“Stop hemming and hawing and get in with the others.”
The Girl complied, not knowing what else to do, wanting to remain inconspicious, and hoping no one would notice she hadn’t changed clothes the day before. That shouldn’t have been a problem, since apart from the see-thru cannister holding a figure suspended in liquid, nothing changed in this sterile environment. She ventured past the main entrance, expecting today to be no different than the others, only to see that instead of the workplace being swarmed with everybody off doing their own thing, they were seated together in chairs enveloping a large circle. From all accounts, it looked like they were gathered for a pretty important meeting.
This was problematic. No one told her about this. She’d never receive word that something like this might happen. Sneaking away unnoticed would be a challenge.
Her questions of what this was all about were rebuffed. The only way she could gleam any information was via secondhand guesses by overhearing her same query addressed to other young women her age. Apparently, this was a public forum, a free flow of ideas. If there was a complaint about the workplace, you could bring it up. If you needed more time to focus on a project that was suffering problems, you could bounce suggestions around. There would be no restrictions on any subjects they’d like to talk about.
So she shouldn’t have been surprised when the first thing they wanted to talk about was their children. The Mother next to her complained about her child who she jokingly called her ‘Little Professor’.
“I go out of my way to provide enjoyment for him, buying everything I would’ve loved to have as a kid, and what does he do? Sticks with just one toy over everything else. And it’s not even an intellectual toy - just a simple top. He shows no interest in any other toys in the room, not even the other tops. Every day, he spins the top over and over again, and screams if its taken away from him. And when he’s not spinning his top, he’s spinning himself. Going in circles in place, whirling his arms outwards at a ridiculous speed until he falls down. Then he gets up and does it all over again. It makes me sick to see him do that. All his energy is devoted to spinning motions, as if the secrets of the Universe would be revealed if he looked long enough.”
Even though she was supposed to keep a low profile, the Girl piped up with a thought that suddenly occurred to her. “They say, ‘Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result’. Then surely, wouldn’t the definition of Sanity be doing the same thing over and over, and expecting the same result?”
“Have you done any spinning yourself?”
“Of course not! It’s undignified!”
“Then don’t stick your nose in matters that don’t concern you.”
“I don’t mind,” an Exasperated Mother piped up. “The line between genius and insanity is a slim one. My kid is the sweetest kid you ever saw. But he was born without a lick of common sense. He refuses to go out in danger zones without a helmet because, ‘I don’t like how it feels. Besides, I haven’t been hurt yet, so what’s the problem?’. The problem is that that helmet is supposed to save him from accidents. But he’s more concerned about being unable to scratch an itch than getting his head smashed in, and winding up immobile for the rest of his life.”
She stood up and started pacing around the circle, warming up to her subject.
“To make matters worse, he’s simply terrible at asserting himself. Whenever someone talks to him, he’ll start off looking interested, then gradually, a scowl will appear on his face, becoming more visible, making the speaker extremely uncomfortable. If he could just simply speak up, he’d let them know he had to go to the bathroom. Or he’ll think of something relevant, but once the moment passes, it’ll be on his mind throughout the whole conversation, and he can’t let it go until it segues slightly towards that topic.”
“You have to constantly probe him to uncover his secrets, which he hoards like a miser, but reveals without reservation once given the proper key words. Just last week, I mentioned that I stubbed my toe, and he sympathized, having had chest pains and red blotches over the past few days. This was alarming since our family has a history of heart disease. It turned out to be torn pec muscles from trying to open a jar of spaghetti sauce, but there was a bit of a scare there. If it had been something serious, he wouldn’t know how to react. My lecture with him went something like this:”
‘Do you know why you were admitted and released so quickly?’
‘It wasn’t as serious as they thought.”
‘I thought it was an emergency. It sounded like a heart attack.’
‘Didn’t feel like one.’
“How would you know?’
‘For starters, there wasn’t any numbness anywhere else in my body, I still had my mental faculties, my words didn’t slur and my blood pressure felt fine. If I had an actual heart attack, I would’ve raised the alarm.’
“Considering how inattentive he is in life, it’s a wonder he’s still alive.”
The Girl’s eyes kept darting about furtively. More than being bored by listening to another Mother story she didn’t want to hear, the lack of response surrounding the effects of her overnight experiment was worrying her. What was taking so long for everyone to notice? If it was a failure, she’d have to do this another day, and who knew how long that would be.
The Exasperated Mother continued; “I’ve looked after my kid all my life, and frankly, I’m getting sick of it. I need outside help. When I put in a request for additional services, the Prognosiser rattled off a long list of insulting terms such as:”
‘Can you talk?’
‘Can you walk?’
“Can you put your clothes on?”
“Can you prepare breakfast?”
‘Can you go to the bathroom?’
“Going to the bathroom all by yourself shouldn’t be considered the bare minimum! He can DO all that stuff and more! But the things he needs help with don’t show up in prognosis sheets. I try to point out what they miss, but they don’t want to move past their comfort zone - it would mean more work for them. When they finally finished the questionnaire, their verdict was that he was very independent, and had enough support at home, and didn’t need more.”
“I spent years in this maddening system trying to wrest any support, incapable of showing he was capable. I was told I was a fool to register him too early, but even with my head-start, was barely able to receive any help without an uphill fight. And before I knew it, my boy became too old, which disqualified him from getting additional services. To support his cause, he wrote a personal 3-page essay on his daily troubles.”
“‘You wrote this yourself?’ the Prognosiser asked, looking not at my son, but right at me. ‘All by my lonesome,’ my son replied, completely ignoring the Prognosiser’s avertive gaze.”
“While I constantly reminded him to complete the task, all the wording and sentences were his. There were some lines I would’ve rephrased myself, but didn’t want to distract from the authenticity of the text. The Prognosiser looked through the document, and said he’d come to a decision. Three weeks later, we were notified that, because of the high quality of the essay, they were refusing our request for further assistance.”
‘The essay proves that he’s extremely talented and doesn’t need further help. He’s obviously very independent, and can get along just fine by himself.’
“He requires constant intervention just to leave his room!”
“He can’t be disabled. Look at all the things he can do!”
“He can’t cope with everyday scenarios!”
“Don’t put him down so much. We’re asserting positivity.”
“It’s as if I’m being punished for being too efficient. If I’d been more abusive towards my son, he’d be more eligible for services. Ironically enough, if he wound up in a coma, he’d receive more help than if he were helpless. If at all possible, I would regulate my daily nagging to someone else, but wouldn’t be reassured by their qualifications. My child is an absolute genius, but he’s trapped in a shell of absolute idiocy.”
The Girl wasn’t sure if the Exasperated Mother was talking about the child’s idiocy or the system’s, when they were suddenly interrupted by a welcome interruption.
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