Some Thoughts On Adoption: Part Five

(Click on the following links to read the other parts of this series: Introduction, Part One, Part Two, Interlude, Part Three, Part Four)

I’d like to add the caveat I’ve added to the past few parts of this series:  this is one story of adoption, my story.  These are my thoughts, opinions, feelings about adoption, my adoption, based on my experience.  I do not claim that my story is typical of all adoptions.  We are a world full of unique and individual people, with unique and individual stories.  This is my unique and individual story.

You’d think I’d remember the date my brother left home.  It’s not every day that your adopted brother has his adoption reversed and is returning to live with his birth mother (see Part Four of this series for the entire story, if you’ve not been following along since the beginning).

I remember the date my father died: February 8, 1980.  I remember that David boarded the plane to return to his birth mother later that year — September, October?  It was either right before school was to start, or right before the second quarter of the school year was to start.  The date had something to do with school.  He was nine years old, and one did have to think about his schooling.

So, why can’t I remember the date?

I remember being at the airport.  I remember the striped shirt he was wearing.  I remember the flight attendant (stewardess, as they were called in those days) coming over to us, introducing herself to David, and walking him through the door, and down the jetway to the plane.  I remember him turning around, about halfway down the jetway, to wave and smile at us, at mom and I.  There’s a memory of a stuffed toy in his arms, but I won’t swear it.

I can remember standing there, next to my mom, and feeling dead inside.  My father was gone — something that wasn’t supposed to happen in the natural order of things.  I didn’t know of anyone my age, fourteen, who’d lost a father (at least, not then).  My world was already upside-down.  I was adopted into this family as a baby, and, five years later, my brother was adopted into the family as well.  Suddenly, after a ten-month battle with brain cancer, my father was gone, our family was one-quarter gone.  Now, here we were at the airport, and my family was now reduced by half — from four of us, to two of us.  My brother, my adopted brother, was being sent back to where he came from.

I didn’t understand it at all.

That’s a lie.  I understood that David had been a lot of trouble from the beginning, and that my mom, now locked in grief, anxiety, probably depression, had no idea how to deal with David on her own.  Sending him to live with the woman who gave birth to him, who was married and who’d had other children since, seemed a good option — perhaps having a big family, with more siblings, with younger parents (his birth mother was twenty-five years younger than my mom’s fifty-six years).  Maybe all those things would be good for David.

That was the hope.  That is what I think my mother believed with all her heart in that moment at the airport as we watched David leave.  I think she hoped for David what his birth mother had hoped for him when she’d sent him to live us when he was born: that he’d have a better home, that he’d be loved, that he’d be safe.

For me, it was the start of a lifetime of …. of what?  Of fear.  Of anxiety.  Of isolation.  Of more things than I can set down in words.  In those moments, leading up to David’s departure, it dawned on me: I could be next.  I could just as easily be sent away.

In a way, I was sent away — on my eighteenth birthday my mother threw me out of the house; I’d been late coming home from a job interview because the interview ran long. I missed the express bus, had to take the local bus, and was late.  There were no cellphones in 1984.  I couldn’t call.  We were to go to dinner, to celebrate my birthday.  My mom was convinced that I was having sex with a man, and that I thought having sex with a man was more important than celebrating my birthday with her, so, I should just go live with this man I was supposed to be having sex with.

There was no man.

I was gay.  I’d told her — it was either a few weeks after dad died, or a few weeks after David left.  I can’t remember that detail either.  I can remember that she wouldn’t touch me, that she didn’t hug me again until after she found me on the streets, where I’d been wandering around for nearly twenty-four hours after she threw me out.  She hugged me then, and brought me home.

I spent the years between David’s leaving, and my turning eighteen waiting for my turn to be unadopted.  It seemed logical to my teenaged mind (because teenagers are known for their logic and astute insight into the workings of the world, right?)  I didn’t take the time to mourn my losses — I cried the day my father died, standing there, next to his bed, watching him breathe his last, but I didn’t cry for him again until I was well into my twenties.  I cried that day at the airport, watching David leave.  But, I didn’t mourn for him until later, years later, when his life got even more troublesome.  And, then I mourned him when he died five years ago.  Mostly, I was too busy being afraid that my turn to leave was going to come.

I spent those four years, from fourteen to eighteen doing everything I could to push my mother’s limits.  I can distinctly remember thinking that if she was going to send me away it was going to be for as many reasons as I could give her.  I was angry.  I was full of unexpressed grief.  She was the one who was there to direct it at.

I started ditching school.  I started having sex with men.  She’d marched me into therapy the minute I told her I was gay, because it was just a phase, and she didn’t want anyone blaming her for my being gay — Mama’s boys, was the polite term for faggot back then, and my mother did not want anyone to think that she was the dominating mother who’d turned her son into a Mama’s Boy.  The therapy didn’t work — the therapist never even tried to cure me.

She’d stopped hugging me, which, to me meant she’d stopped loving me.  I couldn’t get her to talk about it.  So, let her see me doing it, then she’d not be able to pretend it wasn’t true.  I was good enough to not let her actually catch me having sex.  She just caught me after it was done, and the man had to flee, out a window, to avoid her wrath.

She was my scapegoat.  Every drop of grief, loss, fear, and confusionI had was directed at her.  I ditched school more.  I had more sex with men. I stopped going to school, dropped out, and just spent my days having sex with men.

When I was sixteen, I told her that I was no longer going to church.  My mom, staunch Catholic, was devastated.  First I was gay, then I’d dropped out of school (she was a teacher, and my decision stung), then I rejected religion.  I would have left the church eventually, as I’d never felt any sort of feeling towards the whole thing — no matter how hard I tried, I never did find faith.  But, I left the church early not just because it meant nothing to me, but because I knew it would wound her. As I write this paragraph, I realize that I spent my time rejecting everything she stood for. Maybe that was the point.  If I reject all she believed in, then maybe it would be easier for her to reject me.  There was a part of me that wanted to be sent away, because once I was sent away, I could stop worrying about when it was going to happen.

Do I blame her for throwing me out when I was eighteen?  No.  I’d been trying hard enough to provoke some sort of reaction, though I admit to being surprised when I got a reaction.

In many ways, my teenage rebellion is no different than many teenage rebellions, so I can’t, and don’t, blame it on being adopted.  I don’t blame it on my mother — logically and rationally, at least.  What she did, sending David away, was something she felt was the best decision for her and for David.  I don’t think anyone thought about what it would do to me.  It took away my sense of security, my sense of safety.  I was already in a state of emotional turmoil, trying to come to terms with my father’s death, dealing with my own budding sexuality — something that was still Very Wrong back then; then the one unimaginable thing happened: my brother was unadopted.  To use a well-worn metaphor, I went over the edge of the emotional cliff.

My mother and I were both locked in our own emotional vortex.  We avoided each other when we could.  We clashed when avoidance was impossible.  She hated my being gay; I hated her for taking away my sense of safety and security.  We were mean to each other during those years.  I acted out, and she volleyed back with words like “fag” and “queer” and “whore”.

