From the Top of the Mountain

This fall, a little bit before Halloween, I received a bill from Oldest Son’s college listing a balance due on a previously paid in full account.  The federal student aid had been withdrawn.  I was on the phone to Student Accounts in a heartbeat.

“I thought that the fact that my son moved off campus this year wouldn’t have any affect on his financial aid,” I accused indignantly.

The gentleman on the other end did not take offense.  His name is Cory.  He remained calm as he explained to me that the grant was not withdrawn because my son moved off campus, rather, it had been withdrawn because my son had withdrawn from school. 

“No he didn’t.” I argued.  “He was just home over the weekend.  We talked about his classes.  He is still enrolled.”  I realize that my voice is starting to become shrill. 

“Well, if he is, he had better come in to Student Accounts and talk with me because we think that he has withdrawn.”

“I will do that!”  I almost choke on the indignation rising in my throat.  I am ready to drive the five plus hours to the college and do battle with the incompetence of the staff in Student Accounts.

I frantically begin calling Oldest Son.  He doesn’t answer.  He must be in class.  I text him, “Please call me ASAP!!!!”

I call again.

I text again.

He f-i-n-a-l-l-y calls.

My heart is racing.  I can barely breathe.  I can’t believe the school has messed up my son’s financial aid! I tumble over my words in a rush to get them out.  “Student Accounts doesn’t have you listed as being enrolled!”

Oldest Son is silent.

 

I babble on.  I am in overdrive and I don’t even know what I say.  I just know that it is NOT okay for the school to screw up like this.    All my mama bear instincts kick in and I am ready to go into battle for my son.

He says n-o-t-h-i-n-g. 

I use the quiet to take a breath.  I attempt to center myself.  I look around the room and start silently naming the things that I see.  Computer.  Pen.  File folders.  Bulletin board. Desk lamp. 

And then, he speaks. 

“I am not in school anymore.”

That’s all he says.  No excuses.  No explanation.  No details. 

“I’m not in school anymore.”  It echoes in my head, bouncing off my visions and hopes for him.

“I’m not in school anymore.”  The heaviness of his words sinks deep into my heart, and I ache for him.

The ache washes away shrill and angry.  The ache transforms hurt and confusion.  The ache breaks open my soul and I become my son’s pain.

“Oh sweetie, that must have been a hard decision.  I am SO sorry you felt like you had to make it by yourself.  Can you tell me about it?”  

With short, halting words, he explains his reasoning.  I gather his pebbles of truth and their combined weight drags me thirty years back in time.

I too am a college sophomore and I am having almost the same conversation with my mother.  I am talking to her from a small, cramped and sticky phone booth outside my dorm room.  Stale maltiness of spilled beer wafts up from the carpet. There is rubbish in the corner, a used kleenex and crumpled Hershey bar wrapper.  I kick it with my toe as I explain to my mother.  I am so worried about disappointing her.  I know I have fallen woefully short of her expectations.  More than anything in the world, I want my mother to be proud of me…just as I am.  And in this moment, I know I have just sucked her dry of every ounce of pride.

And I ache.

I ache for nineteen year old me.

I ache for my nineteen year old son.

I ache for my mother who has always, always, always wanted the best for me.

I pile the pain, one on top of the other.  There is a mountain of pain.  The mountain reaches into the sky, stretching towards the sun.  Towards warmth.  Towards Light.

Forty nine year old me climbs to the top of that mountain.  From the pinnacle, I can see so clearly.   I throw open my arms and welcome the Light.

“I am so proud of you!” I whisper into the phone.