Freelance writing used to be something I thought I’d enjoy, until I started keeping an online “documentary” about my mom’s health. What I didn’t include was how cancer pushed us into limbo for nearly three years.
I have a six-year-old boy who for the last three summers spent his time with me and my mother in waiting rooms, hospitals, and doctor’s offices. Last night, he told me that he is afraid to leave our house, he gets a tummy ache when we listen to NPR, and he has recently started having trouble sleeping at night.
If I had any question that our long-standing affair with morbidity was affecting his childhood and happiness, last night it was confirmed. In his short life, he has lost his grandpa, his grandma, his great-grandpa, and even though he was not acquainted with him, a young student at his school. I don’t know if most kids have the opportunity to know their grandparents as well as my son did, but as soon as he was born, we moved from Texas to Kansas to be near them. We needed them, and they were so excited to have a grandchild.
My son barely knew my dad before he died. Then, my mom was diagnosed with esophageal cancer, and not having a close network of “mom” friends of my own to call on for help, I dragged my son to appointments with us. He was there when my mom’s oncologist told her that her treatment options were over. I don’t know how much of it he understood, but he’s a smart kid. When four of the five grown-ups in the room are either crying or wringing their hands, it doesn’t take a genius to know that the news is bad.
Over the last few years, I identified myself more as my mom’s keeper than my own person. She had intervals of time where she was in decent health– for a few months at a time at the most. There were times when my brother and I were resonsible for her rehabilitation and many more times that we felt like we suddenly had a teen-ager to look after. A grown adult, post-stroke and seizure, vision loss, afraid to drive again– you can surely imagine the wild places our imaginations would go when we called her or stopped by and she was not around. Most of the time, she’d be out walking with a friend or have gotten a ride to the drug store. But in the time it took to locate her and make sure she was safely at home again, my mind went to crazy and back with worry.
I so desperately wanted her to be able to babysit my son, and for a time, I left him with her for a little while. But not without first putting a large sign by the phone with step by step instructions of how to dial 911 and take care of Gramma in case of emergency. I would leave him with her while I attended rehearsals (until my husband could pick him up) and my mind was never completely on the music. It’s impossible to concentrate when you aren’t sure if your babysitter is going to have another stroke or take another nasty fall.
So here we are, finally free from worry, but one Provost smaller. And for the first time since my son was three, I took him to the pool to teach him how to swim. As it turns out, he’s a fish. Just like me. He fearlessly dives under and it seems like he’s found a natural talent that’s been hiding away until we could make time to relax and have fun.
Next on the agenda, (when this insufferable heatwave moves on) will be riding a bike without the training wheels.
I will do anything to see my child happy. This tar pit we’ve been slogging through has finally taken a toll on us, and now we’re in recuperation mode. Somewhere along the line, I’m hoping that I’ll molt and find my old self hidden away under all these worry lines.
Here’s to making a left turn in the yellow wood.
I Am Your Singing Telegram 