In those years I wished she’d never adopted me, and, I wonder if she didn’t feel the same.  She’d questioned it before, years earlier.  I was five or six, and was caught playing with a pair of my mom’s pantyhose (I had them on my head, holding them up, pretending they were a conical hat, imitating a picture I’d seen in a fable of some princess — the women of the court had on conical hats, with little veils at the top, one woman in the drawing had a hat that had two cones, almost horn-like, with a veil on each one — hence the pantyhose).  My mother turned to my father and said “Oh my god! Do you think they sent us one of those kinds of boys?  What if he is? Would we have to keep him?”  I had no idea what kind of boy she was talking about, but, the part about keeping me I understood.  I never touched the pantyhose again.  So, she’d questioned the decision to adopt me once, I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t questioned it again in those years.  I certainly gave her reason to question her decision.

Those years ripped our souls apart.  They very nearly destroyed us. I think some parts of us were permanently destroyed.  Something held us together though — perhaps it was a fear that without the other, we’d each be alone. None of my parents blood-relatives lived here, though there were family friends who filled part of the gap.  But, when it came down to that concept of family — the micro-definition of family, the Mother and Son definition, not the definition of Family Can Be Made Up Of Whomever You Surround Yourself With — but, the simple, basic family law of mother and son, it was clear: together we were a family; apart we were each alone, orphans.  So, maybe it was that fear of aloneness that kept us together.

Maybe, just maybe…. it was something more.   It’s entirely possible that love played a role.

Christmas Eve

I wrote this last Christmas Eve (2011). At least, I wrote much of the words, thoughts, feelings.  It was written in the evening, after the events described, when thoughts were racing, and emotions were high.  It was, like much that is written in times of great emotional stress, a jumble.  There were long, rambling sentences that probably only made sense to me.  I put the draft aside, intending to go back in a few days to revise it, then post it.  However, as I read it, the emotions were still too raw to articulate well, and the story too close, too personal to share.  I put it away again.

On Christmas Eve this year (2012) I pulled it out, read it again, and discovered it wasn’t as jumbled as I had thought, though it was rather long and rambling.  So, I’ve spent some time revisiting my story, trying to clarify thoughts and feelings so they (hopefully) make sense to someone other than me.  It’s still personal, and the emotions are still raw.  But, I think I’m ready to share.  I hope someday, somewhere, a boy who has lost his father might read this and know that he’s not alone, that there are others who can understand his grief.

This is a bit longer than normal, so don’t start reading unless you’ve got a few extra minutes.

(The photo of the gravestones in the snow is an old snapshot I took on a different day, at a different cemetery.)

*********

Christmas Eve. Perhaps not the best day to go to the cemetery to put flowers on my father’s grave.

I guess there aren’t really any days that can be considered the best day to go.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I have anything against cemeteries. Heck, I don’t even have anything against death.

Denver’s second-oldest graveyard, Fairmont Cemetery, is a few miles from our home, and it is one of my favorite places to go for a long walk. Fairmont’s 280 acres are filled with more than just tombstones: more than 3800 trees provide shade, and give shelter and home to a variety of wildlife. It’s a peaceful, calm, quiet oasis in the middle of a big, bustling, noisy city. Perhaps it’s not just the symbols of death, but, maybe it’s also the zen-like calm silence that all cemeteries possess that make people feel uncomfortable among the graves. In conversation, casually mention that you love to take long walks in the cemetery. You’ll find people’s reactions quite fun. The fact that I am walking among the dead doesn’t bother me; we find in cemeteries what we take with us: I believe that death is the final stage of life, and that there is nothing after death, so I am not haunted by the images of ghosts and stranded souls wandering around the tombstones, lost and forlorn.

Death is not something I find fearful or terrifying. Dying? Yes, that bugs me. The thought of a long, lingering, pain-filled, drugged up existence? Yeah. Bugs me. Terrifies me. But the death part? No. I’m fine with that. I am not afraid of non-existence. There’s a strange comfort in knowing that someday I will simply cease to exist.

Comforting?!

Death?

Yes.

Not in a suicidal fantasy way. No.

In the way that means that death brings an end to all the worrisome questions that echo through my brain:

“Am I too fat?”

“How bald will I get?”

“Wrinkles: how many, and how deep?”

“What if I lose my sight? My hearing? My ability to care for myself?”

“Will my penis stop working?”

“Will my stomach get so big I can’t see my penis?”

“What about a heart attack?”

–Cancer?

–Stroke?

–Incontinece?

–Dementia?

–Alzheimers?

“Will Julian and I still be together then? Will we have separated? Will I be a widow?”

“How many years might I spend alone, in a nursing home, with no one but the other dying, demented, lonely individuals for company?”

“How will I pay for it all?”

“I have no children, so who will help me if I’m old and alone?”

“Will I be so lost in Alzheimer’s that I won’t care?”

“If I have Alzheimer’s, will I forget about my penis? Will I even recognize my penis, and remember all the good times we’ve shared?” (I’m a guy. We think about our penis from time to time. Often. Frequently. Obsessively.)

“Will I be lost in Alzheimer’s, yet unable to let anyone know that in some deep recess of my mind there is a voice, my voice, shouting ‘I’m sane! I’m fine! Help me! I’m still in here, I’m just lost! Please find me!”

No. With all of that, death doesn’t seem like such a bad place to be.

And, the cemetery seems the least scary thing in life. Going to the cemetery to take flowers to my dad’s grave is not an emotional task.  I go because mom wants to go.  My need to visit my dad’s resting place has long since past.

Going to the cemetery, the cemetery my mom and I went to on Christmas Eve, means going to the military cemetery, where whatever remains of my father exists. Dad was not always buried here; from the time he died in 1980, until 2008, he was buried in Rhode Island, in the plot where my maternal grandparents rest. It seemed a natural thing at the time, burying dad in Rhode Island, as my mom spent a great deal of time there, and, I think, she thought she’d move back there some day. The years passed. We never moved. In 2008, my mom had my dad’s body moved from the family plot in Rhode Island to the military cemetery here in Denver.

There was a time, in the first few years after my fathers death that I wished his grave was closer.  I was 14 when he died, and, as an adolescent, my understanding of death and dying was still based on the things I’d learned being raised in the Catholic tradition. I believed that some part of my dad was attached to the cemetery, to the stone, to the grave.  I’m not sure exactly how, or what, but, in the religious tradition, there’s a belief that the dead are somehow in need of visiting.  For a time, I wished I could visit him at the cemetery, that I could go and talk to him, in the way you see people in movies talk to the graves.  I don’t remember all the things I wanted to say, though I do know that I wandered around for a long time feeling like he couldn’t hear me, because I was so far away.  Years passed, life brought new experiences and beliefs, and I realized that the grave of my father was just a symbol, a memorial to the fact he once existed.  I came to realize that my father lived inside me, and that I didn’t need to see a marker of his life, as I had the proof: my memories, even though there were not that many, and that they faded a bit each year.  I have no emotional attachment to the place where his remains are.  My dad lives in my thoughts.  But, for my mom, there is still a desire to visit his stone.  It somehow reestablishes her connection with him.

