Sins of the Father…

My son, Shane, loves Social Studies class. I know this because his Social Studies lessons are the only ones he regurgitates without provocation. He regularly regales me with facts and figures such as the gross national product of Haiti, and the length and breadth of waterways throughout Italy. This is why I know that his seventh grade Social Studies class is studying the Middle East, and that the country we now know as Iraq used to be called Mesopotamia. I don’t know why they changed the name. “Mesopotamia” is a lovely word, unlike the harshly clipped “Iraq”, or as some people regrettably refer to it, “Eyerack”. But, I digress…

Last Tuesday, as we ticked off subjects on his study checklist, Shane mentioned they were having a guest speaker in Social Studies on Friday. That’s what they call it now. When I was in school, and someone from the “outside” came in to talk, we called it an “assembly”. I always looked forward to assemblies. The verbiage is different, but the excitement inherent in an hour of school being filled by someone other than a teacher remains the same. The conversation ended, he repacked his backpack, and I never gave it another thought.

Until Thursday…Thursday morning I received an email with the subject line “Your Immediate Attention is Needed” from a board member of our athletic association. Supposing the message had to do with my son’s football league, I clicked without hesitation. The first words I read stringently assured me that her son would not be attending school the next day. I was understandably intrigued.

What followed was an email sent by a pastor in her church, complete with official letterhead, which began with the words; “I need to ask you to pray earnestly to stop the spread of discrimination against Christians and violation of “Separation of Church and State”. The pastor went on to explain that the middle school had invited an Islamic speaker to address the seventh grade class as part of a comparative religion study, but had failed to invite a Christian speaker. He expressed his views of this action, calling it “wrong on just so many levels”, and invoked the First Amendment a second time. He urged prayer, being careful not to suppose what action God would have his reader take, making instead a personal plea. He went on to suggest that parents “strongly consider withholding your student from this presentation”, and closed with an invocation to “charge the gates of hell like a mighty army”. The violence inherent in the last sentence shook me. Hoping I had mistaken the context, I read it twice. Realizing I hadn’t, saddened me.

I sat, unseeing, for several minutes after reading the email, while thoughts pinged, wildly, about my brain. I marveled that this email had been forwarded to me at all. Anyone who really knows me would not have included my address in the CC line. I wondered if the pastor had purposely misrepresented the facts, or was truly ignorant of the actual context of the class. Admittedly, I wouldn’t be privy to the details were it not for my son’s love of the subject. And, who is he to harangue anyone regarding the First Amendment, anyway? Why just last week, all students were encouraged to attend a Fellowship of Christian Athletes event held in the school gymnasium!

Sadness quickly became outrage that somehow evoked a memory. Two dark-haired girls rode side-by-side in an aged go-cart that often spoiled the peace of a sunny Sunday afternoon. They rode with abandon and joy-etched faces. I might not have given them a second glance had it not been for their headgear. Instead of a helmet, each girl wore the equivalent of a white, mesh muffin cup on the crown of her head. The clash of cultures was striking; hard core Islamic fundamentalism meets good old American know-how.

And another, more recent Sunday, when the air was cooler, allowing notes played on a distant sitar to float on its buoyancy. Occasionally a mournful male voice accompanied the strings, giving me pause as I weeded the garden. Laughter filled the breaks between songs, urging me to join the party. And, I almost did. I considered walking the few blocks between my house and theirs, if for no other reason than to observe their joy. I had no doubt I would be welcomed by my neighbors. But, I didn’t. The light was fading, and there were so many weeds left to pick…

My son did attend school on Friday, but not before he and I had a talk about what to expect. And I resent that what might have been a discussion about a unique opportunity for understanding, was, instead, a crash course in how to deal with ignorance and hate-mongering.

The day passed, mostly without incident. The local news featured a piece on the uproar, interviewing a protesting parent whose daughter bore the brunt of her father’s “fifteen minutes of fame”. Her plight became the focus of Shane’s re-telling; as he expressed the pity he felt when other children taunted her, and his relief that I hadn’t felt the need to express my opinions in a similar manner. I think he put it best, when during our morning discussion he expressed his dismay at the controversy.

