Without them, ours will feel a bit like a ghost town. My heart already longs for them. Because of Calvin's disabilities, I grieve the fact that he'll never go to college. Instead, and though it's bittersweet, though mostly sweet, I imagine him in some of them.

At then end of every semester Michael invites his students over for dinner. It has been a tradition since he began teaching photography here twenty years ago. At those gatherings I look forward to communing with the students. Some of them I recognize from previous dinners here, their interest in photography as a means of looking at the world and themselves differently—as taught so masterfully by my husband—inspiring them to take advanced classes. Every semester there are a few who take the time to visit with me and to ask about Calvin. Some of them have made dinner for me and Michael at their apartments. Others invite themselves over here. Some have joined us for Thanksgiving. One dear has let me crash for a weekend at his family's home in Manhattan and has fed me at their restaurant. More than a handful follow my blog, for which I am most grateful. A few keep in touch after graduating by writing, calling and visiting. Some my heart has silently adopted. As if a child or brother of mine who lived with us for a stint or two, one former student's premature death I will mourn forever, just as memories of him I'll savor as life gifts. I don't remember all of their names, but some of my favorites come to mind—Arnd, Ivano, Nick, Emma, Hector, Katie, Ouda, James, Aspen, Moira, Micah, Raisa, Margot, Ahmad, Seth, Emily, Henry, Jude, Samantha, Hassan, Macy, Daniel, Victoria, Pawat, Ben, Meghan, Jean-Paul, Octavio, Drew, Blanche, Salam, Maina, Brennan, Theo, Garrett, Izzy, Darius, Trevor, J.P., Alice, Nevan, Preeti, Colin, Nate, Niles. We miss seeing all of them—all of you. I hope I didn't miss anyone.

Hopefully, sooner rather than later, we'll get on top of this coronovirus and limit its spread. The Occupant and his administration did not get off to a very good start, so its likely to get far worse before it gets better. Michael and I fear what it might mean for classes next September. I hurt for the students, especially those meant to graduate this May. But these Bowdoin College "kids" are remarkable and no doubt resilient. Others like them—so hopeful, curious, talented, generous, thoughtful, industrious—I rarely encounter.

Dear Students, call if you want. Stop by anytime, unannounced even. Try not to be strangers. We are here for you if you need. You are on our minds and in our hearts. Please know that we love and miss you.

May 2015