Eight inches of snow had fallen over the city two days before, and not much had melted away, except on the major roadways. This day, Christmas Eve, was my favorite type of Colorado winter day: a cloudless sky, bright blue, with blazing sun, and a chill in the air.

As we drove through the cemetery, I am instantly struck by the beauty ahead of me: a snow covered hill, sloping slightly upward, bordered by a brilliantly blue sky, with row after row of the iconically familiar while marble military gravestones. The blanket of snow on the hill is undisturbed, and the solitude of the scene addes a bleakness to it all, a sad reminder of all those who’ve served and died for our country. We make our way to the road where my father’s grave lay, park, and I get out of the car. Mom waits in the car. On the best of days, walking over the lumpy earth around the tombstones is tough for he; with eight inches of snow on the ground, we agree it would be safer for her to remain in the car.

Usually it takes a minute or two to find dad’s stone, one among all the other identical stones. Is it this row? No, maybe it’s that one there? Wait, it’s this one, yes, this one here.

This day, however, I walk right to it.

I use my foot to clear the snow away from the base of the marker, and slide the plant holder, containing silk poinsettias, into the ground.

As I kneel there, looking at the stone with my father’s name engraved on it, I am suddenly overcome with such a sense of grief and loss that the tears begin running down my cheeks before I am even aware of them.

“I miss you daddy.” I might have said this aloud.

I have never cried at my father’s grave before. Do not confuse “never crying at his grave” with “never crying for my father”. I’ve cried for my father. Many times.

More than thirty years after my father’s death, there are moments when I’m overcome with feelings that are so overwhelming that they can only be expressed in tears. The grief and loss nearly takes my breath away, and, if I wasn’t already kneeling, the pain that pierced my heart might have brought me to my knees. Though the emotions that attack me are stronger than any I’ve felt before, the emotions, are like old friends; I understand them without ever having to exchange words, a simple glance tells me in an instant all I need to know. It took me many years to finally understand the complexities of the emotions I felt about my dad’s death. The feelings and thoughts that take hold of me, there at my father’s headstone, are familiar, complex, and simple — it’s a sense of loss for man I know in a general sense as My Father, but, more profoundly, it is the certainty of the loss of a man named John, a man I’m named after, a man who is very much a stranger to me, a man I’ll never get to know.

For most of the years of my childhood, both of my parents worked two jobs. They worked so much that I didn’t have much time with them.  My mother was a high-school teacher by day, and taught classes a few nights a week at the adult education center, so she had more time off than my father, since she didn’t work during the summers.  My father worked full-time in a hospital lab by day, and, for many years, he worked full-time in a hospital lab at night.  We didn’t know it at the time, but the brain tumor that would eventually claim his life at age 55 began taking it’s toll about two years before the doctors discovered it.  He was more tired than usual, and fell asleep at work, and, while he never got test results mixed up, he did forget to run tests. He was asked to step-down from the lab, but, in order to not lose his pension, he was offered a janitor job at the hospital.  The news travelled from one hospital to the other, and, instead of two lab jobs, my father had two janitor jobs.  I remember once, hearing him tell my mom, his voice rather trembly, that he was sorry about the change in his jobs, and my mother, in an uncharacteristically tender voice told him that she would always love him, no matter what his job.  It was a moment that has stayed with me all these years, as it’s a moment that defined what kind of people my parents were.

Are.

This sense of loss that often catches me unawares is grief, and an anger, an ache that I will never know more about who my father really was as a man.  I know he was a father who loved me.  Who worked hard to provide a good home for his family.  Who went to church.  Who never drank.  Or smoked. I know what kind of father he was.  I never got to find out who he was.  Did he follow any football teams?  What did he think of Nixon?  Even though he changed from being in the Navy, to being in the Army, because he couldn’t swim, did he miss the Navy?  Did he like being on the sea, in the big ships? I never got to talk to him in an adult way, just a father-to-young-son way.  I never got to ask him about his political beliefs, or his spiritual ones.  I never got to talk, as two grown men, about what it was like for him, coming home that day, when he was about 5, and he and his brothers found their mother hanging in the basement, a victim of suicide.

The feeling of loss that grabs ahold of me is a sense of being incomplete. Teenage boys learn from their fathers. Sometimes it’s basic skills: changing a flat-tire, repairing a leaky pipe, changing the oil in the car, how to shave. Sometimes, the things you learn from your father are more esoteric, things that only a man, most likely your dad, can teach you: explaining to you that the wonderfully intense feeling that woke you up and left you covered in sweat and sticky white stuff around your groin and on the sheets is a perfectly natural thing; teaching you, I suspect by example, how the world expects a man to behave, to react, to speak. I never learned any of those things from my father, many of them I’ve never learned at all. I can’t change the oil in the car, or, I should say, I’ve never bothered to learn. I have tried to teach myself how to do handyman things, and the results have always been less than adequate. I finally learned how to change a tire, when I was in my mid-twenties, out of humiliation, rather than desire. I had a flat and called AAA. That’s what my mom did whenever she’d had a flat. I had no idea one changed the tire on their own. The serviceman arrived, and when he saw that I was a young, able-bodied man, his attitude became contemptuous, his remarks snide. When he remarked that my dad would be disappointed that I couldn’t change my own tire, I told him sobbingly that my father had died when I was 14, and he’d never had the chance to teach me, and I hoped that he’d not be disappointed. To his credit, the serviceman was sufficiently embarrassed and contrite about his attitude and remarks, and took the time to show me what to do. Perhaps if I’d had older brothers, or uncles who lived around us, I’d have learned things from them.  We had no relatives here in Colorado, and, the men in my life, friends of the family, were all older, and had raised their own children already.  With one exception, a man named Mel, who is one of the kindest, most gentle of men that I’ve ever known, I had no male role models, no one to teach me those things that men seem to know.  As an adult, I still get funny looks and stares, when talking to other men, and have to admit that I don’t know how to solder pipes, or I’ve never used a power saw.  It’s funny the things that diminish us in other’s eyes. Whether my father could have taught me any of these things, I do not know.  I never knew him well enough to know what he did or did not know.

The grief that engulfs me in those moments, like in this moment at the cemetery, is knowing that I missed bonding with my father. Men of my father’s generation, and in generations prior, as well as many of the men today, don’t express emotion in an obvious way. Dads of a certain upbringing don’t hug and kiss their sons, don’t say “I Love You”. Instead, fathers and sons have a thing that bonds them together. This thing, an interest in old cars, maybe; or fishing; camping; making birdhouses; golf; any of a number of things, is something that allow a father and son to spend time together, and gives them common ground in which they can relate to each other. These things that sons do with their dads, that they constantly talk to their dads about often make daughters and mothers roll their eyes, (as they share their own thing, creating that bond that mothers and daughters have).

Forgive me if I sound as if I’ve stepped out of “Father Knows Best” or “Leave It To Beaver.” I don’t wish to give the impression of holding on to some unrealistic ideologic image of how parents and children should be — I have no illusions. I’ve seen enough of other families to know that the bubbling, happy family is a rare thing. But, I also know, that in spite of all the drama and problems in families, there is, more often than not, something that binds a child to his parents. My mother and I have developed a bond. My father and I…well, my father and I had the bond a small child has with his or her father: a knowledge of safety and security and love.

