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I remember exactly the moment I fell in love with the Eagles.  I was sixteen years old and  sitting on the top of a giant ladder painting my boyfriend’s name on the set of the school play.  The set was a cityscape, and my art teacher told me I could label one of the buildings, Matt’s Garage.  I was putting in the apostrophe when she popped in a new cassette in the boom box and out poured Hotel California.  We grinned at each other and both sang every word.  It doesn’t matter where I am or what I am doing, anytime I hear the Eagles, I am instantly on top of the ladder with my brush dipped in orange paint, carefully making art on a 20 foot tall canvas, completely at peace.  That was a defining moment in my life.  I knew exactly who I was and who I wanted to be.  

Flash forward forty years later.  The joy of that long ago girl is buried deep inside my soul crushed under the weight of loss, fear, sadness and fatigue.  Many times in my writing I have shared my angst and grief, but the last months have been so incredibly painful,that I have been afraid if I put a single word on paper that all the darkness will come spewing forward.  There have been no words, just tears.  It takes all my energy to make myself get up and fake my way through the day.  

Some people seek solace in Jesus, or nature, or the bottle.  For me, it’s always been the road.  Especially the highways of my childhood. I remember the roadside motels and the mom and pop diners and the games my brother and I invented to pass the time.  It helps center my thoughts and turn off all the other noise.  It brings me back to my dreams. 

So after a soul crushing week at home and at work that left me feeling as broken as I have felt, I hit the road.  Destination: To stand on a corner in Winslow, Arizona, and take it easy. 

My trip got off to a scary start.  I had an appointment on Tallahassee Rd. If people don’t think Canon City is the mountains, go to Tallahassee Rd.  It’s definitely wilderness right around the corner.  

The snow came so fast.  First it was nothing, then everything was white and the car wasn’t moving forward.  I didn’t know if I should back up, or turn around, or try to grind my way forward.  I had no cell reception and there were no tracks on the road.  

I turned off the engine  and  realized I was one of those travelers you hear about with a few meager snacks and a wimpy plastic water bottle, mostly empty.  I had a coat and a hat, but no blanket or gloves.  In my defense, Tallahassee Rd is only about ten or fifteen miles off the highway, and I didn’t think I was going to get stuck in a blizzard on a backroad less than thirty miles from home.  

I got out of the car and took a look at the situation.  I was on a grade, on a very narrow cut.  I didn’t think going forward would be possible unless I dug out the snow and made some traction with dirt or my car mats.  I could go backwards, but that seemed terrifying.  Turning around seemed like my best option, even if the road was a drop off on one side.  I looked down off the road, and actually pictured what that would be like to have a car buried in snow off a cliff no one was looking over.  Imagination is so over-rated.  

Only someone really stupid or really brave would have turned a car around on that stretch of the road.  Because I was stuck, I had to scrape the snow back to expose the dirt, and then inch forward and backward and sideways in a slow 180, until I was ready to follow my tracks back to the highway, except I knew I had another problem.  I had already come down a major grade and I’d have to go back up it to get to the highway.  I didn’t think I would be able to do that, and  there was another option.  There was a cut-off county road to Cotopaxi.  Cotopaxi is on the river, so I figured that the road had to be mostly downhill, but I had never been on that road, and I was scared.  However, the county road was a good call; I drove out of the blizzard into just a wet, rain snow, and stopped worrying about dying  in the middle of nowhere.  

The blizzard set me back two hours, so I stopped off with a girlfriend in Monte Vista.  My friend has a beautiful house.  She has carefully put it together with an eye for vintage things and a plethora of books and plants and art.  It’s the kind of house that anyone would want to live in.  It’s the kind of house I always thought I would want to live in, but it made me realize that my own house with the books and art and carefully polished wood is adding to my oppression.  

The furnace went out in February, so I had to buy a brand new one and I bit the bullet and got central air and added a new payment to my life.  The fence fell down, so I also have a stack of lumber, ready to assemble.  And I haven’t  finished the window install that I started.   The  sprinkler system has another freaking leak and I spend anxious moments wondering how I am going to manage all the house projects when I am eighty.  Maybe the house needs to go.  

When I woke up Saturday morning, there was a lot of snow, but I figured the worst was behind me and I was hell bent on my corner in Winslow.  The six hour drive was more like an eight hour drive because of all the snow on Wolf Creek Pass, but it wasn’t like Tallahassee Rd.  There were snow plows and pavement and cell reception and I had snacks and water.  

Even though it was a Saturday, most people paid attention to the winter storm advisory and there wasn’t much traffic   When I drove  out of the storm into New Mexico, I felt very alone on the highway.  Solitude is a good word for traveling in the Southwest.  Miles and miles of sky and land and nothing.  I always get a sense of sadness that this landscape is where Native  Americans got pushed.  It’s a forgotten, desolate wasteland.  But at the same time, it’s breathtakingly beautiful in its vastness.  I drove on, concentrating on the road and the music on the radio.  

I got to Winslow with daylight to spare.  I know that when I was a kid Winslow was a stopping point at least once on a trip to Las Vegas.  My brother and I always were invested in the motel, hoping for a swimming pool.  The motels are still there, sad apartment buildings now, some still trying to stay alive with cutesy little signs like –sleep on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.  I wasn’t looking for a place to stay though; I headed right for the famous corner.  I took pictures, bought a t-shirt and ate some fry bread.  I chit-chatted with the waitress.  She asked me if I was alone and then gave me some tips on good air b and b’s.  The thought  of making an eight hour drive the next day, seemed a bit daunting, I wasn’t that tired, so I thought I’d start back and find a place to stay somewhere on the road to home.  Except, backtracking on the inter-state seemed boring, so I decided to go see the Grand Canyon.  

Here’s the fact about last minute opting for the Grand Canyon from Winslow.  The road there is absolutely lonely and barren and you better have a full tank of gas and a car that isn’t gonna break down.  The sunset on the desert is spectacular though.  When I got to the signs for the  Grand Canyon, it was dark and late and there was nowhere to stay, so I just kept going.  

I felt an urgency to get home.  Not to be in my house, per se, but an urgency to get back for obligations.  I promised to help with the mural at school and I  have been helping a kid with his capstone project.  So even though, I did sleep a bit, I drove most of the night.  I was tired as hell, but a few hours after I pulled into town  I went to work on the mural that will be reinstalled on the outside of the school building in a couple of weeks.  And  then I helped a former student work on a slide show for his senior project.  The trip felt like a dream, like maybe it didn’t really happen.  

It’s been a week, and I am still thinking, did I really drive to Winslow, Arizona in a day?  I haven’t recovered from the fatigue.  My eyes are blood shot and I’ve been lying awake sorting out the lessons.  The road usually brings me answers, but this time it has highlighted all my questions.  I am on this great crossroad that feels pretty alone.  The freedom to travel the unknown is pulling at me, but the anchors of the familiar are holding me back.  I think about the snowstorm, but foraging ahead anyway.  In a way that is what I always do.  I keep working my way through the storms.  But I am tired and wondering if the storms will ever be over.  