“They’ve done this for seven years, Mom, and we’re not studying religions, we’re studying the Middle East! Islam is the main religion on the Middle East, not Christianity. It wouldn’t make sense to have a Christian speaker!” He has a habit of propping his forehead in the palm of his hand when feeling exasperated and he did so now. A curtain of hair that usually hides one eye now fell over still pudgy fingers.

He raised a solemn face and said quietly, “People just need to quit being scared. We’re just trying to learn. Maybe if they learned they wouldn’t be so scared anymore.”

Out of the mouths of babes…

Cloudy, With a Chance of Tears

A wall of water sits behind her eyes,

and she damns it.

Day One H1N1

Languidly rising to the surface, I feel the lateness of the hour. Lying face down, I struggle to open eyes compressed by cotton-covered down and turn to face the only window in the room for confirmation. Daylight…

I wouldn’t have thought lawn-mowing a typical Tuesday morning activity. But there it is; a sound usually reserved for the occasional late Saturday morning. On Tuesday, though, it feels out of place. The slits of my eyes lower as I consider the sound. From my supine position in the back of the house, it’s impossible to discern the direction of the offense, and before I decide to care, sleep comes.

Snores, my own, rouse me several times until I make the effort to turn, and sleep comes again.

I reach for the telephone to quiet it.

“Oh, are you still sleeping? I’m sorry…” I’m sure there was more, but it’s gone now.

As a person for who sleep is an elusive luxury, the ability to turn, tuck, and snore is something to be relished. It only hurts when I move…

The telephone rings again. Desperate to quiet the clamor, I reach towards an empty cradle. The ringing continues. I turn in my stupor. Groaning, I roll towards the empty side of the bed over a hard object which grinds against my hip, turning my groan into a grimace. Though muffled, the ringing continues. Rolling back the way I had come, I pull the phone from my hip and press “talk”.

“You’re still in bed? You’ve been in bed all day!” There must have been more, but I can’t recall.

I look at the clock for the first time all day; 3:15. I marvel at the ache in my joints, as my own voice begins chiding me silently. “You haven’t taken your herbs. Of course, you’re achy; you haven’t taken your herbs.” I sit with that.

Ingesting medication requires eating. Eating requires standing, and walking, and using my hands. I shoo the sheets from my legs, will myself into an upright position, and shuffle the miles to the kitchen. A lone, brown, boiled egg sits inside a white, glass bowl. I peel it over the trashcan amidst whimpering dogs, hoping to take advantage of my weakened condition. As I eat food some people shun because of its smell, I neither smell nor taste as I pat myself on the back for my choice. Protein, the building block of life…

I turn on the television, and my finger instinctually dials up “The Guiding Light”. Raised by a mother who began her television day with “The Secret Storm”, the CBS soap opera schedule soon became part of our DNA, and 3:00 means “The Guiding Light”.

They’re shooting it differently. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something is different. The faces are all the same but the setting is different. I don’t like it. The scene changes and a female newcomer, who can’t have been a part of the show for more than ten years, begins talking to a man I think I remember.

“Is that Harley?”, I wonder.

I always liked Harley. I think I read recently that she is leaving the show. Could this be her replacement? I focus on their faces to the point of deafness. Their conversation escapes me as their relevance becomes clear.

“No wonder. I never liked her.” My silent discourse continues, and as the credits roll I point the remote.

Swallowing a handful of pills I return to my cocoon of blankets. Shane will be home in twenty minutes.

His rubber-soled footfalls wake me. I wonder that he didn’t stop at my room as the door to his slams, only to open within seconds. He approaches stealthily, checking for signs of sleep.

“Hey, Mom…”, he stage whispers.

“Hey.”, I croak. “Stay away.”

“Okay…”, he pats the mound of my blanketed hip.

His presence makes me a mother, holding sleep at bay. I think to encourage homework, but can’t afford the effort, hoping instead that his father will remember.

A second set of foot-falls echoes down the hall. Drawers are opened and closed.

