Communication

G's diagnosis is tricky; in the beginning, even among the best pediatric neurosurgeons and neuro-oncologists, there was no consensus on what her MRI was showing. In fact, her neurologist has even posited that the lesion might be a manifestation of some mysterious condition in her brain, not the cause of her cognitive issues, as everyone else seems to think.

Regardless, a lot with her is an uphill battle. Her little brain just works differently than ours. She sees the world completely different than we do, but she is capable of making beautiful, brilliant connections. She has a photographic and seemingly endless memory. I am sometimes in awe of her intelligence. She's a sweet kid and scrappy as hell. I might even say she's my hero.

One of the areas where we struggle, however, is communication. She knows what she wants to say, but the wiring in her brain can't get that information along the channels and out of her mouth. She tries so hard to tell us what she's trying to tell us, but she can't and gets frustrated. The frustration leads to tantrums which makes it even harder for her to process. 

When this happens, I watch R. She absorbs the vitriolic frustration like rubber absorbing lightening. Her patience doesn't budge. She will offer alternative after alternative, determined to solve the mystery as G descends further into the tantrum. In those moments, she's my hero.

G's diagnosis notwithstanding, she gets her impatience and more extreme frustration from me. As I am merely human without cognitive processing issues, I used to get frustrated in these situations. You can only imagine it made things worse. Maybe that's how R honed her craft.

Today, though, was different. I rode the tantrum out. I offered alternatives. I stayed in there. I was determined to crack the case.

Eventually we did, albeit with a little help from R, and everyone was happy. I'm sure it will happen again - in fact, it did before bedtime tonight - but we will get through it and solve the mystery like we always do. 

It made me think about people in general and how we communicate with each other. Look at the people around you. Can you talk to them? Can you convey a message and can they receive it? I'm sure most if not all of you can, but how many of us would say we have "communication issues" with our spouses/partners, friends, parents, siblings, coworkers, etc? Are our issues more about our own will, or lack thereof, to communicate?

I would say yes. There's a lot I want to say to a lot of people, but I don't because I don't want to be "confrontational". But, the fact of the matter is, I can communicate my feelings, whatever they are, whenever I choose, and sometimes I do. But, the times I don't are wasted opportunities and, in some cases, I might not even get the chance to communicate that feeling to that person ever. 

Shouldn't I look at G, a girl with plenty to say, but without the ability to fully express it, and be eternally grateful for my ability to communicate my feelings and desires? Shouldn't I express this gratitude by leveraging this capacity every chance I get so that everyone in my life is not left in the dark about my aforementioned feelings and desires? I would say so. I would say you should, too.

Train Ride

A year ago today, I boarded a train bound for Richmond to see my grandfather for what would be the last time. R was getting toward the end of her pregnancy with the twins, so she told me that weekend would be a good one for me to go spend time with him. In my conscious mind, I didn't want to go, but subconciously I felt like there was a cloud hanging over me; the specter of his not being long for this world.

I don't remember much about the ride down. I was reading Amanda Foreman's "A World On Fire" about Great Britain's role in the American Civil War. I remember going over 14th Street in DC. They had a new VRE station there. Good for them.

Once on the other side of the Potomac, when I had service again, I called R to check in. She was angry with me for leaving something or not cleaning something up or both. I don't recall exactly.

Just like any other means of conveyance in Northern Virginia, we limped along and arrived in Fredericksburg at about dusk. My interest was particularly piqued because I was at the Battle of Fredericksburg in my book. I looked southwest to Marye's Heights and saw Lee's vantage point. No wonder he crushed them.

When we limped in to Richmond, both of my parents were at the station to pick me up. My mother thanked me profusely for coming. I knew that she thought I was there for her and not because I needed my own closure.

The next morning, I woke up and we ended up hanging around the house until about noon because he was sleeping until about that time. He slept a lot at the end. I would sleep a lot, too, if I was nearing expiration. Why the hell not?

I saw the nurse's car as we drove up to the farmhouse. It was a Ford Fusion. When we came in through the garage door, no one was in the kitchen. The house still smelled the same. I inhaled deeply. I walked around looking at all the tchotchkes that A brought when she moved in. Then I looked for the familiar tchotchkes; all of Gaga's crap.

A came down and gave us a big hug. Despite my mother's insistence that she was being melodramatic, I found her to be quite calm. She directed us over to the den/office. It still looked the same.

"He's just going to the bathroom," she informed us, almost under her breath. Then, the door to what had been a closet but was now an elevator to his bedroom opened and there he was in a white bathrobe. He was hunched over, had a walker, but could barely walk. The nurse was pretty much propping him up.

I didn't get the requisite "Well, hello, old boy! Whataya know?" He just smiled at me with a pathetic, yet genuine smile. I could tell it made his year to see me. It wasn't him. It was pathetic.

The Orioles were playing the Yankees and I asked him if he wanted to watch "Well, sure," he said in his genteel Virginia accent. We talked baseball for an inning or two. We could always talk baseball.

I called R because I wanted her to say hi. I had her on speakerphone and she asked how he was doing. He said "Great," and looking at me "because I got you here." From anyone else, that would have been heartwarming. But, considering this was coming from the hitherto prickly-yet-warm-hearted man that was Mr. G, it was heartbreaking. It wasn't him.

Meanwhile, A, my mother, and the nurse were in intense discussions about his bowel movements. How humiliating, I thought. He deserves better. But, I supposed that this was fairly normal discussion for loved ones of the dying.

My mother asked me if I wanted lunch, but I wasn't hungry. I just wanted to get out of the house. Fortunately, he had to go down for another nap. This is the last time I would see him stand up. I knew it was the last time.

I went out for a walk around the farm. Since I knew this was the last time, I took copious amounts of pictures. I wanted to capture every view I could from my childhood; literally document the memories of what was, for me as a child, a grand, impressive, and almost magical place.