Why did I even want to go to Winslow in the first place?  And I know it’s connected to that  long ago girl on the top of the twenty foot ladder, crazy brave, painting and singing away.  I realize she is not who I still want to be, she is who I have always been.  I didn’t need to find her; I just needed to bring her home.  

When I was a kid,, back to school clothes were a big deal. Mom and I would go to Pueblo and do all the stores. I remember going through the stacks of shirts at KMart, and pants at Germer’s and hitting the mall. I’d get everyday stuff and usually a new dress for picture day, and new shoes, and a lot of times a new coat too. I’d lay all my clothes out on my bed and take off the tags. Mom would always wash them first to get off the store cooties, but I’d hang up my first day outfit in the closet because I wanted it to have that fresh, crisp newness to it. Even after I started going to Catholic school and wore a uniform, Mom and I’d still go back to school shopping and I’d get shoes and some clothes for dances and weekends. When I started student teaching, Mom went with me to Haven’s downtown and bought me a blue dress that is still hanging in my closet, because I can’t let go of that memory.

At some point in my life, I gave up going back to school shopping for myself. I had to buy school clothes for my kids and pay bills and a mortgage and shopping for myself just became totally unnecessary. Plus as an art teacher, all my clothes had paint on them anyway. Last year, when I left the art classsroom, I knew I needed some new clothes, so I went thrift store shopping with my daughter. She sat me down and asked me about what I liked. Here’s how that conversation went.

“I like soft things.”

“Good, you should touch the clothes, because texture is the most important because that’s what you said first. “

“I also hate sleeves, high waists, floral prints, animal prints, plaid, and button down blouses. And collars. I hate collars on shirts. ”

She stared at me, and then she sighed and said, “Fine. Stay here and I will get you some clothes.” And I have to say, she did a fair job because everytime I wear the clothes she picked out, people compliment me. Clothes got fun again.

The school district does a big kick off where all the employees come together on the first day. It’s a time for introductions, information, and inspiration. My first kick off was in 1995, when I student taught. One of my elementary teachers greeted me that day with a hug and welcomed me to the district. I used to enjoy the first day, but over time my joy has eroded. When my parents died, my HR director told me that I could just do what was comfortable for me. I skipped the kick-off. As my trauma continued, walking into the crowd at the beginning of the year became like its own little source of trauma.

I was completely overwhelmed about everything about going back to school, especially the kick-off. I am afraid of having panic attacks again. I am afraid of the conversations of why I left, why I am back. I am afraid of meeting new people and being in a new building and managing all the balls that get thrown everyday. I am afraid that I am too shattered to put myself together and be everything I need to be to do this job. My new principal had asked us to wear purple to the first day kick off. So I was also was worried that I didn’t have anything to wear. A trip to the mall seemed like the way to handle it all–instead of overthinking back to school, I overthought purple.

For the record, I don’t hate purple, but I have opinions about it that aren’t necessarily flattering and it is not my go to color. I decided I wanted to wear purple camouflage pants to school the first day. Since I have to touch the clothes first, on line shopping isn’t my first choice. I set off on a pretty impossible task to find purple camo pants locally. Of course, I couldn’t. And after checking an Army supply store and taking in the rows of camouflage clothes and posters of soldiers and weapons, I decided that camo could be perceived as symbolically representing going into battle and that is not the attitude I want to convey. I did say I overthought this, didn’t I?

Next I tried a Western boutique that I have been in before. It has a classy, but comfortable vibe and the salespeople are nice. I bought a very nice blouse with an almost watercolor looking flower print, even though I HATE button downs and floral prints. I also bought a purple tank top and some gray soft brushed denim pants with purple flowers embroidered on the pockets. A whole outfit. I could have been done, but I wanted shoes. And I needed make up and a new lanyard. So I went to the mall.

I was still thinking about purple camo, so I went into Hot Topic when I got to the mall. On the sales rack was one pair of purple plaid pants. I spotted them immediately and they were my size, so I tried them on. I could see with the right shirt and belt, that I could pull them off, even though the phrase “clown pants” went through my head. Perfect for school spirit day. I felt a little ridiculous, buying pants at a store for edgy teens. But I felt like I was ready for school as far as purple went.

The morning of the kick off, I put on my new flower purple shirt, and brushed denim pants and looked at myself in the mirror. Flowers. Buttons. A collar. I couldn’t. I took it off. I looked in my closet and found my Prince T-shirt. It sort of worked with the gray pants, but I hate the texture of it and I didn’t know if wearing a rock music t-shirt was a good first day look. I didn’t want to look too casual, like I don’t care about the first day of school. So I took the T-shirt off and looked in my closet for a purple flowy top that I remembered I had. Technically it’s more of a purple sage. Okay, so gray. It also has spaghetti straps. I didn’t want bra straps peeking out, so I tried some brand new silicone breast petals that I have never worn. I read the directions and sort of wondered what sort of gravitational force held them to the skin. I also wondered if I wore them to school if they’d fall off. Maybe they’d come lose with sweat and slide down my body and fall to the floor in front of everyone. Oh great. I had just given myself something else to overthink. I tried on the new purple tank top, with a real bra and realized that the clown pants might work. I put them on. I looked like Donny Osmond. Flashy, yet wholesome.

Because I had spent so much time getting dressed, I walked into the kick off with minutes to spare. Before I had time to overthink where to sit, my old elementary teacher, a board member now, came up to me. She gave me a hug and said, “Welcome back.” It was like full circle. I can’t say it took away all my anxiety, but it did make me remember that I was home with my friends who love me. It reminded me of my old excitement and stirred some sort of forgotten passion. I know the purple pants aren’t magical, but all day I felt okay. Actually happy, and that is magical. I am ready to let go of the fear and step into what comes next.

For a short time, when I was a little, little kid, I shared a room with my brother. He was a one of those lucky people that could fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. My mom and I had a deal that if I went to bed at the same time he did, I could get up when he fell asleep and watch TV with her. Mostly I remember Carol Burnett doing the Tarzan yell and Johnny Carson laughing. When I was old enough to read, I’d read late into the night. Mom would yell at me to turn off the light, so I used the same lesson she taught me and turn off the light and wait until she was asleep and turn it back on. For a long time, I just thought my sleeping problems were just a life time of bad habits.

At some point, something changed. I can actually pinpoint the time frame. When I was fourteen, my uncle had a stroke and we spent many, many days for the next few years driving to visit him in facilities in different parts of the state. During my childhood, my brother would sleep on road trips, but I’d read unless it was too dark, then I’d stare out the window trying to count the white highway dash lines, listening to my mom and dad talk about semi interesting gossip. But after my uncle got sick, I started falling asleep in the car, almost immediately. I thought being in the car all the time finally taught me the fine art of road trip sleeping. But I also started falling asleep other places–like during school and movies. I wrote that off as staying up late to work on homework. That continued to be my pattern for decades. Weird sleep patterns at night, but unable to stay awake when I sat down for an activity. It made for embarrassing moments. One time I fell asleep in a college lecture and my friend woke me up and I screamed like I was being attacked, causing the entire room to turn to look at me. The professor said, “My lectures don’t typically inspire such horror.” Another time I punched a man on an airplane when his cell phone ring woke me from a dead sleep and my arms flailed out in a startle response. If a video was taken during these moments, I’d have a hilarious reel.