“Should I feed the dogs?” The words travel some distance before reaching me.

“Yes, please.” I’m grateful for his thoughtfulness.

Twelve paws dance chaotically as two males voices attempt to corral one animal into each room with a bowl of kibble.

I awaken to a quiet house.

My phone is chirping, and I think, again, how much I love the sound of that alert. Who doesn’t like the sound of birds chirping?

“Yeah?” He feigns indifference.

“I saw you called.”, I say with a voice I shouldn’t be using.

“When you didn’t call back, I figured you were at work or really sick. When you didn’t even text, I knew you were sick.”

“Yeah…”

“Did you go to the doctor?”, he asks as though the trip should be anticipated.

“No. I’ve been sleeping.”

“Well, you need a z-pack. Okay, okay, now look…” And he was off.

I almost forget how much it hurt to smile.

Hanging up, I sit at the computer for several minutes, wondering if sweating would be of any value. The telephone rings again.

“Stacye?” I work for this voice.

“Yes?”, I croak.

“How are you feeling?”

“Not good.”, I manage.

“Okay…I meant to call earlier today, but…”, he leaves the rest unsaid, knowing I can fill in the blank.

“Do you have a fever?”, he asks authoritatively.

“Yes.”, I answer with shame.

“Tamiflu. You need Tamiflu. And, my witchdoctor wife is plying everyone with elderberry. Get some elderberry.”, he orders.

“Okay…”, I reach for a pencil, afraid that this conversation, too, will evade memory.

“It’s H1N1.”, he pronounces. “And you are contagious twenty-four hours before, and twenty-four hours after, you know…so you can’t come back to work tomorrow.”

“Okay…” Uncaring, I envision crawling back into bed.

Who needs a doctor when you have a boss with a witchdoctor wife?

A Walk on the Mild Side

I don’t know how it happened. I’ve actually spent time thinking about it…

One day I realized I had traded “Afternoon Advice” on Sirius’ Playboy channel for Dr. Laura. At first, of course, I declared myself “old”. The racy language and vivid, spicy, radio-wave images painted by Ms. Granath’s croon had become too much for me; distasteful, even. And while I didn’t necessarily agree with everything Laura Schlessinger said, I could, at least, listen without cringing.

Truthfully, she sucked me in with logic. And, talk about your “no-spin zone”! Dr. Laura doesn’t dance, much less dip. Dr. Laura thrusts without benefit of parry, and her aim is infallible. She is no nonsense, an arbiter for personal responsibility, and able to cut to the quick without drawing a single drop of blood.

If you are fat, her advice is “Eat less, and move more.” Who can argue with that?

If your ninth-grader fails English while excelling in Computer Science, she suggests you recognize the blessing in having his strengths exposed early, and encourages you to find an outlet for his love of technology. Remember, Bill Gates began his march towards the Fortune 500 in his father’s garage, without benefit of a college degree.

At the same time, if your adult son makes the decision to “shack up” with his “unpaid whore”, she advises that you shun the couple until your son comes to his senses by making his “honey” a certified, marriage certificate bearing, part of your family. My son has lived with a girl I think of as my daughter for most of the last six years. When pressed on the idea of marriage, he explains he wants to be sure. He only wants to marry once, and sometimes she acts “crazy”. I get that.

Dr. Laura has a prescription for “the crazies”. She even wrote a book about it, entitled “The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands”. My first thought, on hearing the title, was in recognition of its clever turn of phrase. My second was that it reminded me of a manual written for the owner of a new pet. And, there’s the rub…

In the book, Ms. Schlessinger, who is quick to remind her callers that she is not, in actuality, a medical doctor, counsels women to woo their men with sweetness. If your man breaches the doorway of your comfortable abode wearing a scowl, shoo your children to their rooms, and put your tongue in his ear. If he complains about dinner, sit in his lap. and whisper your plans for a midnight romp over the spoon in your hand as it carries the plane into the hangar. And, if he behaves as though his dirty clothing only enhances the pattern of the rug in your bedroom, tip-toe through the piles of synthetic fibers while waiting for him to unwittingly toss his dirty underpants into the hamper, and then shower him with matriarchal positive reinforcement.