Beyond that, there is nothing.  Sometimes knowing I was loved is enough.  Most often, though, it’s not enough, because I know so little of this man who loved me.

All that remains is an image, that gets fainter every passing year, of a man I once knew and loved in a childlike way.

Christmas Eve. I’m kneeling in the snow in front of my father’s grave. An enormous sense of grief and loss overwhelms me, tears flow, the emotions and feelings flash through my mind in a few brief moments–I’ve experienced them all before, so they don’t have to spend time explaining themselves to me. I understand in the briefest of moments where all my grief and anger come from. I feel their power, but, I no longer need the words to describe them.

I stare at the stone bearing my father’s name, and the whiteness of the stone makes me think that white is a good color for a gravestone. White is an absence; so is death. When you take color away, you’re left with white. When life is taken away, you’re left with a white stone bearing your name.

The grief vanishes as quickly as it arrived. I gather my thoughts, wipe the tears off my face, and make my way back to the car, careful not to look directly at mom as I get in, lest she sees a glimpse of my pain.

Each lost in our own thoughts, the drive home is as silent as the cemetery.

When Family Comes To Visit: The End

Out of respect for my mother, I’ll refrain from detailed commentary about the visit from her relatives.  Yes, you read that correctly: her relatives.  Being an adopted child I can honestly refer to them as her relatives.

Any inferences you care to make from my designating the relatives as mom’s is entirely up to you.  I will neither confirm or deny anything you might infer.

Well, maybe I’ll just confirm that I sincerely like Cousin Rose.

The only other things I’ll say about the visit are:

• I didn’t exactly put my best foot forward.
• I finally got to make the drive up Mt. Evans.
• I spent several hours in the ER.  Diagnosis: concussion and hairline linear skull fracture (it was an accident — someone was being helpful, and I wasn’t paying attention).
• Guests, relative or not, who bring my mother to tears, are pretty much…  I’ll leave that sentence unfinished.
• It was over 100-degrees most of the days they were here, so I’m certain that wasn’t too fun for them.  There were also lots of fires in the mountains, and the air in the city was quite smokey, so I’m sure that wasn’t fun for them either.
• I tried (though, perhaps not hard enough), and failed (resoundingly), to be outwardly happy about the fact that my home was full of people I barely knew.
• I could have tried harder to be less of a jerk.  Until mom cried.  (Then I had to try even harder to not be a bigger jerk).

Ever have a moment when The Voices in your head start telling you “You’re a grown-man, who’s winding down his fourth decade, so stop acting like a spoiled, petulant teenager.”?  No?

Me either.

Oh, alright!  Yes, I have had that moment.

I can’t say I’m proud of the fact that I wasn’t a Martha-Stweart-Approved host, though I guess I should be pleased that I think I managed to not say anything mean, sarcastic, or offensive during The Visit.  And, perhaps, I should be ashamed of the fact that I mentally cursed my mom many times for not really taking Julian and I into consideration when she had 6 people come, knowing that there was no way she could drive them around, cook for them, or do much of anything for them, other than buy meals for them; knowing that the responsibility would fall on me, and, that I would be the one who had no choice or say in the matter.  Pity party?  Oh yeah.  Definitely.  And, in my passive-agressive way, I just did the least amount I could — I only cooked once while they were here, and drove when I had to (having a concussion did keep me from driving for a few days though).

For me, this was one of the most confusing situations I’ve been in.  Yes, this is my mother’s home.  But, it is also our home, Julian and I.  She’s always telling us this is our home, and how much she loves having us here, and how she’d have to sell and go into assisted living if I wasn’t here.  Yet, for all the talk of this being “our home”, it’s not.  It is Her Home.  She decides how the house looks, what things she keeps (most things), and vetoes just about any suggestion of change.  I understand her emotional attachment to the house, this house where she has lived since 1960, this house that was the only home she and my father ever owned, the home that hasn’t changed much in looks since my father died in 1980.  So, I get it.  It is her home, and we are just here because she doesn’t want to have to sell it.  Still: it is the place Julian and I live, and, we aren’t ever asked things like “I’d like to invite some relatives, do you think you’d help me play host?”

Instead, it happened like this.

When mom was in the hospital in January, she changed her primary care doctor.  When we went to visit the new doctor, the doctor told mom that she understood that mom had been through a lot while she was in the hospital, and she wanted mom to know that, as her doctor, she’d always listen to my mom.  She told mom, “Some of my patients reach a point where they say ‘I’ve had enough treatments, and I don’t want any more.’  If you reach that point, tell me, and we’ll make you as comfortable as you can, and send you home, if you want.  Some patients want to fight to the end, trying every treatment possible.  If that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.”   What my mom heard was “You went through a lot in the hospital, and there’s not much we can do for you, so go home and prepare to die.”   She then had to call her relatives and tell them that she wouldn’t be going back East to visit them again, because she needed to stay close to the hospital, and that they needed to come see her soon, before it was too late.   (Of course, my mom didn’t want them to come right that moment, because the summer is better for driving around in the mountains).  So, what do you do?  If you’re the relative, you come visit, if you’re the son and his partner, you grin and bear it.

I know I sound like an ass, whining about … what, exactly?  Having to play host?  That’s not exactly the worst thing ever.  Being taken for granted?  Yes, but, it’s not like I a have a job other than being around for mom, so, I don’t exactly have anything more pressing to do.  I chose to stay home and be with mom, to live with her, to make sure she’s happy and well-taken care of.  So, playing host is part of that, right? And, I shouldn’t be angry about it, right?

I guess I should have been nicer to mom’s relatives.  Until they brought tears to her eyes.

Then it’s fair to not be polite, right?

********

I did, however, while we were out and about, encounter some wildlife:

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Writing About Mom

I know that some of you started following my blog because of the stories I share about my mom.  I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I need to let you know that, for now, I’m not going to be doing too much writing about mom.

One of the self-imposed rules of my blog postings about my mother is that they will always be respectful, and, even when I’m writing something that might be less-than-flattering, I try to present her in as positive a way as I can.  I believe that since she doesn’t read my blog, and, therefore is unable to respond to anything I say about her, I feel that I need to keep my stories as neutral as possible.  I realize that perhaps that might sound as if there are deep, dark stories I’m not telling.  Not quite. There are no Faye-Dunaway-as-Joan-Crawford-No-More-Wire-Hangers-Ever stories waiting to be told about my mom.  It’s the stories where neither of us might look good.  I don’t mind being honest about my thoughts and actions, but, am not sure that right now I’m in a place to not make stories seem more dramatic than they might normally be.