I mentioned my sleep difficulties once to a doctor during my twenties. She told me that I was just a young mom and it was normal to feel tired all the time and that I needed to not nap and go to bed at the same time every night and only sleep in bed, not read, or write, or watch TV in bed. My daytime sleepiness got so bad that I couldn’t drive to thirty minutes without getting really sleepy. And I started taking naps in weird places–like the mall, and the book store, or a random park bench. I started making fun of myself, saying I was in training for my life as a baglady. But at night, I continued to be restless and I’d wake up all night, reaching for my cell phone to check the time and then checking my Facebook, or playing a game on line, before trying to get back to sleep.

I suspected that I might have a real problem one day at school. I was doing a weaving unit and I sat down with the yarn and the kids would have to come to me if they needed me to tie or cut more yarn. It was chaos–twenty five kids with yarn–picture kittens learning to knit. And I DOZED off, probably just for a second, but I jerked awake to a little girl in front of me asking for blue yarn. Soon after, my daughter looked up the symptoms for narcolepsy, and read them off to me. I had EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

The big marker is cataplexy. Cataplexy is physical collapse during strong emotion. Some people have cataplexy so strong that they fall over, or can’t move. Mine is super mild. I feel it when I laugh hard. It’s like my body is having weird muscle spasms. I just thought that’s how my body felt when I laughed really hard. I didn’t know it was an actual medical condition. I went to a sleep doctor and I did the sleep study.

He thought I’d be a slam dunk narcolepsy patient, but I woke up 134 times during the course of my sleep study, even though I don’t have the typical signs for sleep apnea. The doctor said my uvula was a little long and blocking my airway when I slept. He said that it didn’t rule out narcolepsy, but I had to try a CPAP, to see if it improved my sleep. SO I gave the machine a try. It didn’t help at all, just made my face cold.

What actually did help was just knowing that I had TWO legitimate sleeping disorders. My sleeping issues weren’t from Johnny Carson, reading, or even blue light. My erratic sleep habits were because my body couldn’t stay awake or stay asleep. Even though I was a little sad that truck driving school is off the table forever, it was a relief to know the root of the problem.

In a lot of ways I am really lucky. My cataplexy is mild. I’ve never fallen over or become paralyzed. In fact, I’d bet money that I’m the only one that notices the weird muscle spasms. I can tell when the sleep attacks are coming and I can get to a safe place to nap. The lucid dreams have given me hundreds of story ideas. One day one of those dreams might be the next bestseller…

I went to the grocery store a few days ago. I saw Angel, the sweetest student I have ever had. She greeted me like it was Christmas and I was her favorite aunt. Then I saw another former student and she caught me up on her entire family, all of which had been through the art room. Then I saw another student from my early days in Canon. And then a former colleague. Honestly, there have been days when knowing I am going to run into people I know and have to pour out sunshine makes me balk at going to the grocery store. I have literally sat in my car gathering strength to face all the people ready to ‘bless my heart,’ and tell me they have been praying for me. One of the reasons, I thought leaving Canon might be good was to bring me a little animosity. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss this deep bonds I have made here.

My house has not sold. It mostly has come down to the shared garage. The garage sits on the property line and half is mine; half is the neighbor’s. It works for us, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why it is a problem. Plus this house is 97 years old. Most people who can afford what I want don’t want to climb stairs and people who are young enough to relish a house with projects don’t have enough money. And I didn’t 100 percent want to sell it, so I probably put that out in the universe too.

The more time I spend in Pueblo, the more I realize that it is probably not my forever home. I think about Shayne homeless in a city like Pueblo. He is safer in a small town where everyone knows him.

I am not regretful about taking a new job. I needed to do something different. But school is school. Different geography, same challenges. I like my new colleagues and the kids are for the most part nice and I like them, but I realize that being in a classroom is a cage for me. I am like a wild thing pacing around looking for a way out. It doesn’t matter if it is art, math, underwater basket weaving, I am a cheetah ready to bolt. I thought I’d be able to muscle out a couple of more years, but I will be lucky to make it to Christmas.

It made sense to me to take my house off the market, because I am really not sure what comes next. I am having my floors sanded and refinished and I am turning my sun porch into a fourth bedroom and then I will move all my stuff back into the house. I talked to my neighbor and we are on the same page about fixing the garage situation. Maybe I will put the house back on the market, or maybe I won’t. I am just trusting that the universe is looking out for me and the answers are coming.

I finished the painting this weekend. I thought I was done on Saturday, but then realized that I hadn’t signed my name. And somebody told me the trout needed spots. I thought it over and went to the levee one more time.

When I got there, there was a woman struggling with the lock. I got out of my truck and showed her the trick to lifting the weight off the chain. It sort of made me laugh to myself because the first time I had to deal with the lock, I was near tears. It turned out that she was starting to prime the square right next to mine. Her first day and my last day. I was super glad to be on the other end of the job, than where she was.

I repainted the fisherman because he had a few different shades on him from the purple rain fiasco; I touched up some of the outline around the fish, and I added some spots. I tried to add the number of spots in my dad’s name, my three uncles who were (or are) fisherman, my cousin, and my grandpa, but I don’t think I got the right number because it didn’t look right to me, so I had to add a few more spots, but the spots are for them. Then I put on my fishing vest with the zippers, zipped in my cell phone and repelled to the bottom of the mural and signed my initials and then took a few photos.

When I rode my bike around to take pictures, I went the long way so I could see the mile of murals. There are about twenty paintings now, a lot more than when Maria and I first came upon them in June. I got to mine and took a couple of photos and then rode across the footbridge and up to my truck. Then I didn’t know what to do. Usually, I leave then. But it felt wrong to me. I finished this great big project and what? Just drive away? So I sat at the top and enjoyed being done.

I’ve been trying to figure out what comes next in my life. Not like next in what project I’m going to do, but next in my life. Like act two. I’ve been doing some reflecting on the “why.” I always thought writing was my jam, but I’m wondering about that more and more. Writing is like my soul, my breath. Art is like my playground, my renewal. This mural was one of the hardest things I have ever done, mostly because of the physical aspect of it, but also because of the size. It made me realize that my art is still growing and I’m still learning and changing and I have no idea where that will take me.

In some ways, getting up in the dark and driving to the levee, putting on my gear, and descending a concrete wall has given me confidence and purpose in ways that I didn’t have before. Does that mean I want to do it again? I don’t know. For now I am going to celebrate that it’s finished and trust that I’m on the path to the next leg of the journey.

My son is back on his meds. It’s been about a week and I can tell the difference. He can talk again. He printed out the NFL pre-season schedule. He is keeping track of the scores. He told me about the Las Vegas Rams game. News to me. I didn’t know they left Cali. Football means absolutely nothing to me, but he likes it. He used to watch the Broncos with his grandma. She’d fill him up with taquitos and homemade lasagna. Today he even went to a restaurant with me and ordered his own food like a person. He is clean and shaved and you wouldn’t know him as the skinny wild eyed man on a missing person’s flyer from a week ago. I know the voices haven’t disappeared, but the meds make them less obnoxious. It’s not like things are perfect, but I’m choosing to look at the bright shit.

