It’s Not Over
“It’s not over until everything is alright, and if it’s not alright, it’s not over.” – The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel
Just this week I made the long and crazy drive from the northeast to the southeast. Long, because it takes eleven hours. Crazy because there is no way of describing the trip south on 95 until you have done it. Don’t do it. Unless you need to get there, and I did.
I enjoy long, solo drives. I stress solo. No one criticizes my driving, my creative interpretation of the annoying GPS woman, or the decision to stop for black coffee every 48 minutes. None of my near and dear understand this form of self-imposed isolation. But here’s the thing: I have total freedom to rule the tiny principality that exists within the interior of my car. Since the advent of hands-free cell phones, I can sing along with satellite channel Broadway ballads. Observers in other wheel driven principalities may believe I’m closing a deal, or instructing my staff at my island home. Okay, when passing my Jeep, no one is imagining my exotic third home. I do have to be careful not to gesture too much with my arms at the big Broadway finale. My aria arms don’t fit in with my fake decision making exercise, and of course I should have my hands on the wheel.
In an effort to save my voice, I switch over to radio programs produced before I was born. I have a tiny crush on Jack Webb (Dragnet) and his signature line, “Just the facts, ma’am,” still makes me shiver. But, it’s hard to avoid the news channels. The stress of the election insanity is not good for my recent health challenges, so I’m on a fast. I read two newspapers and don’t tune in to any electronic media. Only a few more weeks and I can go home to my Sunday morning news programs. But, there is available a range of way out there media that covers what I discovered to be fascinating topics.
Somewhere around Delaware I caught up with the latest doomsday predictors. They are in the midst of damage control because doomsday was scheduled for last May. When that didn’t happen, the date was certain to be this past September. Yet, here we are. Apparently the signals weren’t getting through the aluminum foil hats worn by the faithful. I’m sure there were sincere believers among these followers, so I mean no offense. But doomsday thinking fascinates me.
Parenting a child with emotional challenges is often vulnerable to a large dose of doomsday warnings: He doesn’t fit in; he can’t learn; he won’t complete any sort of education. These theorists who predicted the end was near had to do their own damage control when he emerged with a high school diploma, and began community college. They didn’t count on the teachers who wouldn’t give up, or the mental health professionals who dug deeper for solutions, helping us find joy and hope. They didn’t count on my son.
The radio reports about the elusive doomsday happenings made me laugh. The story also brought back the bittersweet memories of our struggle to outrun the odds-makers. Our family stumbled through our own doomsday prophecies, but stayed on our feet – most of the time.
I turned off the channel on the end is near folks hours before the sun had completed its daily ritual and disappeared to make way for the moon. I had arrived. The GPS was happy, although I couldn’t shut her up as she repeatedly told me she was, “recalculating, make a legal U-turn.” She’s quiet now, sleeping in the garage.
Troubled families and children with disabilities experience the best and the worst that the world has to give. There are people like those who are part of this blog who care and who fight for you every day. Tell the doom-sayers to find another cliff and take a leap out of your life.
It’s a great day for a great day. Enjoy. And let me know how to get that Australian dude on my GPS.