Recently, I have found that my sense of fairness and neutrality towards my mother is very strained — which, considering that our relationship has been strained in some way or another for most of my life, this comes as no surprise.  She and I are very similar in temperament, yet very different in thought, belief, and action.  So we clash often.  And, while it’s not hour long shouting matches, our words are delivered with intent to hurt.   I’m called to mind a quote from one of my absolute favorite books, John Chancellor Makes Me Cry, a book of essays by Anne Rivers Siddons.  This is from the essay entitled Winter Island:

One late-winter Thursday evening last year, I had a fight with my husband.  It was one of the landmark bad ones, a bitter, vicious, wounding thing and the sort a man and woman don’t get over.  The words said during these mini-murders leave small, separate, pitted scars, as though acid had been thrown, buckshot fired.  Sheer human ugliness leaves ineradicable soil and stains.  These are not like the day-to-day wrangles and the running territorial skirmishes that thread any marriage.  We survive our bad ones, but they remain on our hides.  We are sill us, but scarred and eroded.

Siddons is talking of a marriage, but, the sentiment is the same even applied to others you’re close with.  These fights of ours seem to happen more often of late — as our relationship shifts, as I become more of the parent/caregiver, and she becomes more childlike and less independent, the traditional roles of Mother/Son come into play and cause conflict.  When I try to be the parent–like when I tried to get her to go to the hospital a few weeks ago because she had a couple of strange seizures, she asserted the role of being The Mom, and was informed, as The Child, that she didn’t want to go, and she didn’t need me to tell her what to do.  (On a side note, the seizures may have been mini-stokes, and, possibly caused because of low-blood pressure).  Do I rationally understand that her refusal to go to the hospital had as much to do with being afraid as it was of not wanting me to tell her what to do?  Yes, I understand.  But, the emotionality of it all doesn’t make it any easier.  It doesn’t make her calling me nag or fussy old woman any easier to deal with.

I know, that right now, in writing about my mom, I run the risk of sounding like the Poor Me Victim that I so despise.  I choose to take care of my mom, I choose to live under her roof, so she can remain in the home she loves so much, and, as a result of my choice, I give up the claim of victimhood.  Choices have consequences, as the saying goes.  I admit that this is more difficult than I imagined it could be, yet, the difficulty isn’t surprising.

It is what it is.

Que Sera Sera.

I know that the clashes we have are less about the topic we’re clashing over than they are about the Greater Meaning, about the frustrations we’re both feeling.  Mom is getting older, and less and less able to do things for herself, she’s having to give up an independence that she’s always been very proud of (her mother was not very independent, and needed taking care of –mostly emotionally– from the time my mom was very young, when her father died).  I think she’s also feeling increasingly lonely and isolated as the family of her generation is nearly gone, the friends she counted on and relied on are all gone.  Her social life, outside of anything she does with Julian and I, is sporadic at best.  And, I am feeling frustrated at being a forty-six year old man who lives with his mother, though it’s not the living with her that’s the biggest frustration, but, rather, it’s the fact that it is Her House, and things must be done Her Way and by Her Rules.  So most days I feel like an errant teenager. I’m also feeling an sense of isolation, a feeling that is unfamiliar to me.  I’ve always been one who enjoys being alone.  Yet, this is different.  In the past, when I’ve not worked, I’ve been able to come and go as I want, and, while still being alone, I’ve been able to do things to busy my brain; at other times, I’ve had plenty of time alone outside of work, but had some social contact at work.  Now, outside of my mom and Julian, I often go for weeks without speaking to anyone else — a few comments on Facebook, or on my blog, is the only conversation I have.  It’s an enforced isolation, in some ways,  as it’s tough for me to be completely relaxed if I’m somewhere without mom, as, lately, most things that happen to her require getting to a doctor quickly.

I realize that I’ve not mentioned Julian much in this posting, and that it may seem that I’m leaving him out of the picture.  I’m not.  Our relationship is what gives me the strength to keep going.  He’s as much a part of this as mom and I.  He suffers through my anger, my tears.  He lives in a place that is not His, or Ours.  His social life is limited too, though, and not to minimize his sense of isolation, he has his family to talk to, and, he works, so he has some outlet to take him away from the drama here.  Julian gives me wings, he gives me roots, he takes care of me, nurtures me, and, most importantly, he makes me laugh. Often.  I sometimes feel as if I’m taking him for granted, but, I couldn’t do this without him.

The point of all this?  To say that stories about mom will be fewer and further between.  I’m not in an objective place, and it would not be fair of me to write about her.  I risk writing about her without respect and concern, and risk sounding like a petulant child.

But, not to worry.  It’s not like I don’t have other things to write about.

Dispatches From The Moon: Two

The conversation in my head went like this:

Me:  “I need to tell my mom right away.”

Myself:  “Are you sure?”

Me:  “Yes.”

I:  “But you know what she’s like.”

Me:  “I do. But, she’s my mom. I have to tell her.”

Myself:  “How do you think she’ll react?”

Me:  “I’m not sure.”

Myself:  “This will break her heart.”

I:  “She’ll freak out and throw you out again.”

Me:  “Well, I don’t know that she’ll throw me out, but, if she does, I at least have somewhere to go this time.”

Myself:  “True.”

I:  “Are you sure Ronn will let you move in?”

Me:  “I think so. He said that we could live together.”

Myself:  “Well, let’s not think about that at the moment. She hasn’t thrown you out yet.”

I:  “You should have a plan.”

Me:  “A plan? C’mon. You know me better than that. I don’t ever have a plan. I just make it all up as I go along.”

Myself:  “You’re not that bad, you can plan things when you have to.”

Me:  “Thank you.”

Myself:  “You’re welcome. Don’t sell yourself so short.”

I:  “Can we stop with this lovefest and stick to the point. Are you sure you want to tell her.”

Me:  “I can’t not tell her. I mean, how can I keep it a secret? Well, I know how, but, … you know what I mean.”

Myself:  “Yeah. You’ve already got too many secrets you keep from your mom. Don’t add to it.”

I:  “At least she can’t take you to a shrink, like she did when you told her you were gay. This is beyond the power of a shrink.”

Me:  “That’s something to be thankful for.”

I:  “Is she still going to love you?”

Myself:  “Maybe the question should be does she love you enough?”

Me:  “I’m not sure I know the answer to that.”

Myself:  “There’s only one way to find out.”

Me:  “I know.”

I:  “Are you sure?”

Me:  “I’m sure.”

==++==++==++

The day was the same day that I found out about my status, all those many years ago, back in that dark time where we all thought that finding out that you were infected with the virus was virtually the same as being sentenced to death from AIDS, when there was still uncertainty and confusion about how one could become infected. I wish I could tell a story about what happened when I told my mom that I was HIV+. You’d think that with it being something that was so important to me that I would remember every detail, every word, every facial expression; it seems that it should be one of those moments that you always remember with such sharp clarity. There’s not much I remember about that day. This is what I do remember:

Pulling up in front of the house.

Seeing mom and a family friend in the window of my room: they were Spring Cleaning.

We gathered in my bedroom, mom, my brother (who was staying with us for awhile), our dear family friend, Ronn and I.

I don’t remember the words I said. Again, it seems as if they should be words that are etched in my mind, seared there by the pain of having to tell my mom that I was, again, in trouble. Whatever form the words took, the result was crying and tears.