I spent a lot of time at the levee this weekend. I got the fish done. Mostly. There are a few things I still need to do to it. The eye is too small. Up close it looks great, but this is a piece of art that no one really sees up close, so everything needs to be exaggerated and bold. I’m not sure what I’m going to do next. I was going to do the fly next, but realized that maybe I should do the sky first. So I’ll probably do the sky. I’d love to work in the morning before school, but I just don’t see how to get to the site, paint, and get back to school before the kids walk in the door. The evenings are too hot. The heat collects on that concrete all day. The two times I tried to paint in the afternoon, the waves of heat made me queasy and shaky. I can’t hang on a rope feeling like I’m going to pass out. What would happen if I passed out? Would the ropes hold me in place till I came to? I definitely don’t want to find out, so I stay off the wall in the heat.

Every time I finish painting for the day, I ride my bike across the river and take a picture. It’s such a different perspective from a distance, so today, I took my camera down on the wall and took some up close shots. It makes me nervous to take my phone down on the wall. I don’t want to drop it in the river, although, losing my keys in the river would definitely be worse. They fell in the paint bucket today. Of course they did, because I never can do anything without having a key issue. You should see me open the gate to the levee. The chain weighs like fifty pounds and I have to use my whole body to keep the tension off to turn the combo numbers. I hope to God there is no video camera recording my struggles with that gate. I don’t mind writing about my issues, but filming them is an entirely different thing.

School started this week and my brother and his family went back to Bahrain for another year. To be honest, I’m going through the motions of doing what I’m supposed to do. I greet kids, high five them, put out their supplies, clean up the paints, try to be upbeat and cheerful. That’s the perspective I’m going for–freaking fantastic. Honestly, I feel a little shell shocked. I guess it’s not that different than watching Shayne start the meds again–a facade I’d so like to believe is real. Except, my faith in that reality is so shattered, that I don’t know if repair is possible.

I guess I might be good at perspective with a paint brush, but I’m still working on figuring out how it works in life.

My son first told me about the voices in 2013. We were sitting in a Starbucks in Santa Barbara. I was trying to understand why he dropped out of college and why he was living on the street. When he mentioned hearing voices, everything just fell away. We left the coffee shop and started walking down one of those streets that have all the fun t-shirt shops and high end mall stores and yummy bistros and interesting bars and on the corner was a man screaming and screaming and beating his head against the sidewalk. There were police and an ambulance and they were trying to get him to stop hurting himself. It took a bunch of big, burly guys to pull the man up and get him sitting in the back of the patrol car. His face was bleeding everywhere and everyone on the sidewalk was watching like it was an attraction at the zoo. I wondered where his family was. And I had this uneasy feeling that was how my son was going to end up. I vowed that would never happen if I could help it.

Flash forward eight years. I no longer doubt the voices. I don’t hear them, but I know them. I know ER’s and psych wards, and trauma centers. I know delusions and paranoia, and conspiracies and mind control. I know all the first generation psychotropic drugs. I know the second generation drugs too. I know about EST; serotonin, dopamine and what the brain looks like with schizophrenia. I know the names of the drugs and their side effects; I know all the drugs that my son has rejected and why. I know the signs of impending truama. I know when the paranoia takes over and all of a sudden crazy shit starts to happen. Stephen King wants to meet him in Taco Bell. Trump is coming to dinner. The neighbor’s dog is threatening to kill him. I am an imposter looking to steal his soul. On and on. Finally, he flees. Outside is safe. He can run. He can hide. He can be “safe.” Except every damn time he flees without money, without ID, without anything. Each time is a little more horrific than the last. Each time seems more extreme, more dangerous. Each time the build up is quicker and the explosion is bigger.

This time he called 911 and reported that he was being raped. I guess I was raping him. I was the only one at home. Then he took off in his car. He dumped his cell phone in a remote wilderness area and I started imagining the worst. I felt like I was caught between two guns. Maybe I would never know what happened to him. I tried to imagine what it would be like to go the rest of my life like that. It didn’t even make sense. Or I’d find him and bring him back and we’d go through all the steps to make him healthy again. For what? So we can do this dance again in three days, or three months, or three years? What kind of life is that? For him and for me.

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of nights with my cousin, Jackie. She had this poster in her room that read–“If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.” I kept thinking about that, even though I posted a flyer and called the sheriff when my brother thought he found a cell phone signal. I went out to the levee and painted and started emotionally preparing myself to say goodbye to my son.

Turns out that after Shayne dumped his phone, he drove south to Saguache and ran out of gas. I’m not sure how long he was there, but a lady that worked at the gas station saw him and called the number on the flyer. He stole a sandwich and a drink and she had him on the surveillance camera. I was so mad. I thought he was dead and he was stealing sandwiches. I didn’t really want to go get him, but a girlfriend who was checking on me said that I needed to. She drove.

He was in Saguache. Sitting in his car at the park, all skinny and dirty. I knocked on his window and he opened the door and said, “How mad are you?” Then he said, “How did you find me? I thought you forgot about me.” Then he said, “I kinda hoped you would forget about me and live a happy life.”

I feel like I have been in the X Games of Emotions. And honestly, I’m pretty traumatized and not sure I am ok. I don’t know what to think, feel, say, or do. I’d love to believe that things will be different. He is back on his medicine. He is back to counseling. He is back to talking a good game about fixing everything. I guess I’m not mad anymore, but I don’t have any hope either. There will be a next time. That’s how this dance goes. But next time, there will be no flyer, no search party, no more bringing him home. Even if it kills me, I will say–Vaya con Dios, baby boy. And mean it.

I spent the day on the levee. I am out of red paint. But at least that’s a problem I can fix.

I lost Shayne once at the grocery store. He was seven. I remember pushing the cart through produce, then reaching the meat section and he had vanished. I stopped and looked behind me, peered around the next aisle, then immediately went hot and cold and sick. Did someone grab him? Would I ever see him again? I left my cart and sprinted to the front of the store and he was bent over working on tying his shoe. He didn’t know he was “lost.” I remember picking him up and squeezing him, even though he was way to “cool” to be manhandled like that in public.

Schizophrenia is a perceptual disorder; it’s like turning off the filter in your brain for sensory input. Like right now typing this, I’m aware of the feel of the keyboard under my fingers, the sound of the swamp cooler (which by the way, I think is not working correctly), and I can taste the mint of the toothpaste I used before going to bed last night. I’m aware of the letters and words before they appear on the page; I know a semicolon is an appropriate punctuation mark in this sentence, but I could have also made two sentences. I am sure there is other input my brain is registering, like the feel of the sheets and a cricket chirping, but some of those signals are filtered out as non important because they aren’t needed to complete the task at hand. Shayne’s brain can’t turn off the signals coming at him. All sensory details are equally important. And his inside running dialogue, isn’t his conscience, it’s like commands from someone or many people all at the same time. I explained it once to a little kid and she said, “It’s like his inside voice doesn’t have manners.” Yeah, that. In addition, my son’s memory is eroding. Not long ago I asked him make me a quesadilla. A little while later he emerged from the kitchen eating a quesadilla. I said, “Oh, you made one for yourself first.” He rolled his eyes at himself and said, “I couldn’t figure out why I was making this, I’m not hungry.”

