To the Struggle Bus

Some days, before you even get up, you know you will be riding the struggle bus. Yesterday may have ended, you may have gone to bed, but the day was far from over. The “to-do” list got longer and the “done” list didn’t. The alarm goes off and you hear it all downstairs, waiting for you, all your obligations mingling, grabbing a cup of coffee and toasting Pop Tarts, making themselves right at home. You have just enough time to take a shower and figure out what to wear. The bus will be pulling up shortly. You expect to take up several seats.

Other days, the ride is a surprise. Humming along, literally and figuratively, while you mow the lawn for the first time this spring. The lawn mower started right up and the lines you carve into the grass make the day seem neat and clean. You feel responsible and capable in this everyday chore. And then, you remember it’s summer. July 4th is coming. You remember being in the NICU, watching fireworks from the window. The nurse explained earlier he will be a special needs baby. She thinks it’s bad news, but you’re relieved because no one has talked about his future at all, as if he had a future. He didn’t. The bus pulls up; the doors open. Everyone riding is quiet today.

Sometimes your husband rides the bus or your dad or mom. Sometimes your niece or nephew. Sometimes your next door neighbor gets on and she’s in so much pain she can barely get there, but everyone makes it on when it’s time to ride. Sometimes you see people riding who you don’t really like and you’re reminded that you once did. Sometimes you see your son walk out the door and when you look out the window, it’s there. When he was little you could ride with him, but you can’t anymore. You can only hope it’s a short trip. All you do is wait.

And it’s not called the struggle bus for nothing. The driver is always new and never knows where to go. One day, she plays only Chuck Mangione songs thinking it will cheer everyone up, but it only makes things worse. Or there was the time when he was so short, his feet didn’t touch the pedals enough to really hit the brake, so the bus could slow down but never really stop and he had to blow his horn through all the intersections. The bus overheats a lot and always far away from water. They never keep any on the bus. It’s always packed and there is always someone sitting next to you.

The ride ends. Sometimes it drops you off in a new place, a place you’ve never even heard of. You have to ask for help. You have to decide, then and there, if you want to go home. Sometimes the ride takes you home, but the struggle bus is like space travel and they’ve all aged a great deal and you hardly at all. They have stories to tell you, memories without you in them. You listen while you eat your sandwich. The bread is different, not bad, just different.

When you get off, you may be yourself again. You may feel better, the way hard work makes you feel better. You feel like you really learned something and you know you’re not getting back on that particular bus anymore. A few rides have changed you. Two in particular. When you got off the bus both times, the air smelled like burnt sugar. No one recognized you, which was both a relief and terrifying. The driver handed you a map and Sharpie before she left. You open it now; it’s blank. And the page keeps unfolding.