What I do remember most about that day was that my mom said the most extraordinary thing to me, and, it’s those words that remain etched in my brain. This is what she said:

“I love you. You’re my son, and I love you. You’ll never be alone if you get sick. Even if it means that I catch HIV caring for you, I’ll take care of you. You’re my son, and I will always love you.”

About “She Said What?”

My mom may not be as amusing as Justin’s dad, over at Shit My Dad Says, but, my mom has a few things to say — and isn’t afraid to say them.

Over the years, I’ve written many of them down, and would like to share them.

I would, however, like to make it clear: my mom is not always politically correct (in fact, she’s never politically correct), she’s not above using a curse word or two, and she’s not one to mince words.  She might make you laugh, she might shock you, or even offend you (believe me, I’m often offended by what she says).

People are not made up just of actions, but, also, of the words they say.  My mom has quite a few words.  And, in spite of some of the things she says, I love her.  She’s 88 years old, and I’ve given up trying to change her; I’m finally learning to embrace her, in spite of the shocking things she says.

I don’t ask that you always approve of the things she may say, but, I do ask that you don’t degrade or demean her.  My sharing of her words are meant to give a well-rounded portrait of my mother, someone who I write about often.  I love and respect my mother, and, I hope that my sharing of her words comes across as such, with maybe a mild dose of poking fun.

These “She Said What?” posts may be just a sentence, spoken by mom, or, they may be the recounting of a conversation; some of the words will be talking about herself, and, more often, they’ll be talking about others.

I hope that you enjoy reading about the things my mother says.

The first official post will make it’s debut this weekend.

Death Of A Child, Birth Of An Adult

Close your eyes and try to remember what you were doing in 1980. Maybe you were celebrating the birth of a new decade, the election of a new presidential administration, the new things the eighties promised to bring. Maybe your life went on as usual, the newness of the decade not really meaning anything to you.  Maybe you were doing something uneventful.  Perhaps your life was changing.

In 1980 I became an adult.  My adolescence ended one year after it began.  For me, 1980 would be a disembarkment from child to adult.

On February 1, I celebrated my fourteenth birthday.  My day of celebration was spent in a hospital waiting room, waiting for news about my father.  I passed the day pacing the room, wondering what the future of the next few days would bring.  But, by their very nature, hospital waiting rooms provide no answers, only more questions.  That day, my birthday, was the beginning of the culmination of events that had begun almost a year earlier.

The Spring of 1979 was a time when my family (my mother, father, brother and I learned the lesson of living for the present, not waiting for tomorrow.  As the flowers were beginning to poke through the soil, we were dealing with the aftermath of the operation that removed the majority of a malignant grapefruit-sized tumor from my father’s brain.  While the leaves were beginning to populate the trees, we were helping my dad re-learn to walk, re-learn to write, re-learn to use his right hand.  As the April sun was conquering winter’s death, we were learning to accept the fact that my father had five to eleven months to live.

Spring melted into Summer. Summer ran into Fall. Fall rushed into Winter. Before we realized it, my father’s five to eleven months had dwindled down to the final two.

January 1980 brought with it a miracle: Dad’s cancer was in remission.  He could write again and had regained the full use of his right hand.  My dad walked with the vigor of a man half of his fifty-five years.  But the miracle was to be short lived.

1 2

Remembering David

According to my mom, I asked for a little brother several times.

I don’t remember this.

In 1971, during the month of January, my parents presented me with a little brother.

I don’t remember this.

It seems that I was rather disappointed with this gift.  “He doesn’t do very much, does he?” was, apparently, something I said on more than one occasion.

I don’t remember this.

To be honest, I don’t remember too many things about the first few years of his life here.  I remember many things about my little brother, David, but, those early years are lost in the Whirling Fog, also known as My Brain.

Let me tell you what I remember.

I remember that he was adopted.  So was I.  My birth parents names are sealed in records somewhere.  David’s birth mother was my father’s niece.  She was young, single, and, in 1971, single-parenting wasn’t as common as it is today.  She saw that I was loved, and asked my parents to give her child the same love and good home they’d given me.

I remember that David, when he was quite young, had the biggest, roundest eyes I’d ever seen. I was five years old when David was born, so I suppose my exposure to people with big, round eyes was rather limited.  But, they were big enough to have made an indelible impression on my memory.

My favorite David photo. His preschool photo. The story is that he was scared of the lights and equipment. I love his expression, and I think it’s the best photo of his big, round eyes!

I remember that he was full of energy, and curious about everything.  He was slow to learn to talk, so he’d just point.  (The fact that he started talking later than many babies was more than made up for once he decided that he had things to say.  David, as a child, could talk endlessly.)

I remember that he hated to be hugged, cuddled and snuggled.  The minute anyone would pick him up and try to pull him close, his entire body would stiffen, his limbs would lock, and he’d push away.

I remember that he could throw rather spectacular fits.  They would begin with his face wrinkling up, his eyes squeezing shut, and loud cries would emanate from some dark, scary place inside him.  These cries would then turn into shouts of “No!” or “I want it!” or some such protest.  Then the jumping would start.  Some kids throw themselves across the bed, or onto the floor, and kick and scream, pounding the floor or bed with their legs and arms.  Not David.  My brother was a jumper.  Up and down in one spot to begin. As the cries got louder, the jumping would begin carrying him around the room.  If he was near the hallway, he’d jump his way up and down the hallway, back and forth, jumping, until the fit left him.

I remember that when he’d throw these bouncing, crying fits, that not a single tear was shed.

I remember one time, when he was about 5, and I was about 10, I burned him with the car’s cigarette lighter.  We had gone to the cabin, and, as we were driving down the road towards our destination, my mom stopped to speak to one of the neighbors.  David and I waited in the car.  I had recently become fascinated with the car lighter, after having seen a friend of my mom’s light her cigarette with it.  I was fascinated with how the coils inside turned red, and how that hot red caused a cigarette to burn but not catch fire.  Since we were alone in the car, it seemed a perfect time for me to check out the cigarette lighter.  I’d push it in, and when it popped out, I’d pull it out and watch the coils glow red and then slowly fade. I did this several times in succession, and, at one point, I decided, for whatever reason, I needed to press a scrap of paper to the coils.  I was rather surprised when, unlike the cigarette, the paper caught fire.  I quickly blew out the flame, opened the window, and tossed out the scorched paper.  David then uttered those ubiquitous words that have inspired sibling fights since the beginning of time: “I’m telling mom!”  I don’t remember what I said to him, probably some sort of Big Brother to Little Brother threat.  I glanced at the lighter in my hand, the coils were no longer red, and, I pressed the end against the bare part of his leg that was just below where his shorts ended. He screamed.  I pulled away the lighter and saw a round red mark on his leg.  The coils may have been out, but since I’d heated up the lighter several times in a row, the outside of the lighter was still quite hot, a fact that I don’t think occurred to me until after I saw the red mark.  I jumped out of the door, and ran to the back of the station-wagon, opened the tailgate, and rummaged through the cooler, until I found a frozen pound of hamburger.  I carried it back to the front, pressed the ice-cold package against his leg, and soothed him as best I could, apologizing profusely, and begging him not to tell mom.  Perhaps I wasn’t begging.  I think I might have been threatening him if he told on me.  He never did tell.  I never played with the cigarette lighter again.