Dr. Laura favors use of the word “Feminista” in reference to women raised in the “wild-child” era of the seventies. That would be me.

I remember smiling, sardonically, upon first hearing her use the word. It’s been used before. I once watched parts of a pornographic film bearing that title. It actually contained a story line, which explains why I only watched parts. Men don’t watch pornographic films for the story line.

On second thought, I think that title was “Fashionista”…never mind…

My point is this; after months of listening to Laura Schlessinger counsel well-meaning women hoping to save their marriage, or their children, or their children’s marriage, or their children’s children, I have realized that Dr. Laura has made a fortune by simply turning the tables. She’s quick to hold feminists to a mirror, to highlight their role in the emasculation of men. And, as a flashlight trembles inside one emaciated hand, the other ties a quick knot in the apron strings of a woman whose only goal is to do the “right thing”.

I don’t completely disagree with the notion that the women’s movement smudged the line of demarcation, leaving many men confused, loathsome to assert what heretofore was accepted as God-given. It’s a problem. But there is another side to that coin.

While some men cringe and stumble over words their father would have spoken freely, others see the change as permission to be “less than”, wallowing in their evolution. This will, at first, draw a girl’s eye, but wears thin relatively quickly.

I am struck by the irony. Ms. Schlessinger rales against stereotypes inherent in the feminist movement while reducing men to a race of singularly visually motivated creatures who can forget anything, as long as sexual activity looms in their very near future.

A stereotype turned inside out is still a stereotype.

For Josh

We walked in circles, you and I;

miles and miles of circles.

The late day sun bounced off the pavement to warm the words as you repeated them.

And, to those who said you couldn’t

you smiled and said, “I did”.

You never missed a chance to watch;

to watch quietly while dodging the invectives of your teacher,

as a wrench slid, or a bolt broke, or a tiny slip of wire coiled just out of reach.

Lying on your back, under tons of twisted metal, your fingers fit in places his couldn’t.

You smiled and said, “I’ve got it.”

She wasn’t even your girl;

a troubled girl with doleful eyes and long blonde hair

who bet her future on your friend who turned his back.

And, as the child within her grew,

you smiled and said, “I can help.”

Today you are a man;

a man who overcomes obstacles with honesty and effort,

and, while others wring their hands in impotence, you flourish.

My heart fills with pride as I look back on your journey.

You are remarkable.

I love you.

“Hello, my name is…”

The school sat on a tree-lined block at the center of a bedroom community surrounded by split-levels inhabited by stay-at-home Moms who scheduled household chores around tennis lessons, mother’s-morning-out, and the carpool lane.

For as long as he could remember, Harold had lived across the street with his mother. Over thirty years ago, he had attended that school. That was before they knew.

He never made it through high school. His mother had finally weakened in front of a parade of teachers, and administrators, and psychologists who insisted there was something wrong. The doctors had suggested Harold be placed in an institution “where he could get the care he needed”. But Harold’s mother, who had never held doctors in very high esteem, smiled sweetly as she declined their offers of assistance while pocketing the prescriptions they were only too willing to write. Sometimes Harold actually took the pills.

One sunny spring morning, Harold picked up a hammer and left the house without a word to his mother. He walked fifty feet down the cement sidewalk to the yellow-lined crosswalk and looked both ways, before traversing the grid that led to the front doors of the school.

As he entered, the secretary raised her head just long enough to flash her perma-smile in his direction before reaching for the telephone. The hallway reminded him of a beehive he’d seen on “The Learning Channel”. He walked warily, among the students and teachers, to the end of the hall where Ms. Murphy’s class was just returning from recess. No one noticed the hammer he carried until had he imbedded it deep inside Lisa Gallagher’s head.

Today I entered the front door of the school, unimpeded, to a repeat performance of the smile that greeted Harold. I waited behind another mother as she gingerly applied the newly-required, generic, blue name badge to her tennis togs, and as I shifted a large, plastic tray of cupcakes from one hand to another I couldn’t help thinking, “Well, at least next time, we’ll know his name….”

