Birth Can Be A Messy Adventure (part one)

His confessions fell upon me like rain, in sultry, heavy drops and scattered showers. I opened myself to them, swallowing them up as if in doing so I could take their burden from him, or at least shrink them down to a size that he could bear.

It was, of course, his way of asking forgiveness for what he was sure he must have done to deserve this new reality that lent him so little joy- this great test of human endurance that few among us had it in us to pass, myself included.

I could have simply said, “You didn’t do anything to deserve this, honey.” But I never did. The words swarmed in my throat like bees, but I sensed that the only one who could absolve him of his perceived sins was he, himself.

So I quietly listened, deep into those many dark nights, as he bared himself to me, wondering if this terrible punishment fit his crimes. This internal battle was his own to fight. I kept my ears and my heart open.

My role, I suppose, was only to love him, to stand by him, and to stay. In the end I only accomplished the first. As for the two latter, well, it was my own sins that ended up tearing me away, leaving him to face the demons alone.

Maybe I did what I did for a higher good, as I’d reasoned at the time. Or maybe it was to show him that his trespasses were small compared to what I was apparently capable of, and still no gods struck me down. I couldn’t really say now, to be honest. I can still walk and breathe freely, though, with an ache where my heart once lived that only his forgiveness can remedy. Cause and effect is such a funny thing, and so often hard to decipher.

From my new book in progress,
“Birth Can Be A Messy Adventure”

Birth can be a messy adventure, part two

He’d driven a snazzy, newer model Dodge Charger that now sat in the driveway, covered in leaves and little sticks that fell from the trees above, along with a mysterious sticky substance I finally found out was produced by these tiny, fuzzy bugs that infested one of the trees. It was called honeydew, the same stuff that some ants drink from their pet aphids. I imagined that there were probably ants up there, too, taking care of their flock, but the tree had grown so tall that it would have taken too much trouble to do a proper investigation. Besides, now that he couldn’t feel his legs none of it seemed all that important anymore- the tree, the bugs, the car covered in honeydew that he would never drive again.

He used to joke, referring to himself as a ’95 Ford Taurus. I’d look askance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to guage how far up the joke meter he was shooting for. I remained vigilant in detecting how much self-loathing might be oozing out in the form of dark humor at any given time, ever ready with some impromptu distraction, usually in the form of jokes of my own I knew he couldn’t resist, but sometimes descending along with him into those dark crevasses where the real pain lived, perhaps to show him he didn’t have to go there alone as long as I was there.

One night after he’d brought up the Taurus yet again, I asked him,

“Why a ’95 Ford Taurus? That’s not even the right year.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Just seems about right.”

“Well,” I said, seriously, “That doesn’t seem quite right to me.”

I wondered if he was catching on to the new joke I was laying on him. He was pretty sharp, and if I was going to do this right I had to sound completely serious or I’d blow it. I waited a couple beats and took my time, as if I were deep in thought.

“Nope. That’s not it. You’re a Ferrari, brand new out of the showroom. That’s what you are.”

And there it landed exactly as I’d hoped. He broke his gaze from the wide-screen TV and looked at me staring straight ahead, serious as a heart attack, with not a flicker of a smile to be seen. It was at that moment I knew I had him. I knew what it would take.

From then on the new version of the joke was always followed by me saying those words, with the very same sincerity. I came to feel that he looked forward to that part in a way. In fact, I ended up calling him Ferrari on a regular basis because something about how deeply it seemed to touch his tender heart somehow meant so much more than telling him how much I loved him. And so it stuck.

It worked its magic especially the many times when there simply were no words of comfort or humor that would do, like on Monday nights when I’d alert him that I was taking out the trash so he’d know the front door would be opening. When he was feeling down, which was often, he’d ask me to wheel him out and leave him on the curb with the trash. For a while I just plain didn’t know how to respond to that. But that was before the new Ferrari joke. So when he’d start his “trash” talk I’d ask him,

“Why would anybody in their right mind put a Ferrari out with the trash?” in the most incredulous tone possible.

He couldn’t help but smile. He understood it meant more than how much I loved him; I cherished him. And that was the kind of rhythm we got going with each other, something he could vibe with. It was a way to say things that wanted or needed to be said without exactly saying them- a secret language between the two of us that no one else would understand, that we made up as we pleased.

And, heaven help us, we had all the time in the world to perfect it, and to forget about the outside world with its junky cars and honeydew that wouldn’t wash off and strangers who shoot outstanding young men, like him.

From the future book
Birth Can Be A Messy Adventure