So even though he is twenty-eight, this week has been like living that moment in the grocery store, only a million times magnified. I knew which direction he went in. I knew about how much gas he had. I knew about how much money he had. I knew the voices were probably getting louder and meaner. I knew that he was probably terrified of police or anyone in a uniform. I knew he would seek a place where there was no one. I knew he wasn’t going to ask for help. I knew that getting lost was a scenario that would kill him.

I was hesitant to put a flyer up; historically, they haven’t been all that helpful. Everyone in the world starts reporting sightings. And in this case, I was also afraid that the flyer would make my terror that something had happened to him more real. I could barely look at the pictures of him on my phone, let alone come up with the words to put on the page. I had my own little sensory overload. A friend helped me out though and after a conversation with the police, I realized that if I was going to find my son, I needed my village. It’s not that police are uncooperative; they took down the information that my son was missing. But they weren’t looking for him. He is twenty-eight and left home of his freewill and I’m being overreactive. They didn’t fully appreciate how acutely ill my son is.

The flyer quickly spread over social media. The flood of support is overwhelming. Even more kind and generous and full love of love than I have come to expect from my family and friends. But my brother is the one that probably picked up the most solid clue on a lead. He came over and sat down with Shayne’s computer and somehow was able to search for his phone through the apple id. He came up with a map of deep green and single pulsating red dot. He explained to me how the dot wasn’t Shayne, but a cell tower and Shayne could be anywhere within range of that tower. The tower is in the middle of the forest at edge of three counties, a place with rugged mountains, sparse roads and no amenities. A search was launched.

I have only received one update. His car hasn’t been found. But the beacon of the light on the map was like turning on the light switch to hope for me. There is water in the area. And maybe the trees have sheltered him from the heat. I know he could still be hurt, or maybe not even alive, but maybe he is okay. And as much as I want to get in my old, battered Toyota and tear up there, I am hoping that the people who search and save lives know their job and will find him.

I am so very grateful for the love and support of my family and friends. I am especially grateful to my brother. I am sorry that I made him eat dog food when he was a kid. I still don’t know how this will end, but I am hoping for peace.

I didn’t paint on Thursday. I got out to the levee and realized that I had left the locking carabiner in my garage. I had another carabiner, but it didn’t lock and there is no way I was stepping an inch on that incline without all the safety equipment. And in a way, I knew I really should be at home because my son was falling apart.

In the early years of Shayne’s illness, I thought if we just found the right medicine, he could be functional. At some point my thinking shifted to, if he would just take the medicine, he could be better. I have spent a lot of time trying to get to get Shayne to take his meds consistently. While I haven’t given up or lost hope, for the sake of my own mental health, at some point I quit fighting, cajoling, reminding, or debating over the meds. In other words, I stopped being a mom about the medicine and let him make the choice. His choice is to barely take it at all.

I have a high tolerance for crazy. I couldn’t have survived all these years as a teacher if I didn’t. Shayne’s behavior doesn’t bother me that much. He mostly keeps to himself, writes crazy stuff in his journal, watches Batman, eats Taco Bell and sleeps a lot. But his crazy is like watching a slo mo video of a glass of grape juice falling. Suddenly somehow it’s not a video and the juice is splashing you in the face. I feel like a weather magician sometimes. I can see the patterns in his crazy, but riffles and shifts in the wind can change the direction. Sometimes I can even stop the storm, by getting him back on his meds, but this time Shayne crossed the line from crazy to out of control. And I didn’t get in front of it in time and I couldn’t pull it back.

Every single time Shayne has a psychotic break, I think, it can’t get worse than this. But then it is. This time his words and actions are things I wouldn’t dream of putting on paper, but it culminated with him making a 911 call and reporting that he was being raped at our address. Then he got in his car and drove away. I dealt with the police. We made our report. Then I fell asleep. I know that’s a weird reaction, but sometimes the only way to cope with the madness is for my brain to take a little break. When I woke up, it was dark and I had no word from Shayne, the police, the hospital. Somehow not knowing is the worse than anything else.

I got up Friday morning and drove out to the levee before it was light. Watching the sun come up on the prairie is miraculous. It’s not orange, or pink, or red, but all those colors at once. I mixed up my color for fisherman and climbed down the wall. I just painted my fisherman and his long reedy pole. It looks so tiny, but in perspective, he is just in the background. Then I went out to a paint recycle center and met a guy even more covered with paint than I was. He showed me around and we couldn’t find any gold or neon green, I guess people aren’t using those colors in abundance, so I was forced to buy a gallon of new paint from a paint store. I did get a discount though and the salesgirl was super nice. Then I went home. Shayne hadn’t been there.

I sat on the porch until late in the evening wondering where he was sleeping. Wondering if he’d eaten anything. His birthday is today. I half expected he’d be in his bed when I got up this morning. I’ve been holding out hope that he will come home for cake and we can work on getting him some help. But he isn’t, so I guess I’ll go out to the levee and start painting the biggest trout on record. Right now, I am so grateful for my mural. It’s really the only thing getting me through.

The levee is beautiful at dawn; the sky is pink and river is picking up shadows of light and the water birds are making their calls. There is a big nest of osprey crowded with chicks learning to fish. They hang so still in the air before plummeting to the water and scooping out a trout. Now that I am not terrified of falling to my death, I am soaking in the surroundings.

I finished the primer today. Because the numbers fascinate me, I will share them. I painted thirty-six feet across and twenty-four feet down on six twelve by twelve slabs of concrete using three gallons of baby bow blue tinted primer. It was supposed to be sky blue, but the sky is darker. But it matches the shade of blue right next to the mountains. Or maybe the blue on a cloudy day. Over all it looks good, ready for art to happen.

I have been really thinking the next steps through. I don’t want to waste money by making mistakes and starting over. I don’t want to drop brushes in the river. I typically work with a lot of colors at once and how the hell do I do that now? Should I get a tool belt to put the paint in the pockets? Do I sketch in the design first? Do I make stencils? How much paint will I need? I would have some of the questions anyway, but painting on ropes changes how I paint. Everything has to be more deliberate and thought out. I am definitely not super awesome at being a planning kind of person, but I am getting there. On Monday, I was pretty sure that I was going to fall down the wall and die. Tomorrow I am ready to paint my mural. Thanks for the boatloads of support and courage. Let’s get the party started!!!!!

I didn’t paint today. When I went out for my meeting and to pick my stretch of the concrete yesterday, I got sick. I thought it was sun poisoning. But maybe it was something I ate. And I had a huge reality check on just how steep that incline is. It looks steep from across the river, but to actually stand right on it and look into the water made it all get very real.

