Hard lessons

At 19, my teenaged son has achieved numerical adulthood, with the ability to go to war, get tattooed and marry, if not quaff a beer. Before he left college in the middle of his first year at SUNY Purchase, his grades were confidential—even to us, who had carefully raised him and footed the bill—because he was 18, the age of adulthood.

In a New York State law that passed the year I graduated from college, student records, including grades, are the property of students and may not be shared with anyone without that student’s permission. For us, that meant that our highly intelligent and creatively gifted son, who was diagnosed “learning disabled” in elementary school, was on his own, if he chose to be. For Conor, that meant the watchful (and annoying) eyes of concerned parents were finally shaded by the law. He was free to enjoy the fruits of education without the bitter pith. For a while, at least. Until it was too late.

Weeks before the semester ended, Conor agreed to let his advisor speak to us. That first conversation was delayed by the odd coincidence of two professors with identical names. After leaving several messages for one of them, I discovered I had been trying to reach the wrong J. Rubin. The right J. Rubin acknowledged Conor was “among the top students in the class.” The same Conor who was now flunking out of the most prestigious public conservatory in the country.

The dean, with whom I had consulted before the term began (and before Conor was 18) about my concern about educational support, was preparing for his retirement party. The guidance department was staffed by a supervisor who thought educational support for learning disabled students was extra time on tests. She had never considered the idea that learning disabilities came in various stripes.

And anyway, Conor was an adult now. He could choose to acknowledge his limitations publicly, or he could try to fly solo on his first foray from the nest.

Fly, he did.

His landing was torturous for all of us. As parents, we felt we had failed him, and we were certain the system had. Without proper support that might have included a reduced schedule of classes for a few semesters, monitoring of progress by an advisor, and medication, Conor was flying without a compass. His new-found freedom was momentarily glorious, but ultimately disastrous.

We never saw his grades until a month after he came home. Two As and four Fs (the result of unfinished assignments.) At least one of those Fs was in a course his advisor said he excelled in.

Now, almost a year after he left Purchase, his prospects for college are dimmer than they were as a high school graduate. He is more mature, more aware of what he doesn’t know, and more eager to gain an education. But that below 2.0 GPA speaks louder than the fact he was once accepted to one of the most selective colleges.

Conor will find his way. Even now, he resists medical intervention, but he is determined to go back to school. There are things he needs to know and he will find a way to learn them, with or without formal support.

It is a familiar story of growing up. Learning the hard way. But, for some children, the hard way is the end of the road. This week, the news comes that a friend’s teenaged daughter found the end of her road in a college town’s hospital emergency room. At 18, she was “adult” enough to consent to medical treatment that may have killed her. A student at Smith College and a part-time resident of the river valley, Elizabeth was brain-dead before her parents were consulted about her treatment for an unknown illness.

Just weeks ago, my 24-year-old cousin Elena was diagnosed with bacterial meningitis. When she was hospitalized, she exhibited some of the same symptoms of agitation, delirium and a head cold that Elizabeth had. Fortunately for Elena, she had spent the night before hospitalization at her parent’s Manhattan apartment. They did not have to rely on her young-adult judgment, or that of her peers, to get her to a hospital and consult actively with her doctors. Later, they were told a delay would have cost her life.It is too soon to know what Elizabeth’s medical circumstances were.  But her parents would give anything to have had the chance Elena’s parents had.  Instead, they prepare a funeral mass for their beautiful, graceful, teenaged daughter, an adult in the eyes of the law.