Hair There, And Everywhere

My father’s parents divorced, long before I knew any of them. Granddaddy married, the second time, a large, raw-boned, country woman with a shock of red hair which would later feature a swath of purest white down one side. She left it that way, and I loved it. She was like that. She was what she was, and this made her easy to love.

Granddaddy had long since closed the small grocery store he owned and operated for many years. Charlotte supported them by owning and operating a beauty shop. And, it was a beauty shop. It was not a salon, or a spa; it was a beauty shop. Blue-haired ladies sat in a row, under hooded dryers that ran along one garishly painted wall. Daily gossip drowned out country music. playing over a transistor radio sitting on the front desk, and all the “operators” wore smocks. Charlotte added to her earnings by contracting with a local funeral home to dress the tresses of those who would no longer need her services.

My sisters may take exception to my opinion, but in truth, only one of us was born with good hair. Holly has hair, and then some. She was the only one of the four of us to be born with color, thickness, and curls. The rest of us were born blonde, fine, and stick-straight.

Despite, or perhaps, due to the fact that it was to her contribution to our genetics that we owed our lanky locks, my mother frequently drove my sister and I several miles, across town to my Grandmother’s house, for a perm.
The box was pink, with the word “Toni” spelled, in large letters across the top. And, after a while, it became a ritual to come home from my grandmother’s house, and take one look in the mirror before turning on the faucet in hopes of washing out some of the neutralizer. I was usually successful, and my mother never commented.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with my hair. Pictures of me, through the years, show the struggle I’ve endured in finding just the right length, color, and style. After grade school the trips across town stopped, and I grew my hair to conform to the current fashion; long, straight, and parted in the middle. We all looked exactly the same, and that year’s school portrait remains among my favorite from my childhood.

By the time I entered the eleventh grade I was working part-time, and used my earnings to create my style. For years, I had frequented my mother’s beauty shop, where Diane carved stylish “wings” into my hair. Sure she would not be able to keep up with my avant-gardes style; I drove across town to a salon in which the stylist was only too willing to shave my locks to within a half-inch of my scalp. Tears welled in my mother’s eyes as I breezed through the backdoor, but she never said a discouraging word.

I shudder to think of my hair while in nursing school. Suffice it to say, it was big, and garnered many complements. But, it was the eighties, after all…

I’ve been long. I’ve been short. For a time I fancied red; a deep, brownish-red, chestnut perhaps. I married with red hair. I chose a dove gray dress. It worked.

I admire curls. Of course I do! The grass is always greener… It was my yearning for curls that enabled my first visit to my current stylist.

He liked long hair. What man doesn’t? I grew it to please him. But, as it grew, it hung like spider webs around my face. Tired, bored, and looking for a change, I went in search of a salon. At 9:00 am, on a Saturday morning, the choices were few. Several cars in front of the door told me they were accepting customers, and I pulled in.

I felt immediate unease, as I repeated my assignment several times, to a petite, dark-skinned woman who hadn’t, as yet, conquered the English language. Choosing to put my anxieties aside, I took a seat among the unknowing. I wanted curls.

A middle-aged woman approached me apologetically. As I took her seat, I searched the mirror for a license and, finding it, relaxed against the vinyl. She papered, and rolled, papered, and rolled. I noticed her questioning a nearby stylist frequently, and decided that my style was so new, so fresh, that she required assistance to achieve the effect I had so masterfully described.

I left, with curls that would have made my Grandmother proud!

Several weeks later, as the curls dissolved into frizz, I jangled the bell of a different salon. They had closed. The last customer had left several minutes before. Deedee took one look at my hair, and pity overcame her aching legs and tired arms. In what seemed like minutes, she transformed my angry locks into something I could live with.

Since that time, I’ve gone shorter. Gwen Stefani inspired me to go beyond blonde, and Gina Glocksen took off about four inches. I wore the “Graduated Bob” until everyone one else graduated. Unhappy to see myself replicated everywhere I went, I changed again.