I just saw a social media thing about what did you used to do that most people consider dangerous now? Uh…everything. When I was a kid, I rode in the back of trucks, never wore a seatbelt, or a helmet. I played on the roof of the house and the roof of the school on the corner. I climbed and jumped on everything. I rode my bike all over town without GPS or a cell phone. Once my brother and I combined our paper route money and bought a raft and floated down the hydraulic ditch. Someone asked us if our parents knew were we where. Why would they? We were home in time for lunch. My point is that back in the day this incline wouldn’t have bothered me. At all. But I am old now and honestly a little freaked out.

I have a climbing lesson tomorrow. So today, I just walked around on the surface to see what it felt like, to see what kind of shoes I want out there. I scooted without a rope all the way to the water and came back up. It wasn’t so bad, but I’d feel better with a rope for sure. I met one of the muralists. She is around 20 and climbing around, barefoot, rocking her mural. Then I went to pick up the primer and some rollers. I met a professional painter who was kind of flirty and he offered me a job. I told him I had a job, but now I am wondering if I should have at least explored that idea. House painter? Hmmmm.

A couple of people have asked me if this is worth it. For me, it is. It’s a challenge for sure. But I have never wanted to do anything more. Looking forward to “learning the ropes,” so I can paint. Thanks to everyone who donated so far. Also sharing my blog would also be helpful.

Knbionkom

M p my. K. BBB b V IIn May, Shayne was living in his car.

I don’t know what it is about spring and summer that bring my son’s demons to the forefront.  The grass starts growing and flowers pop out and Shayne stops taking his meds.  I watch him.  He talks to himself, throws back his head and laughs, argues with himself, but only when he thinks no one is watching or listening.  He keeps weird hours and skirts around the house in the dark when everyone is sleeping.  He is afraid of dying, the government, electricity, his toothbrush.  He thinks that maybe I’m not really his mother.  Maybe I’m an imposter trying to steal his soul.  Or poison him.  He thinks marijuana helps.  And maybe it does.  But not from what I see.  Instead his paranoia and mania intensify.  His eyes take on a wild, round look. The timbre of his voice changes and I start to prepare for the storm that is going to hit hard.

But this time, we were able to squash the storm before he ended up in a psych ward.  He started a new drug, one that combines an anti-depressant and an antipsychotic.  One of his issues is he hates the antipsychotic.  He likes the anti-depressant.  So the idea was that if is taking  a drug that he likes with the one he doesn’t, maybe he’ll keep taking it.

It’s worked.  More or less.  He has reached a new level of “normal.”  He can carry on a conversation with me.  He can do tasks without forgetting basic steps.  He can answer his phone.  He has a level of empathy. He still sleeps more than “normal” and he is wary of talking to anyone outside of a very intimate circle.  He still hears voices.  I know because he talks to them when he thinks no one is listening and sometimes he laughs and reacts to things only he hears.  I guess this is our “normal.”

Today is his birthday.  He is 26.  I woke up thinking about the night he was born.  He was eleven days overdue.  My parents were with me for a couple of weeks waiting for him make his appearance.  We co-habitated in my little one bedroom in north Denver.  Mom kept my apartment spotless while I went to work.  They walked over to the mall and bought baby stuff during the day.  In the evenings, we ate dinner and watched the Rockies play their first season at Mile High. Dad would mess around with my antenna and tinfoil trying to get the clearest picture possible.  I was too poor for cable in those days, yet I had the audacity to think I could bring a kid into the world all by myself.

I will never forget the night my water broke.  I had taken the day off work, feeling especially tired that day.  Mom and Dad took me for a drive and we had Chinese food.  I remember ordering sweet and sour shrimp.  We all took naps that afternoon and then Mom made hamburgers for dinner.  She overcooked mine, because she never could understand how I could eat meat rare.  She was sure I was going to die from botulism.  We argued and I ended up eating it because she called me ungrateful and brought out the tears.  Frankly, I could be a straight up bitch with my mom back in the day.  That’s the truth.  But I ate the burger and promptly got sick.

I didn’t really know that contractions would make me nauseous.  That was my first lesson that pain will make me throw up.  I just thought it was all the food I had eaten that day.  So instead of going to the hospital, I went to bed.  My water broke just after I turned off the light.  Mom armed herself with lipstick and tried to get me to put a little on before we went out to the car.  My dad spoke to her in his low, patient way like he was calming a horse, “Not now, Madre. Put it in your purse for later.”

I can remember every minute of the long ride to Boulder, but I’ll spare my readers the details.  I’ll just say, I was crowning when we got to the hospital.  My mid-wife sat me on a rocking chair and I rocked back and the chair fell over.  I ended up delivering Shayne on the floor of the birthing room.  I remember seeing his chest expand as he cried and actually knowing in that moment that he was going to have his father’s build, long and whip-thin.  I swiped at my tears, not letting myself cry for the decisions that brought me to that room alone.

Shayne swears he remembers being on the scale and remembers my mom squealing and being handed to my dad.  I think he has just heard the story and seen the pictures so many times that he thinks he remembers.  The one thing that is for sure, is that from that moment, that boy was all of ours.  He was the center of our world.  He brought my dad from a deep depression.  He brought joy to my mother’s eyes.  He made me want to do something with my life.  He brought the three of us together in a way we had never been before.

Shayne says that he started hearing voices when he was five or six.  But for mom, dad and I, the voices came from nowhere.  I remember the first time Shayne was shot up with Haldol and taken to the hospital. Mom sat at his bed side, fussing about his dirty socks, bawling.  Dad just sat holding his grandson’s hand, not saying anything.  My parents died before things got really bad.  If I am thankful for anything, it is that.

I say that, but my parents have been in my heart through the whole journey.  Last night, I dreamed of Christmas when Shayne was little.  Dad was holding him on top of a plastic slide, letting him go into my mother’s waiting arms.  It was so real.  So vivid. I woke up, confused.  I didn’t know where their house was and then I remembered that they were dead.  It hit me like it does sometimes.  Like I am facing it again for the first time.  I was able to push back the sheet and get out of bed and face the day, just like every day.

Watching Shayne with schizophrenia is like riding an endless loop on a rickety, wooden rollercoaster.  Sometimes it almost stops and I think I can jump off.  And sometimes I think I should just jump off and let my son ride on alone, but so far I haven’t.  I think about holding him in my arms that very first time.  I wanted every hope any mother wants for her child.  Despite everything, the hope never disappears.

One of my very best friends said that writers have the biggest egos. They feel their thoughts are so important that everyone should read them.  Something like that.  I found myself immediately defensive, but didn’t argue.  Because really when something ruffles you, you gotta ask why.  I spent a lot of time thinking about my writing.  I never looked at it as an ego trip.  It’s more like a compulsion.  It’s so personal and raw. Putting words down on a page makes me feel whole and cleansed.  The need to share is not something I completely understand.  But there is nothing more powerful than reading my work or having someone respond to my words.  So maybe it is ego, but I can’t stop, or apologize.  Or hide.

