lights blinked the way they had when she viewed her mother in the hospital morgue. How many pamphlets did she need to be handed about hypertension, cancer, glaucoma, and heart disease? She knew about the dangers, the risks. At the last examination, two years ago, a young nurse in a pink smock with matching streaked braids in her hair handed Brenda a brochure on obesity and depression. But she hadnât asked her for a brochure. She hadnât asked her for a damned thing. She didnât mind skipping the loud silence of the nurse as she slid the little metal bricks across the bar when she stepped on the scale. Over more. A bit more. More.
Besides, there had been no time. There would be no time. ÂSephiriâs medical appointments and conferences with his careÂgivers and the hours spent waiting for prescriptions to be filled at the drugstore, at the Walgreens, at the Peopleâs pharmacy, ate up her accrued leave as soon as she earned it. In between, there were work deadlines, trips to the store, sitting in traffic, oil changes and repairs for the car, the endless laundry and soiled carpet cleanings. Putting herself first meant letting everything else fall.
If you want to be around for your son . . .
Brenda couldnât stop the words from ringing in her head. The thought of becoming ill and not being able to care for Sephiri, to run the regular and never-ending business of their lives, was too great a thought to fit into her mind. The thought of her boy at twenty years old, or thirty, filled her with angst. If she couldnât care for Sephiri, who would? There was no one else to try to follow Sephiri through the tunnels of his hours, the indivisible spaces of his mind. That she would be the one to do so until her dying breath was something she was absolutely certain of, and yet the road stretched long and bleak. Between his schedules and diet plans and medications and treatments, she didnât have the time to think about her own health, the nature and shape of her own existence apart from it all. Sheâd lost track of herself a long time ago. She didnât have the slightest idea of how to start climbing the mountain of her own life plan outside of Sephiri. Outside of autism.
âI like to see my patients lead full lives,â said the doctor.
But my life is already full , thought Brenda. It was full to the brim with everything. She looked at the poster on the examination-room wall. A woman was smiling with her two children sitting on her lap, a golden cross around her neck. Brenda had not been back to Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church since the last days of the trial. Sheâd known many of the people there since her childhood, when she sat in the pews as a girl. Horus was not one for church every Sunday, but she was able to get him to go on holidays. She remembered pleasant afternoons on the hill where the church stood, which had one of the best panoramic views of Washington, D.C. From the top, she could see the black Potomac River that snaked the white monuments, the giant obelisk piercing the sky. She had spent countless Fourth of July holidays watching the fireworks from that hill, holding sparklers in her hand as the sky exploded with color. She remembered looking out over the city on that Sunday after the verdict, furious with God. The women had gathered around her in a ring of prayer like moths circling a light, trying to balm her distemper, telling her what they told themselves a thousand times. God donât give you more than you can bear. Itâs all part of His plan. The Lord is testing you. But Brenda had watched them all try to deal with their own tragedies over the years and was never able to tell if the advice had been applicable to them. The son who was shot. The daughter whose home was visited by Child Protective Services. The mother whose lights were disconnected. The HIV-positive niece. The cousin who lost his job. The uncle whose leg the doctors said they had
Besides, there had been no time. There would be no time. ÂSephiriâs medical appointments and conferences with his careÂgivers and the hours spent waiting for prescriptions to be filled at the drugstore, at the Walgreens, at the Peopleâs pharmacy, ate up her accrued leave as soon as she earned it. In between, there were work deadlines, trips to the store, sitting in traffic, oil changes and repairs for the car, the endless laundry and soiled carpet cleanings. Putting herself first meant letting everything else fall.
If you want to be around for your son . . .
Brenda couldnât stop the words from ringing in her head. The thought of becoming ill and not being able to care for Sephiri, to run the regular and never-ending business of their lives, was too great a thought to fit into her mind. The thought of her boy at twenty years old, or thirty, filled her with angst. If she couldnât care for Sephiri, who would? There was no one else to try to follow Sephiri through the tunnels of his hours, the indivisible spaces of his mind. That she would be the one to do so until her dying breath was something she was absolutely certain of, and yet the road stretched long and bleak. Between his schedules and diet plans and medications and treatments, she didnât have the time to think about her own health, the nature and shape of her own existence apart from it all. Sheâd lost track of herself a long time ago. She didnât have the slightest idea of how to start climbing the mountain of her own life plan outside of Sephiri. Outside of autism.
âI like to see my patients lead full lives,â said the doctor.
But my life is already full , thought Brenda. It was full to the brim with everything. She looked at the poster on the examination-room wall. A woman was smiling with her two children sitting on her lap, a golden cross around her neck. Brenda had not been back to Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church since the last days of the trial. Sheâd known many of the people there since her childhood, when she sat in the pews as a girl. Horus was not one for church every Sunday, but she was able to get him to go on holidays. She remembered pleasant afternoons on the hill where the church stood, which had one of the best panoramic views of Washington, D.C. From the top, she could see the black Potomac River that snaked the white monuments, the giant obelisk piercing the sky. She had spent countless Fourth of July holidays watching the fireworks from that hill, holding sparklers in her hand as the sky exploded with color. She remembered looking out over the city on that Sunday after the verdict, furious with God. The women had gathered around her in a ring of prayer like moths circling a light, trying to balm her distemper, telling her what they told themselves a thousand times. God donât give you more than you can bear. Itâs all part of His plan. The Lord is testing you. But Brenda had watched them all try to deal with their own tragedies over the years and was never able to tell if the advice had been applicable to them. The son who was shot. The daughter whose home was visited by Child Protective Services. The mother whose lights were disconnected. The HIV-positive niece. The cousin who lost his job. The uncle whose leg the doctors said they had
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