e.r.

I had been working on another piece after being inspired by the book Enormous Smallness by Matthew Burgess about e.e. cummings.  I am using his style as inspiration for capturing some of the bigger things I frequently think about.  Last night, however, I was in the E.R. with my 11 month old son who had badly burned his palm on our wood stove (Dad was on-duty while I was in class, ha!).  We have been in the E.R. four times in the past year for one reason or another (the frequency seems to grow exponentially with each additional child) , and each time, there's much to observe  (accompanied by strong feelings and conflicting thoughts).  I tried to focus in on them as I penned this.

e.r.

c

   r

      o

         s

            s

               section 

of society from stratosphere 

                                           

                                             to slums

condensed into

a

petrie dish

of

vinyl & red bull

and flannel & vomit

and scalp scents;      

                                                                                                                         

a hive of buffoons & entitlement & 

tooconspicuouscommunications

5 security guards?  

REMEMBER, REMEMBER, REMEMBER:

 the road toward genocide is paved with divisive thoughts, so detour through a "funds of knowledge" sieve  

&

hope

for

the best.

Fathered

My 5', 85lb mother-in-law who routinely does sets of 100 pushups in between loads of laundry, looked me square in the eyes and said, "Dead is dead."

Trying to choose my words carefully, all I came up with was, "What was the cause?'

"Hard life.  And, well, he had a pace-maker."

And that is to say nothing of the obvious.  At the age of 10, Bernie had witnessed his mother shot to death by his father, who then subsequently blew out his own brains.  This event is sited as the catalyst and all-encompasing explanation for his lifestyle choices.  He'd run away from state care by 14 and was transient ever since.  Wait. He did try his hand at permanence in marrying the timid, waif-like Marlene Nelson.  They must have sought completion in each other:  he a SKILLFUL musician, and she- quiet and steady.  I only know tidbits of what happened the day he left. Marlene, a new mother, locked herself in the bathroom with her weeks-old infant to avoid some sort of violent outburst.  By the time family had come to her rescue, he was gone...for good.  She remarried a man with more interest in longevity and a sense of one's "duty." He became my MIL's Dad, and although he was never terribly affectionate, she has chanted, almost daily over the past weeks, "I was taught, I was cared for, I was disciplined, I was safe.  I had clean clothes.  I had good food. I had a warm bed.  I knew to put the cart back.  I knew how to work.  I am here now because he left." She mentioned that when he gave her an account of his life, Bernie did not shade any of his experiences in his favor.  Instead of relaying the time he was invited to accompany Loretta Lynn, he simply had "some bar gigs."  Instead of being a trained Vietnam paratrooper who was honorably discharged on account of medical psychosis, he was "kicked out" for shoving an officer down the stairs of a naval ship.  She asked her mother last week under the guise of being certain to get things straight, whether he had ever once inquired after her or reached out in any way.

"Never."

Her motivation for finally seeking him out came from his niece, Candy, who informed her that Bernie was in the VA hospital, dying.  My MIL, who has a long resume of humanitarian involvement and self-mastery experience considered the homeless men and women she was visiting on a frequent basis.  She figured that Bernie had more of a claim on her than they and announced it as if trying to convince herself.  The rest of us glanced at each other skeptically. He wasn't as near to dying as Candy had touted, so my MIL spent her past four years visiting him on Sunday afternoons, driving him to and from errands, advocating for him, listening to his stories and complaints.  He never said, "I'm sorry," and once she was willing, he waited impatiently with an open palm. She worked hard to avoid being conditioned.  "I'll tell you what.  I am going to call your case worker to arrange ride to the pharmacy tonight, and then I'm going to bed because it's nearly midnight.  I will check in with you in the morning."

There is an unwritten rule about the effort ratio in a parent-child relationship.  No healthy adult approaches parenthood expecting the child to maintain a particular percentage of the work it takes to have one.  It's understood that the parents go in willing to give it all weather or not a child reciprocates.  We do because of biology, evolution.  As lovely a thought it is to be consistently validated by one's children, few will be.  But here, she said she always felt that their roles had flopped.  Because of where she is and from whom and what she was sheltered, she felt the full responsibility of their relationship.

All we can see is his abandonment, disinterest, selfishness.

She saw a sad man who shared her genes and an opportunity for self discovery.  So, when he died last week, and his will was found, and she had been expressly "disinherited," it opened a deep wound that had been overlooked.  It was Candy who had drafted it,  but he had signed it. "Who wants the possessions of a homeless guy!?  I could care less about all that.  Candy can have his junk and good riddance," she laughed.  But, <chokes>it HURTS to be unwanted."