I remember that David could get very angry, very quickly.  He didn’t shout.  I was the one who shouted in anger.  David was a thrower.  He’d throw his toys.  Not the soft, plush ones. No. He’d throw the ones that would hurt. Blocks. Matchbox cars. Tonka trucks. Anything big and heavy.  Once he chased me around with his popcorn popper push toy, one of the old, 1970s versions, made of wood and heavy plastic; I managed to avoid being hit by making it to my room, and getting the door shut before he struck.  He beat the closed door of my bedroom with the push toy.  Mom was not happy about having to replace the door.  When no toys were handy, he’d hit people.  In third grade, he punched his pregnant teacher in the stomach because she wouldn’t give him something.

David’s popcorn popper was much like this, though I think ours might have had red wheels.

I remember that he would eat, and eat, and eat, and he was always very skinny, no matter how much he ate.  He’d eat everything on his plate, eat seconds and thirds, and still steal food from the kitchen to eat in his bedroom.  He was given several tests by various doctors to find out if he had some sort of nutrition deficiency or other medical reason for consuming so much food.  Nothing was found to explain it.  My mom took him to a child psychologist who recommended that when stolen food was found in his room he was to be made to consume it all, right then.  The idea, as I understood it then, was that he’d eat so much at once that he’d be sick, and, that if he were sick enough times he’d not steal food anymore.  I suspect that today this idea would be considered abusive, but, in the 1970s, it was what my parents were told, and they followed the doctor’s plan.  I think that David was the only one who wasn’t changed by this experience.  I know I was a bit freaked out by it, especially after watching a few episodes of David eating things, like a big jar of grape jelly.  He wasn’t sick. He didn’t even burp. He even ate all his food at dinner about an hour later.  Another time, I watched David eat three jars of ice cream syrup (chocolate, strawberry and caramel) without being sick.  After a few of these marathon eating sessions, where he’d consume vast amounts of food without getting sick, mom and dad stopped.  It seemed pointless.  David went back to sneaking food.

I remember that he started stealing when he was in second grade.  Stealing from other people, I should say.  He’d take my toys, and he’d steal the food, but, until second grade, it was limited to theft around the house. In second grade he started stealing food from other kid’s lunch boxes.  He’d steal money from the teacher’s desk and purse.  When he was 8, he was sent to the school for the hard-to-handle kids.  I can’t remember what the politically correct phrase of the day was, but, basically, it was the school where they sent kids who were troublemakers, because having a school full of troublemakers seems like a perfectly natural way of … what?  Helping them?  On his way to and from this new school he’d walk by the grocery store and the drug store.  Both of which he was caught stealing from on more than one occasion. After the manager at the grocery store told him that next time he was even seen in the store, he’d call the police, David moved on to the convenience store that was not quite on the way home.  He was caught there too.  He never stole magazines, or toys.  It was always food.

I remember the day that everything began to change.  It was a few months after dad died.  David was 9. In retrospect, I’m sure there was an element of a young boy acting out because he didn’t know how to grieve. Retrospect is like that. It gives you perspective, it gives you possible answers, but, it doesn’t take the sting out of the memories.  This particular day, David was very late coming home from school, about an hour after the time he should have been home. Mom and I got in the car and went looking for him.  He was nowhere along the route he walked home from school.  We stopped at the grocery store, the drug store, the convenience store.  He wasn’t there, and no one had seen him.  Mom brought me back home, in case the phone rang, or in case David came home, and she went back out, driving around.  Within a few minutes of me walking back into the house, the phone rang.  It was the police.  They had David.  He’d been stealing.  When mom got back home, we went to pick David up at the police station.  He’d been caught at the convenience store, and, this time, they called the police.  There had been a shift change right after the police took David to the station, that’s why none of the convenience store employess had seen David when I went in to ask.  The reason it had taken the police so long to contact us is that David had made up a story: that his father had died (true!), and that his mother was in California with relatives (we had no relatives in California at that time), that his fourteen year old brother was taking care of him while mom was in California, but, I had a job and worked until late at night.  He gave them a phony phone number.  When they finally told him he was going to have to go to a foster home until they could contact his mother, he finally broke down and gave them the correct contact number.  By the time we got home, I knew that something had changed.

I remember that those months after my father died, my mother was locked deep in an anxiety attack, and wrapped in grief for the loss of the man she’d been married to for thirty-two years.  It would be six months before she’d return to work, and more than a year before the anxiety broke and left her able to function again.  During those desolate months after dad died, my mom was not capable of much — she paid the bills, and went grocery shopping.  That was about it.  I made sure there was food on the table, and that David made it to school every day.  When David was arrested, something in my mother broke.  She realized that she was unable to care for David, that she had neither the energy or the will.  She made a decision to do what seemed right for David — since he needed extra care, she thought that if David went to live with his birth mother, it would be a better place.  He’d have a mother who was younger (mom was 56, his birth mother was a good twenty or so years younger), and he’d have a father figure and several siblings if he went to live with his birth mom.  His birth mother was thrilled her son was coming home.

I remember the day he left.  I can still see his little 9 year old face as he set off on his new adventure.  In the fashion of many 9 year olds who was take a trip on their own, David was very excited, so excited, in fact, that the last thing he said to mom, before he got on the plane, was, “I’m so excited to be going home!” I don’t think that he meant anything by it, but mom, still locked in the anxiety, and dealing now with the loss of a son, took these words as a rejection of anything she’d ever done.  She still mentions it, and the pain on her face is visible every time she thinks about it.

I saw him once during the next six years.  When he was 16 or 17, he came to live with us while he finished high school.  He’d been having problems at home, and he wanted to come back to us for awhile.  He was older and taller.  And, he was still David.  He ate.  He stole.  He left here a year or so later, and, I spoke to him twice over the next twenty years.

I remember the first time he called me.  He’d gotten my number from mom.  He called me one evening, and told me that he too was gay.  That he was living with an older man.  That he too had contracted HIV.  I remember the horrifying sense of anguish I felt when he told me that he was HIV+.  I remember the burning sense of anger I had at myself for not setting a better example, for not teaching him to protect himself.  I felt as if it were my fault that he’d contracted that awful virus.  I remember the sense of loss I felt at that moment, the loss of his presence, and the loss of his life — this was sometime around 1990, and, back then, HIV was a death sentence.  Everyone was dying from it.  There were no treatments, no long-term survivors.  You got HIV, you got sick, you died.  I mourned for him, for the loss of losing him when he was 9, and then again after high school, and, then again for his certain death from HIV.

I remember the next time I talked to him.  It was about a year later.  He called to tell me that he was sorry that he upset me, but, that he wasn’t really gay, and that he didn’t really have HIV.  He said he just wanted to feel loved and cared for.  I was angry, but I was joyous that he didn’t have this hateful disease.  I was furious at him, but, at the same time, I hated myself, I hated my mother, I hated his birth family.  I hated that here was this young man who would make up this story in order to feel loved, when he should have had a family who showed him how much he was loved. With time, I learned that David was loved.  That his family loved him.  I learned that, like so many other times, David said what was most convenient to say. I learned that David wanted to be loved, but didn’t recognize love when it was given to him.