When I was going through cancer treatments, I made the proverbial “bucket list.”  See wild horses on the beach.  Ride in a hot air balloon.  Take my writing more seriously.  I started this blog, but then I realized that blogs are considered “already published material.”  And if I want to get paid one day, putting my stories on a blog like this might not be the best idea.  I considered going to school because I thought the structure and built in writing group would be of benefit. But I kept asking myself this nagging question–“Is school going to make me a better writer?”

After debating up until the last moment, last week I packed a backpack of notebooks and pens and a laptop and my favorite shorts and T-shirts and my bike and drove up to Western State University for a creative writing program.  I am living in the dorms and I have three groovy roommates.  Two of them I’m pretty sure are young enough to be my kids.  But age is a number right?  And these women are smart and confident and ready to take on the world.  Was I like that in my twenties?  I think I was an exhausted young mom, trying to keep my shit together.

Well, Gunnison is beautiful.  Wild flowers and cool temperatures and great places to eat and bike trails and all that.  But school has been a struggle.  First of all, three and a half hours of class.  Can I tell you how I’ve struggled staying awake during lectures?  At least I haven’t outright fallen asleep.  I don’t think.  We had a lesson on semicolons.  For real.  I wanted to FREAK OUT.  I think I did, but just in my head. I know how to use a semicolon, dammit. I won’t write anything negative about my instructors, who are accomplished writers in their own right.  But I realized I have expectations for what good teaching is and I have zero tolerance for anything that falls short of my expectations.  I realized that while I’m not too old to learn, I’m too old to tolerate shit.  And when I start swearing, I know I’m done.

I did get to write. Eventually. I was assigned to write a traditional Western short story.  I don’t hate Westerns and I actually think my story about a stagecoach driver and a nun has some potential. I am excited to drive out to Bent’s Fort and explore the Cherokee Trail and learn more about stage coach stations and finish the story.

But two nights ago I had a dream that Shayne was on the sidewalk outside my bedroom. He was off his meds and calling for me.  I actually got up and went to the window to look for him.  Then last night, I had a dream that Darian tried to call me and I picked up the phone and she couldn’t hear me.  I woke up and dialed her number, still all muddled from sleep and not making any sense.  She told me to go back to bed.  But I stayed awake, lying on the most uncomfortable mattress in the world thinking, “Why the hell am I here?”

The only thing that is going to make me a better writer is to write.  So I am going to take my moutain bike out this morning and take full advantage of the cool temperatures and amazing paths.  Then I’m going to go to my last class and cheer on my classmates–who by the way are amazing–strong and confident.  It makes me realize that I had to grow into my confidence and maybe I’m finally getting there.  Then I’m going home.  And I’m going to write.

Look for me on the page.

 

 

I watched Oprah faithfully in my teens and twenties.  I remember one episode when Aretha Franklin and Patti LaBelle joined the show to talk about aging.  One of them said turning 50 was liberating.  You had finally grown into yourself.  50 was something to celebrate, not dread.  For whatever reason, I have never forgotten that.  A few years ago, when one of my best friends turned 50, I told her she should do something epic to celebrate.  She trained for a half marathon–an epic show of strength and accomplishment. I guess I  had in my mind that maybe I’d ride my bike to the coast, but slogging through the last years have already been an epic show of strength and accomplishment.  I have asked myself at least twenty times, “how much stronger do I have to be?”  So my idea of celebration fell more in the –fabulous vacation, or hot air balloon ride, or a giant party with all my friends.  What actually transpired was all of that and more.

I’ve only been in this house for a month.  The hard wood floors need to be refinished.  There is paneling in the downstairs bathroom.  I have two rooms that I’m unsure what to do with.  There are still a few boxes unpacked and the bathroom upstairs needs a remodel to become a fully functional adult bathroom.  Not to mention that the garage has no electricity, the fence is in pieces all over the backyard, and I have been referring to the landscape as “ground zero,”  but I’m already more comfortable in this house than I was in the house I lived for fifteen years.  So it made sense to have the party here and make it a birthday/house warming event.

I woke up thinking all sorts of crazy things–is James going to want to sleep with a 50 year old woman, can I still buy t-shirts at Hot Topic, should I get a tattoo, or a convertible?  But then I met my lifelong friend to get my nails done.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a nail salon.  I used to go with my mom.  Her perfectly manicured nails of dusty rose still flash in my head when I think of her, but on my birthday, I found myself reflecting on my own hands.  I have a vein that seems to have become dark and prominent, and a few brown spots, but my burn scar is faded and almost invisible. In my. college year book, there is a photo of just my hand as I lined up for a shot at a pool table.  The photo is both artsy and sexy.  My hands don’t seem young anymore, but my fingers are still long and slim.  I wear jewelry now–mom’s wedding ring, a cancer survivor ring, a tiny turquoise ring that my dad gave me as a child, and a birthstone ring with jewels for my kids and my parents.  Looking at the rings anchored me and I relaxed into the experience of being pampered and enjoying my birthday.

The party was so fun.  Balloons and streamers and food and drinks.  But most of all–my friends.  All the people who are consistently in my life on a day to day basis filled my house from the front porch to the kitchen.  My friends have pulled together for me so many times over the years, but this time there was no trauma or tragedy, just joy. It’s exactly what I wanted–a day with people I love.  I wasn’t expecting any gifts, but was honored and touched at all that I received.  My workmates came together and gave me a hot air balloon ride.  It’s on my bucket list.  I had offers when I went through cancer treatment, but I didn’t want to go then.  I felt like the balloon ride would be something to look forward to when I was fully recovered.  I guess that’s now, right?  I can’t wait to be high in the sky with endless vistas before me.  It’s a great metaphor for how it feels to turn fifty.

When I finally went to bed, I realized that I was truly happy.  I’ve made it through challenges and still believe in love and grace.  I have amazing friends and a beautiful family and I’m lucky.  I could’t blow out 50 candles in one breath, but it doesn’t matter because all my wishes have come true already.

I remember buying my first Joan Jett cassette tape.  I was about thirteen and I had money from my paper route, so I rode my brother’s BMX to Alco and forked over a ten dollar bill. I popped the cassette in my Walkman, and then in my car stereo when I started driving, then in my house stereo when I got my first apartment. Stevie Nicks, Janice Joplin, Melissa Etheridge, Lita Ford, Joan Jett and Ann and Nancy Wilson. They were my girls. I loved the guitars, and sultry vocals.  They kept me company on long drives, all night marathon study sessions, writing my grad school thesis, and grieving bad break ups. Except for Janice, I have seen them all on stage. That was back in the day, when people stood in line for concert tickets. And I did my time, sitting all night in front of the record store in all kinds of weather to get close to the stage. Sometimes I used my grocery money to get the t-shirt at the show. I could survive on ramen and hand-outs from my cousin’s kitchen.

