Where Are The Lasagnas?

NOTE: I wrote this unrhymed poem after talking to a long-time, dear friend Saturday night who is grappling with raising an autistic, bipolar son alone. It is for anyone shouldering heart-rendering burdens that are still not easily understood by mainstream society: all my Ala-non friends struggling to help adult children battling crippling addictions, the many parents I know of children with severe mental illness, and anyone feeling intense, misunderstood grief. It is not meant to minimize the unimaginable pain of anyone who has actually lost a child, saw a son or daughter off to war, or battled a ravaging illness. I am not trying to make anyone feel bad for not acknowledging another's pain, either. We all do our best in this crazy world. I am just trying to express something I have not seen addressed before. Here goes:

WHERE ARE THE LASAGNAS?

There has been no death,

No gnawing cancer,

No hellish war.

My son has not marched to the battlefield,

Felt the sting of chemo in his veins,

Lain under a cold blanket of sod

With autumn leaves as a brittle pillow.

Yet I am grieving

As if all those things had happened,

And more.

In truth, there are dark days

When I would prefer a more traditional burden

Had been placed upon my shoulders.

Then, there would be lasagnas.

A long line of neighbors

Would be like picnic ants,

Beating a path to my door.

Arms would enfold me,

Comforting words would be murmured,

And my grief would be easier borne

Because it would be shared.

I have tried to be honest.

I wear my pain like bright patches of blood--

Surely you can see that I have been wounded?

Am I not wearing my organs outside my body,

Hanging there like gory medallions

For everyone to see?

But the ants and the medics pass by

For other, easier emergencies.

Are my injuries invisible, then?

Or maybe you just can't imagine

Your feet inside my messy, bloody shoes.

Maybe you fear that if you helped me,

You would be pulled into the quicksand, too,

Disappearing under the sheer weight

Of all my pressing problems.

As I ponder this, I wonder:

Does my son feel this way, too?

How alone must he feel in the darkness?

Every time he steps out of his cocoon,

Perhaps he directs himself,

"Act normal. Act normal. Act normal."

And despite his best efforts,

Each time he causes another ripple in the pond,

Maybe he retreats further,

Until one sad day

He begins to disappear altogether.

He, too, must think that no one sees his pain

Or hears his desperate cries

Or feels the urge to feed him.

Where are the lasagnas?

END NOTE: As I write this, I feel cowed by all the people I haven't helped over the years, by the pain I just didn't see or know how to address. I didn't know the right words to say, or I couldn't relate because it hadn't happened to me. There is so much pain in the world, and the pain that is tinged with shame seems the worst to me now.

I vow to bake more lasagnas.