My Darlin’, My baby

As Mother’s Day approaches I think on each of my children.  All of them are special, unique, and have become remarkable adults.  I have three of them: my two sons, to whom I gave birth, and my beautiful daughter who came to me along with her father, when she had just turned thirteen.    My daughter is the youngest of the three, but she was not my baby.  

This little essay is for my baby,  my Darlin’, My baby.  

That is,  my youngest son:  a hulking, huge, almost 35 year old man.  He is over six feet tall (by a bunch), has deep brown eyes a person can get lost in, thick gorgeous black hair, and a beautiful smile that occasionally lights up his face and makes me think of the double rainbow in the sky the day he was born.  I love him beyond expression.   

I also haven’t seen or heard from him in months.  

He suffers from a mental illness that makes it hard to be around him.  He has a mind that experiences incredible highs and devastating lows.  Even the highs,  manic episodes during which his mind races so fast and hard he can’t keep up with it,  are difficult and have from time to time forced him into situations where he attempts to hurt himself, without completely understanding why.   

I’m not even sure if the above paragraph really describes what he has lived through, because surely, I do not understand what it is, no matter how much I have tried.  These are his experiences.  They belong to him.

Here’s what I do understand.

Mental illness is a family disorder.  The person who has the dis-ease often feels alone and bereft, lost, and misunderstood.  But, as John Donne so eloquently said, we are not islands; we are all members of a tribe.  All who love anyone, suffer when that anyone is hurting.  My other children, his friends, his child, anyone who loves him, are affected by what he, apparently, has chosen not to control, but rather to embrace.   I admit I do not understand his choice, but I respect that it is his choice. 

So I have chosen to watch my child from the sidelines.  Some might call me selfish, loving him only from afar.  But it is better for me, and it is probably better for him. 

So this brings me back to Mother’s Day.  I want to take this forum, this little blog that very few people read, to explain how very proud I am of this person I call my baby.    When he loves, he loves without a seat-belt.   Well, really, he has lived his whole life without a seat-belt, a crash helmet, or a safety net.   When he was only a teenager, he spent time taking care of a grandparent at the end of her life.  When she slipped away he was inconsolable.   I remember he called me and wanted me to hop in the car and drive the ten hours to where he was.  Right now.  It’s what he would have done.

I am proud of him for doing what he thinks is the right thing to do.  I don’t agree with much that he does, and he has made some extremely poor decisions in his life.  But I don’t think he ever gives up.  I always imagine a person taking two steps back, and one step forward.  He takes the one step forward.  He takes one step forward.   

This is for you my Darlin’…  I am choosing this Mother’s Day to remember all the reasons I have ever been proud of you. 

Running with my Father

I started running late in life... Age 57 to be exact...  Let me back up a little.  To January, 2009.  I looked at my loving husband, the manly spouse, and recognized, again, that there would be no changing him.  He is a smoker, and a true meat-and-potatoes guy.  

My health was actually pretty good, considering the 50 pounds I had gained, and lost and gained again.  My cholesterol was a little higher than wanted it to be, but not too bad, all things considered.  But (there is always a "but", isn't there?) I was afraid of dying before my husband.  It's good to have someone love you as much as he loves me, but there is no way he could get along without me.  That scared me, suddenly.

So I got up off my ridiculously wide behind and joined a gym.   A couple of months later I put some personal trainer hours on the MasterCard and hired a 28 year old former marine named Dave to torture me twice a week.  Having been on every diet known, I thought I was pretty savvy about nutrition, but I learned a bit from Dave, in between torture sessions.  I stopped weighing myself, concentrated on building strength, and the weight started coming off.  

Then I went on a search for an undergarment that would hold "the girls" in place so I could run without hurting myself.  Thanks to the Internet, the Queen of daytime T.V. recommended one that looked like it might actually work.  Seemed like it might in the fitting room... I could breathe, but just barely.  Now, for a test drive... Success!  I was ready to rock...  Thirty seconds later, I was exhausted!

Keep going, Dave said.  I did.  Soon I could trot for a whole minute.  Geez.  I also did not like all the mirrors around the treadmills at the gym.  How am I supposed to envision a lean, young body, when everywhere I turn, I see the old fat girl?  Thankfully, it was March, and the snow was melting.  If I go out early enough, no one will see me.  Walk, run.  Walk, run...one more mail box.  

I decided to channel my father.  I had inherited his copy of "Aerobics", first published in 1966.  It was encouraging to see his notes...  He had struggled, at the beginning, as I was... I knew it, because he had written notes in the margin.  Also, I had to report back to Dave.  The Marine.  He had tattoos.  He laughed at me when I whined.  He made me laugh at myself when I whined.  

By the end of that summer I was running a half mile.  Back to the dreaded treadmill over the winter...  Geez, would I ever get past the 1/2 mile marker?  My father was running three to four miles daily well into his eighties,  I had just turned 58 and I felt stuck.  

Winter passed, I moved back outdoors.  Gradually I felt stronger...  It happened, it seemed, all of a sudden.  The half-mile became a mile, the mile became two, and I found a 3 mile route that didn't have too many hills and... Ta da!  At age 59 I am running (okay, trotting, really)  between 2 and 3 miles four or five days a week, depending on my work schedule.   

I gained 15 lbs over last winter,  probably because my MasterCard could no longer afford Dave, and he moved to another gym, and I hate the treadmill.  Winter walks twice a week just didn't cut it.  My friend in Montana says "get some snow-shoes!" (The manly spouse scoffs.).  Nebraska is not quite as snowy as Montana,  but I did see some spiky things you can strap to your sneakers for running on icy surfaces.  It gets pretty darn cold here, but if you're moving, and your nose is covered, it's not so bad. I'm pretty excited about this coming winter.

I imagine if my father was still here, he would be cheering me on.