Even though, I never stopped loving music, when I had kids, concerts stopped being a thing for me. First off, for years, concert tickets were a luxury I couldn’t afford. But more importantly, I never thought rock concerts were appropriate for kids–drunk, high people acting crazy.  One time when I was at Red Rocks seeing Stevie Nicks, and the couple right next to me started having sex. RIGHT NEXT TO ME.  It was traumatizing. So I never have taken my kids to a live rock show, but they had lots of other exposure to music. My son can play cello, guitar, and rock the house on the drums. My daughter plays the ukulele and guitar. Both have eclectic taste, and know the words to hundreds of songs. The radio gets way more play than our television and in the car we turn up the volume and sing along. I didn’t realize how much I missed live music though. When I was in Chicago in June, I went with my girlfriends to the Blues Festival.  We saw Mavis Staples take the stage.  She spoke about marching with King and moved the audience to tears with her rendition of “I’ll take you there.” It brought me back to the days when I loved sitting close to the stage and watching the musicians do their thing.  So when I got the chance last weekend to see Joan Jett, I broke my rules and asked Darian to go with me.  After all, she’s going to college next year and after what the girl has been through, I figured she was mature enough for a rock concert.

It turned out to be one of the best nights of my life.  First off, we got to go to the State Fair, which I secretly love.  I went every year with my parents.  We’d eat complete junk and wander through the livestock tents and catch the rodeo.  Dad and I would look at all the horses and usually someone would let me take a short ride around the corrals.  My brother and I would play games on the midway and ride the rides and we almost always ran into some of our relatives.  D and I walked through the creative arts tent and checked out the quilt show and she walked with me through the corrals as I talked to every horse that was peering over a stall.  She didn’t want to look at the livestock, but she did agree to do the dairy exhibition and gave milking the fake cow a try.  We got to our seats early and Darian was so excited–we were in the fourth row, center stage.  Once the music started, Darian shot out of her seat to dance.  She knew all the words to almost all of the songs. The ladies in front of us kept turning around to compliment D, impressed that she was so young and rocking out with them.  After the show, we rode back home, talking about how great the music was.  Darian knew without being told that Joan Jett is an icon. She is one of the first women to start a rock band.  She is one of the first women to play lead electric guitar. She took criticism from Rolling Stone and all the boy critics who didn’t think she could make it.  She has had bottles thrown at her on stage.   But she never gave up and helped pave the way for generations of women musicians.   Joan Jett is resilient and brave, which is how I often think of my daughter.

In August, Darian and I went on a whirlwind tour of colleges on the East Coast, with Shayne tagging along still dealing with the tail end of his psychosis.  I had this moment at Penn Station when I was trying to figure out what train to take to get to the Bronx to see Sarah Lawerence.  I looked over to check on the kids. Both looked so city; Shayne, gutter puppy city–he had on clothes that didn’t fit him because he’s so skinny and was looking down at the ground–moving quickly to pick up a rolling quarter.  And even through the crowd, I could see him talking to himself, in the way that he does since the voices came to call.  In a place like Penn Station, no one even noticed him.  Darian was leaning up against the marble wall, her bleached white hair curling around her face, tapping her Doc Marten to the beat of whatever she was listening to on her headphones.  I realized right then, that she already looks like she belongs.  I know in her mind she has already moved to the city.  It doesn’t matter how far away it is from what she knows, or how expensive, or what I say, she has already made up her mind that New York is where she is destined to be.   And I better catch up, or she will be gone before I realize it.

I used to think my dad was the bravest person I knew.  He left his small town to join the Army when he didn’t even speak English. He learned to jump out of helicopters in the midst of gunfire to save downed comrades.  He survived a prisoner of war camp.  He never ever once asked for anything, but got respect anyway because of his quiet, generous nature.  I know he left his strength for me, but I think he left his courage for Darian.  She might be little, but she is tough.  So many times in the last years, I’ve seen her gather herself together and move forward.  There has been a lot of tears and pain, so to watch her dance and laugh with a musician we both love was pure joy.  It’s impossible to know what the future holds, but I’m going to treasure every moment that I have left with my brave, wild child. She wants to change the world and even though I don’t know what form that will take, I bet she will succeed.  She’s already changed my world and I am grateful for her every day.

 

School started this week.  For the past three years, I’ve missed the first day of school, so in a way I was excited this year that my life has settled down enough that I could do something normal, like go to work without being paralyzed with grief, or wondering if my son was dead, or rushing off to a radiation appointment.  I was ready, right?  Positive.  Cheerful.  Thinking about new projects. Ready to see my pals.   But when I got into the auditorium on the first teacher day, all my excitement drained away.

First off, when  I looked around and it was like a flashback from twenty-three years ago when I first entered the same auditorium as a student teacher.  I remembered looking at women pushing fifty sporting new dye jobs and geometric patterned skirts and thinking, “Lord, don’t let that happen to me.”  And while I don’t dye my hair, or wear primary colors or chiffon, I realized I have become one of those women teachers who are making fans out of handouts and rolling my eyes at the new teachers rolling out their Pinterest bulletin boards.  I sat and listened to two days of educational presentations and realized new ideas are just old ones dressed up in new clothes.  I went into my classroom and colleagues came to me whining and complaining about a schedule that didn’t meet their needs.  I acquiesced to their wishes.  Even if it puts thirty rowdy nine year olds in my room at one time, it’s way easier to agree, than to argue about what’s best for kids.   I came home in tears, feeling drained and trapped.

Hours later I was still crying.  And I wondered if maybe I was going through a mid-life crises.  Do women have those?  I mean I don’t want a convertible or a trophy wife, but I also don’t know if I can handle all the stupid shit.  All the discussions of hallway rules, and auditorium rules and bathroom rules and math scores and reading programs.  I’m so tired of acting like these things are important.  Where else in the entire world do people line up in single file to get to a destination, except for elementary school?  And dealing with the emotions of a building were half the women are having babies and the other half, hot flashes is intense.  I know I’ve been through a lot in my life, but I wondered if this might be the breaking point.  Kids hadn’t even stepped in the building and I was already dreading the year.  To cheer myself up, I went into my backyard and sat on my swing and watched the hummingbirds in the rose garden.

Last week, the kids and I went on whirlwind tour of college campuses on the East Coast.  One day we went to the beach and took a ride on the Wonder Wheel.  The Wonder Wheel is a eccentric Ferris wheel, which means that some of the cars are built on tracks that swing up and down as the wheel rotates.  Imagine that, swinging 150 feet in the air with the skyline of Manhattan on one side, the Jersey shoreline on the other.  I told the kids that when I retire I am moving to the beach.  Darian thought that was a good idea.  Shayne didn’t respond; he was still not completely responding to his meds and spent most of the trip, lost in his own head.

So I was sitting on my swing, thinking about all this and knowing retirement is not an option, when Shayne came out and joined me.  We just found out that his kidneys are being damaged from the antipsychotic drugs.  The drugs are fighting one war and staging another.  No wonder, little petty things about school are under my skin, I am watching my kid die a little every day.  Shayne turned to me and said, “Thanks, mom.” I said, “For what, bud?”  And he waved his arm around, indicating the yard, “For all this, thanks.”  I smiled and put my hand on top of his.  So I guess I’m not really having a mid-life crises.   I just forgot that this journey is about breathing and enjoying every moment. No matter where I am.