This year, I’m curly again, but, less curly; wavy, really. The style is blonde, and soft, and where I am now. It suits us both, me and my hair. I’ve given up control, and it feels like the right thing to do.

Deedee tells me that I can’t do color and perm in one visit. My hair is darker now. I search for tell-tale grays among my roots.

And, seeing one, revel in the real.

Weighing Waiting Women

Women learn, from a very early age, to be good waiters.

The first thing I remember waiting for was my birthday. As the oldest of four girls, it was the only day of the year when the spotlight would be for me, and only me. Children came to a party for me. People bought presents for me. Mother baked a cake for me. Birthdays were always worth waiting for.

And then, of course, there was Christmas. True anticipation usually began about a week after Thanksgiving, when large, brown cartons were extracted from the attic and strewn haphazardly about the living room. It was mother’s job to string the lights, which meant more waiting for my sisters and I as we perched on the edge of a couch rarely sat upon, waiting for her signal to breach the boxes. Completion of decoration led only to more waiting. Twinkling, multi-colored lights reflected in our eyes as we “watched” the tree while imagining what hidden treasures lay underneath.

In a house with four girls and one bathroom, there is always a wait.

Soon after my sixteenth birthday, my father presented me with a reasonable facsimile of a car, featuring two seats on four wheels, and very little else. I soon realized it was the seating that concerned him most, and the words “Wait for your sister!” became the bane of my existence.

My sister, Laura, had one speed. A snail once challenged Laura to a foot race. The snail won. Most weekday mornings found me biding my time in an idling car with a blaring radio, for what seemed like hours, as Laura completed her toilette. Weeks of begging, and pleading, and screaming, and warning fell on immutably deaf ears. Finally, I cracked. Bidding her adieu with a foundation-jarring slam of the back door, I jammed the gear shift into reverse. All I remember of my return home is the anger in my mother’s eyes. The rest has been mercifully carved from my memory, but whatever the punishment, it was worth it!

The summer after my senior year in high school was spent waiting by the telephone. I met John, weeks before, while on a trip to Washington, DC with a youth group. When he called, it was to say he would be in Atlanta the following week. My excitement was tempered by the knowledge that I was scheduled to be in Destin on a family vacation. To her credit, my mother allowed me to make the decision. I remember very little of that week spent on the beach, besides a feeling of longing.

College graduation began the wait for my big move. My best friend and I had planned this day for years. Numerous shopping trips for linens, and dishes, and what passed as artwork, made the waiting easier. The experience of living together wasn’t the euphoria we knew it would be, and I gained a valuable life lesson. With the assistance of a good attorney, it only cost $400.00 to get out of the lease.

The only thing more difficult than waiting for the results of a pregnancy test is waiting for his reaction. Pregnancy is the ultimate exercise in waiting. I skipped waiting to discover the gender of my children. A long-ago forbidden foray into my parents’ closet, just before Christmas, had taught me that surprises are to be relished.

Pregnancy came naturally to me, as affirmed by the midwife who announced I had “childbearing hips”. For thirty-six months of my life I was a walking miracle, and I never forgot it.

I loved the quaint expression of being “with child”, and all that came with it. Pregnancy, of course, meant shopping in exclusive shops; exclusive as in those selling maternity clothes, nursing bras, baby furniture, bibs, pacifiers, and the genius that is the One-sie. My children were of the generation first introduced to this remarkable example of adorable efficiency. Thanks to the invention of the One-sie, babies no longer required trussing in order to get to the diaper; just four simple snaps, and you were in!

Mothering is synonymous with waiting. Waiting room carpet patterns are memorized, and it isn’t long before a tote bag filled with the necessities of waiting, takes up permanent residence on the back seat of a mother’s car. Mothers wait for hours in check-out lines accompanied by the wailing of an over-tired child; hers or someone else’s. Her first child’s first day of school is torturous for a mother who imagines, all day, trails of tears running down her child’s face when in reality it is her face that is wet. She can’t wait for her baby to come home.