I remember that over the next twenty years, the news of David came in bursts.  He was married.  He fathered a son.  He left his wife and son.  He was living here.  He was living there.  He was with this woman.  He was with that woman.  He stole from this person.  He stole from that person.  He was on the run, one step ahead of the police.

Then there was silence.

No one knew where he was, or how he was.

I remember the call that came three years ago, at the end of January.  It was David’s new wife (that piece of news hadn’t reached us.)  She was in tears.  She was calling to say that David was dead.  He’d been ill for a time, though no one was quite sure what was wrong with him. She said he died in his sleep.  He was curled up next to her.  Of all the feelings I felt when I heard the voice of this stranger on the phone, telling me she was his wife, and that he was dead, of all the thoughts and emotions I had in those moments, I remember that the strongest feeling was being thankful that this man who was my brother had died curled up next to someone who loved him. Perhaps, at the end, he recognized love.

January is a mournful time for me: David was born in the first half of January, and died in the last half of January.  This year, January was more mournful then usual.  As I sat down to write about David, I began to realize that the majority of memories I have of him are the ones with the most drama involved.  David loved the theater, movies, singing and acting, so I suspect he might be amused by the irony that it’s the drama that I remember most.

It’s not all drama, my memories of David.

Some memories are vague, nothing more than fleeting moments of memory.  They’re all of laughter.  I’ve got several distinct memories of David laughing — in some he’s just a small kid, barely able to stand and walk, and in others he’s older, and while I can’t make out the words, I can see how animated his face is as he’s telling me something, for he had a very expressive face, and the memory ends with his laughing, sometimes briefly, other times rather heartily.  And, I can hear the sound of the laugh.  I can hear the three year old David laughing, and I can hear the 18 year old David laughing.  Both sounds bring a smile to my soul.

There are other memories that are a bit more specific.  I can remember playing Blind Man’s Bluff in the front yard, with David and a couple of kids from the neighborhood.  This particular memory starts with it being David’s turn as the one with the blindfold, and words from me to remember to not run.  Our front yard has a chain link fence all around it, and, when one can’t see, one shouldn’t run, as one could run into the fence.  I can see a couple of us, talking to David, as he’s blindfolded, and trying to “find” us, and, I can see with absolute clarity this moment: the instant when David got excited, and thought he knew where someone was, and knew that he could touch them and make them “It.”  His eyes were blindfolded, but, even through the blindfold, one could see his eyes light up with awareness, and, in his excitement, he forgot the rule to not run.  He ran.  Into the chain link fence.  His face struck the crossbar, and his body struck the chain link, which is springy.  The springiness threw him back about five feet, landing him face-up in the grass.  It took him a minute, but, I knew he was ok once he starting laughing with the rest of us.   Another memory: David walking towards the pole of the clothesline in the backyard.  He’s talking, and talking, and talking, and walking right at the pole, looking right at the pole, and walking right into the pole.  The impact caught him by surprise, pushed him back a foot or two, caused him to stop talking for an instant while he assessed what had just happened, and then resumed his talking moments later as if there had been no interruption.

The clearest moments I remember are David singing.  My father, a man with a good voice who sang in a Barber Shop Quartet, claimed that David had perfect pitch.  I don’t know much about perfect pitch, but I know that, when he was young, at least, he had a beautiful singing voice.  Me, I love to sing, though I’m willing to admit that I’m of average voice.  That doesn’t stop me though.  And, I loved singing with David.  We used to challenge each other to hold a note.  We’d hear a long note in a song, and we’d see if we could hold it as long as the singer of the song.  We each had a pretend microphone, and, we’d play the record loud and sing-a-long (having parents who worked two jobs left us plenty of time alone to play loud music and sing!)  I have this clear memory of standing in the living room, the sun streaming in the window, David and I holding our pretend microphones, seeing who could hold the long note in Donna Summer’s “Dim All The Lights”, and that long end note in Air Supply’s “All Out Of Love.”  I think we spent the better part of an afternoon singing our hearts out.

The thing about memory, about its selectiveness, is that not only do we pick and chose the memories we want to keep, but, sometimes, the memories we end up keeping are selected for us, because of all the drama associated with the moment.  I have all sorts of memories of David being in trouble for something or another, but I can find no memories of David doing things that caused no trouble.  I have memories of my parents scolding David for something, and I have all kinds of memories of David saying “I don’t know” when asked why he would do such a thing. But, I have no memory of any conversation with him.  I know we talked, or at least I think I know that we talked.  I seem to have these vaporish images of him and I walking and talking, or sitting and talking, but, unlike the fog on the ocean, which can amplify sound, the words that pass between he and I have been lost in the mist.  The memories I have of David seem to have been chosen for me, because of all the drama associated with them, and with so much drama around, the normal, everyday, mundane things never made a strong enough impression on my brain.

It’s been three years since he died, and my heart still aches.  Yet, in many ways, it’s been aching for him since I was 14.  I was a 14 year old boy who watched his brother get on a plane to go live in a new home.  Six months earlier I’d lost my father, and, on that day, I lost my brother.  And, then I lost him again after he came to live with us to finish high school.  And, then, I lost him to life: I was in my early 20s, and had just moved in with someone.  I had discovered my HIV-status before David left home after high school.  He’d been there when I told my mom.  In 1989, no one really knew that much about HIV and how you could and couldn’t get it.  There was still lots of fear that it could be contracted through casual contact.  David was there the day I told mom my status, and he was there to hear her say “Even if it means I’d contract it myself, I want you to know that I will take care of you if you get sick.  You won’t ever be alone.”  He saw that love, and, I can understand why a few years later, he told me he had HIV.  My life at that time was spent trying to learn what I could about HIV so I could try to stay healthy, it was spent in a relationship, it was spent working full time, and I’d gone back to school full-time.  I thought if I were going to die young, I should go to college (I’d not gone right out of high school), so I could get a good job, so I’d have money to do all those things I wanted to do before I died.  In all that life, in all those moments I was trying to live, I lost my brother.  I was too wrapped up in my own world to think about what was going on in his.  And, yes, when he told me he didn’t have HIV, well, as much as I understood, I was angry as well.  It was just another David moment, I thought.  And, I let him go.  I didn’t think about him for awhile.  When I finally grew-up enough, and wanted to seek him out, he had lost himself, hiding away from all of his family.  No one knew where he was.  And, then, he was dead.  The greatest loss of all.

When those we love die, and we’re left behind, we spend a great deal of time thinking about the things we wish we had said or done, and we spend even more time feeling guilty about things we did or didn’t do.  I’m no exception.  I feel guilty that for all those years, from the time 9 year old David left, until the time he died, I was able to make no memories with him.  And, I feel guilty that what memories I do have of him are only a small part of who he was — I know nothing about him other than the drama.

I remember this: he is my brother, and I love him.

And, after all these years, I can still hear your voice holding the long note at the end: