“Eesinnuh, eesinnuh.”
My mind flashed to Citizen Kane and Rosebud. I imagined Ben decades from now on his deathbed, uttering his last thoughts to someone who has no more idea what he means than I did. “Eesinnuh, eesinnuh.”
It had been a nice day. Ben’s occupational therapist had called to cancel his standing appointment, which meant we had no scheduled activities for him that day. That can be a challenge. But the weather was nice for January, and Ben always loves the train. He and I had climbed into the van and headed for the Linden stop at the end of the Evanston el line.
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One of the good things about this park is the unbroken fence that runs along the top of the bluff and makes it impossible for Ben to climb down to the beach. Walks along the beach can be nice, but he inevitably wants to go much farther than he should–wants to climb over a rusty seawall, head up onto private property, or wade out into the freezing water fully clothed to get around a barrier. I wasn’t in the mood for that brand of fun.
At first I thought we were now just going for a walk, and maybe we were, though later I realized he might have thought that somehow the sidewalk would eventually lead to the water. But at that moment I said to Ben, “Oh, OK. We are taking a walk.” I was relieved to have avoided a scene. And we both needed the exercise.
Imagine what life must be like when you have a desire, let alone a burning need, to say something, to communicate–joy, pain, curiosity, frustration, hunger, affection, fear, fatigue–and you can’t. Ben’s friends have to be detectives, but even then we figure out what he’s trying to tell us only if we–and he–are lucky. This Saturday I wasn’t.