Mothers think of clever ways to pass the time spent in carpool lanes, and later, outside movie theaters and shopping malls. Mothers wait outside dressing rooms until, curious, they grasp the doorknob, prompting the rebuke, “Not yet!”. Mothers wait, sometimes anxiously, for school to start as summer wanes, along with her children’s patience with one another.

As our children grow, waiting mixes with worry. I sat white-knuckled, at the front window, for the full fifteen minutes it took my son to drive around the block for the first time, alone. That was almost ten years ago. Yesterday, when he didn’t arrive within fifteen minutes of our agreed upon time, my face appeared again, at that window.

Even today, I am hard pressed to say which was more shocking, my mother’s announcement of her diagnosis with cancer, or her concurrent use of the word “shit”, as in “Pretty heavy shit, huh?”. On the day of her surgery, the sunny environment of the waiting room, walled floor-to-ceiling by glass, competed with the emotions of the large group of friends and family it housed. Having recently returned to school, I spent most of the day with a textbook. I turned pages filled with words I only appeared to read, until the entry into the room of a small group of green-clad men wearing serious expressions. Their words left no doubt as to the arduous journey ahead, and I would begin my night-time sojourns in the ICU waiting room within weeks.

My father didn’t want my mother left “alone”. He and one or more of my sisters spent the day at the hospital, never missing one of the fifteen minute intervals during which my mother was allowed visitors. Visits were not allowed after nine at night, so my brother-in-law and I took turns sleeping in the waiting room. For many months, waiting became a way of life, as my mother slowly healed.

Commuting lends itself to reflection. Commuting in the rain requires more careful attention, until rainy streets become the norm, and reflections resurface. Such was the case on Wednesday, when, as I rolled to a stop under a murky, red beacon, I realized I have unknowingly adopted a constant state of wait.

Last year was a year of unwanted, if not unexpected, consequences. Reminders of what proved to be an achingly short spate of purest joy, plague me, in the form of physical reminders with psychological presence. The realization that I have been waiting for a different outcome brought an ironic smile to my lips, and a reminder. Inherent in waiting is hope. And, with hope, all things are possible.

Catharsis

Anti-depressants helped take the edge off during the divorce. The adjunct prescription for sleeping pills was suggested by my doctor, from whom sympathy, upon hearing my story, literally oozed. It was what I needed at the time.

Not a big fan of sleep, I never finished the first bottle of sleeping pills, and, given the current reports of drug-supported, sleep-walking drivers, I am grateful.

The anti-depressant, however, became a mainstay. During the euphoric period, which lasted several months, I bought a car, quit my job, applied to college, and moved back to Atlanta. I engineered, for myself and my children, a new start.

And, we made it work. I am now employed by a good company, making a good living that supports a nice lifestyle in a bustling metropolis filled with opportunity. Current economic challenges aside, my older children are thriving in their new capacity as masters of their own destiny.

I met a man here, whose capacity to embrace my family did more to ease his way into my heart than flowers or pretty words. We raise my youngest son together, and Roger relishes the experience as though he was born to it. Shane attends the best public schools available and participates, successfully, in sports programs, year-round.

Several months ago, as I reflected upon our successes, I realized the folly of a person in my position ingesting mood-altering chemicals. It didn’t appear as an epiphany. It wasn’t an “Ah-hah” moment. It was, simply, a decision.

Unwilling to work without a net, I refilled my prescription a final time, tucking the unopened envelope into a drawer, where it remains.

And, I’ve learned a lot.

The first lesson came quickly, within weeks of my “sobriety”. While talking with a friend on the telephone, I heard joy in my laughter, and a lightness in my voice. Unshed tears sat close, in the corners of my ears, ready to flow at the first sign of poignancy. Babies, in my absence, had, somehow, grown sweeter, and seniors more enjoyable. I realized that while I hadn’t felt much pain for many years, neither had I appreciated wonder, small wonders; a frolicking puppy, a burgeoning tulip, a majestic sunset, a single word, chosen for its capacity to reach my heart.