The sky was grey and it was windy, but since it was Richmond in early September, it was still quite warm. I listened to my steps crunch the gravel. God, it was such a ubiquitous sound when I was a kid. I took a video of my steps just to capture the sound. When you watch it, you hear not only the steps, but the familiar whoosh of cars and tractor-trailers on nearby Interstate 64.

He started to bleed uncontrollably the next day and had to go to the hospital. At one point, he coded. I don't have a suit, I thought. What am I going to wear if there is a funeral? This is where I went. Protection through distraction?

I took the train back to Connecticut on Labor Day. From that point on, he came and went, touch and go, day to day, until he succumbed late on the night of October 26. That weekend would be Superstorm Sandy. We called it Hurricane Harry. Only he would have his funeral in a hurricane. He probably would have screamed at it.

I miss you terribly.

Denouement

It's funny how nature and time, our mother and father, respectively, ease us into and out of things. Stepping out into the backyard this glorious afternoon, I realized we are at the beginning of a very beautiful gradation.

Not to sound corny or cliched, but the end of August is a crossroads. Maybe that's not the right way to put it. Rather, it's like a switch on a railroad track; a transfer point that takes us from one trajectory onto another. 

The oven of summer has been turned off and we find ourselves in some residual heat that will carry us through to October. 

I looked up to the sky and didn't see the hazy, white sky of July; I saw royal blue, every which way, no clouds smudging the brilliant azure. 

Yellow leaves helicoptered toward the earth from a Tulip tree. The grand master had sprinkles of yellow throughout its verdant canopy, a clear message that Fall is on its way. 

The pinging hum of insects is at its apex, but the crickets of Fall are busting their way into the orchestra. 

The humid odor of wet forest is replaced by a grassy, woody warmth. The air is lighter and not palpable. We are in the midst of change.

Soon the warmth will yield to cooler nights and mornings, then cooler evenings, then cooler days. The smell of grilled meat will be replaced by the smell of leaves and firepits. Football up, baseball down, Halloween, then Thanksgiving. Pools will close and beaches will be less trodded. It happens every year, yet it always catches us off-guard.

Before we know it the long, dark, sleepy days of winter will be enveloping us. As we toil grudgingly to get everybody ready for school and get the winter clothes ordered, it is the sights, smells, and sensations that are in such surplus now that we will be longing for in February. 

Saturday

Since today is my last day of "freedom", I decided to sleep in this morning. And I slept. I mean, I really fucking slept. Until after 9:00. 9:11, actually.

Of course, I didn't sleep all the way through. Last night's partaking of whiskey and rum completed its evolution inside of my body at about 5:00 and the sugar yielded was trying to pull me out of bed. I tossed and I turned for about two hours, anxious; "I should get up," I scolded myself. "I don't even know when their flight is. I need to get going."

At 7:00, I texted R. "Good morning. When is a good time to call?" My trepidation remains after last night's alarm episode. Nothing.

I laid down with Teddy and we both fell into sleep, beautiful REM sleep, with messed up, yet beautiful dreams for two more hours. Oh my God. This is what 2004 was like: I can sleep and wake up when I want to. Wow. What fucking liberty.

At 9:11, I said, "Enough is enough! Outta bed!" I marveled at what I just did and popped open the plantation shutters. Teddy and I descended the stairs, brought light to the kitchen and the family room. "I'm gonna make coffee! Then I'm gonna go through the mail!" The prospect of performing mundane banalities at my leisure was one step short of orgasmic. Then the phone rang. It was R's cell phone.

I'm doing my best not to sound hungover. I stumble into a rambling explanation that I texted earlier and that I never heard from her. It sounds like she's in the car, so they must be on their way to the airport. She's chewing something, probably her breakfast she didn't get to eat. She was not given the same gift of time that I was. She said it was a horrible night; Max was up from 11:30 to 1:00 and woke up Sammy, though the latter put himself back to sleep. I need to remember not to tell her I took a two hour nap this morning.

After we got off the phone, I looked around the kitchen. Then I walked into the family room and took a look in there. All of a sudden, the familiar started creeping in; the reality of purpose and expediency started to pick up. I felt it picking me up, picking the house up. The sun is shining in on the toys and the kids' beds, highlighting them. The refrigerator is empty, calling out for replenishment. The list starts being made. A deadline, an expiration, is in sight.

OK, let's get this shit together. But, first let's sip some coffee on the porch and make some waffles, soaking in this feeling for just a little longer.

At A Loss...

I feel compelled to write something, but I'm at a loss...

I've had the whole week to myself, to get back in touch with who I am; to not be constricted by the normal, tedious banalities of day to day life, but can think of nothing interesting to say, as I am at a loss...

I finished today's work before lunch and have done nothing this afternoon, as I am at a loss...

I have an oversized, underwhelming jalapeno burger sitting in my gut that I ordered because nothing else looked remotely decent at the restaurant to which I didn't want to go, as I was at a loss...

I sit at a desk with nothing to do; with 67 minutes to kill before the sultry combination of rye, bitters, and maraschino cherries hits my lips, for I am at a loss...

I see that people who have nothing, literally nothing, so little to the point that they need the government to feed them, demonized as being too lazy, stupid, and complacent to pull themselves out their lowly station. I'm at a loss...

I see our President drawing clear lines and then running away from them. I'm at a loss...

I see the monsters whose unchecked greed nearly destroyed the global economic order as we know it vindicated, their thievery condoned, as if nothing ever happened, including their salvation at our expense. I'm at a loss...

I see my friend dying, her body being overrun with cancer, the prospect of her having to tell her kids that this is the end. I'm at a loss...

I'm not trying to be depressing. I'm just at a loss...