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.