Of course, the day did come when even my newfound joy wasn’t enough to warm the cockles of my heart. Hours usually pass before I awaken to the feeling. The day dawns, like any other day, and I go about my routine, until I notice my plodding footfalls, my listless speech, and bland affect. A look inside reveals murky darkness. Early on, the view alarmed me, setting in motion a mental slide-show, in hopes of discerning a cause; an event, a person, an unpleasant task, a caustic conversation, a disturbing memory. Failure, on most occasions, to uncover a culprit, qued-up a series of lectures I have received over the years, heralding the advances of modern medicine and my obligation to partake of its offerings. These practitioners pass around the word “organic” as though it were a virtual “Get Out Of Jail Free” card. The words mesmerize while soothing, so that the listener never even notices the acrid pill placed upon the tongue.

Organic depression can be caused by a disease process wherein key areas of the central nervous system are affected. The aforementioned doctor felt I suffer from one of these diseases, prompting his prescription. My own research supports his theory. But, I also know this; everyone has “bad” days, every one of us, even the most positive among us. I’m even willing to venture a guess that such notable positive thinkers as Marianne Williamson, Eckhart Tolle, and even Norman Vincent Peale, himself, have had a “bad” day. But, they get through it. They recognize it, they accept it, and they get through it, because, eventually, a new day dawns.

The key, for me, is to channel my feelings. I enjoy many mind-freeing activities. I love music. I do needlework while watching football. My garage is decorated by several unfinished paintings. A partially completed jigsaw puzzle fills a table in my office. I’ve clocked hundreds of miles on foot. But, my most recent revelation comes in realizing the blessing offered by the catharsis of writing.

Last week wasn’t easy. My son-in-law lost his job, and a friend, whose strength I had come to rely upon, melted into his clay feet. Life went on. I woke every day, followed my routine, and recognized my state of mind, hoping tomorrow would be better. It wasn’t.

A couple of mornings ago, I sat down to write, and has been the case, so often lately, found myself dry. But, I wrote anyway. The completed work wasn’t landmark. I hadn’t said anything important. There were no pithy phrases, or carefully concocted sentences. But, as I applied the last period to the last sentence, I smiled. A feeling of relief washed over me, as I realized a sliver of light had pierced my soul. I had discovered a new drug.

The bad days really suck. The good days make it worth it.

Because I Can

My Dear JD,

The title of your diatribe put me in mind of a brilliant writer I know. Thanks for wasting no time in dispelling that notion. You got here the same way the rest of us did…you’re no better…I guess you could be worse.
You, sir, are arrogant drivel, and the picture, that you apparently could not tear your eyes away from, is of a woman, not a man; a mother, in fact. You may have deduced this yourself, had you but read, rather than scanned, the piece. Perhaps, though, you are still in the picture book phase, choosing to peruse rather than read…and that’s ok, but, you should still seek context. You’ll get more out of the pictures that way.
I am “40ish”, with a goal to be “50ish”, one day in the not too distant future, and since you read me I’m assuming you’ve realized, by now, that I am published. Given that we obviously reside on two very different planes, despite your stated geographic proximity, I hesitate to guess what you would consider “serious meat”. I would suggest, if you are truly interested, that you go back and read. You may decide for yourself. And, it isn’t necessary that you share your conclusions, I am secure, and somewhat comforted, by the fact that we will not see eye to eye.
You needn’t have shared your living on a cusp. I assumed as much very early on, as you presented prose without pictures, leaving me no option other than to read, and digest, your inanity. Judging from your description, I think it fair to say you may have found your niche.
The morphine explains a lot. Might I suggest you collect a few more chips before you waste any more time “reading” and/or writing? While it is true that some of the world’s most prolific and profound authors struggled to hold their pens upright as they created out of a chemical induced haze, it is also true that they enjoyed talent, untainted, and perhaps enhanced by, insanity. You, sir, may not be of that ilk.
I worry about very little, as I consider it a past-time affording little, or no, return, and, you, my pain-wracked detractor, are but a blip on my radar. As for being “too busy”, you caught me at a good time. I am rarely “busy” at 6:00 am, on a weekend morning. I rose with a desire to write, but, sadly, a lack of motivation or subject matter. You provided me with both, and, for that, I thank you.

Very truly yours,