All Good Things…

As I finished my lunch that Friday afternoon, I had no idea what turn the day would suddenly take, nor did I realize the strength and capability my son, Blake, would demonstrate…

The house phone rings at around half past one. I’m seated at the kitchen table enjoying a quiet moment before I transition into an afternoon of work. Most calls to this phone are sales calls, so I resolve not to answer and opt instead to screen the call. No one leaves a message. Seconds later, my mobile phone rings. It’s my mom. I pick up at once.

Right away I can tell something is not right. I brace myself for what is to come. Someone must be injured or having a health crisis. I’m wrong.

“Daddy died,” my mom says. She cries and she sounds confused. I, on the other hand, go into automatic.

“Tell me where you are.”

It takes her a moment to figure it out. I can hear a voice in the background telling her where she is. She repeats this back to me, not fully understanding it, just parroting what she’s heard. I tell her I’m on my way.

“They want to know what to do with his body,” she says. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I know what to do,” I say, though I don’t exactly know how to do this. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

When I hang up the phone, Blake looks bewildered. I tell him what happened. I tell him I need him to come with me; I need his help. I see him slip into the same mode I’m already in.

“Do You Want Me to Drive?”

My nineteen-year-old son, the one who struggles to get out of bed because depression tells him there’s no good reason to get out, offers to drive me to his grandmother. He hates to drive, but he’s ready to help.

“What I really need you to do is to make phone calls while I focus on driving,” I say. “I’m not ready to talk to anybody, but I can tell you who we need to call.”

As we drive, I issue commands. Call Dad. Call your brother. Call the religious leader. Call Dad’s parents. Blake doesn’t miss a beat. He calls them all, although he’s uncertain about what to say. No, we don’t know what happened. Umm…my grandpa died. Please call me back.

“Where are you?” implores my mom. She’s on the phone as I’m pulling into the urgent care parking lot. “You don’t need to come.”

“I’m here and I’m coming in,” I say kindly yet assertively. I assume she’s in shock. Moments later I’m in an exam room where my mother is sitting alone, door shut, looking lost and confused. Blake watches as I wrap my arms around her and she allows the tears to flow. Blake joins in the hug.

“He shouldn’t have died,” she says. “He wasn’t that sick.”

“What happened?” I ask. I hadn’t been aware that my father wasn’t feeling well. She unpacks the tale of the past three days. Severe abdominal pain. Unable to eat. Lots of time in the bathroom. Finally forcing him to come to urgent care. Dressing him. Leaving to get the identification that he forgot at home while he heads to the restroom. Coming back to discover he’s never left the restroom. Calling for assistance. Watching helplessly as he’s moved to the floor and CPR is begun. Being told by the doctor how sorry he is for her loss. Her loss? He’s not that sick. Wait. What?

There’s a knock on the exam room door. It’s a sheriff’s deputy. He wants to know what we would like to do with the body – my dad’s body. He takes me into another room to give me details. He realizes my father had no plans for his death. He’s taken it upon himself to read Yelp reviews for mortuaries. He points me to one with five stars. I almost laugh. No. It’s okay. I know what mortuary to use. I don’t need to call the five-star-Yelp-reviewed mortuary.

I talk to the religious leader. I talk to the mortuary. I talk more to the deputy. My hubby arrives. I hold my mom. I ask the deputy to see my dad. I need to know that this is real. He makes me promise I won’t scream – I guess because this is still a working urgent care office and there are people in the waiting room. Where are the staff of the urgent care? Oh there they are – looking wide-eyed and dazed, unable to make eye contact with me.

And then I’m in the room with my dad. There’s a sheet pulled over him. I only see an arm hanging down the side of the gurney he is on. The deputy stands in the room watching me, gently, but there to make sure nothing is disturbed and ready to intervene if I suddenly lose it all. I gently pull down the sheet, just below his neck. And it’s him, looking just like himself, like he’s in a daze, his eyes open, his lips slightly parted. Suddenly I feel like the adult in the room. My dad is helpless. I am strong. My dad cannot do for himself. I must do for him. It is my job to make sure that the vessel that held him these 76 years is properly cared for.

“Oh, Dad,” I say out loud, and I touch his hand, hold it. It is cold to the touch like I’ve always heard, yet I’m still surprised how quickly our warm-blooded bodies cool to room temperature and even feel chilled. I plant a kiss on his forehead and I study him for a moment. My sister and brother cannot be here and I feel the responsibility to bear witness.

The deputy follows me across the office, by the urgent care staff, still with their wide eyes. As I’m about to re-enter the room my mom is in, I catch a glimpse of Blake walking down the hallway deep in conversation with someone. He’s relating the details. I watch him do this again and again in the three hours we wait for the mortuary transport service to arrive. My heart wells with love and respect. My beautiful son is not the young man with depression and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. He is the capable young adult who places calls to family and friends, close and distant. He is the one who keeps watch over me throughout the drive and wait at the urgent care and, later, the one who takes command of my car when I abandon it to drive my mother home. I see all that he may grow to be and I make note of it.

Finally, the transport workers arrive. They drape an ornate cover over my father. It makes the contents of the gurney they must now roll out of the building appear less stark. They roll him out of the exam room, through the bullpen area of the office (staff still wide-eyed and unspeaking), and out through the waiting room with its patients sitting in the neatly arranged chairs. It is awkwardly silent. No one says anything to us.

“That can’t be good for business,” my hubby says in a good- natured way to the office manager, in an attempt to break up the silence. In the moment, I’m the only one who sees the humor in this. I go back to get my mom.

Late that evening, exhausted, I thank Blake for all he’s done today. Thank you for looking after me and making sure we got to the urgent care office safely. Thank you for looking after Grandma. Thank you for making and taking all those phone calls. Thank you for getting my car to Grandma’s house.

A few days later, we leave the house early to drive to my dad’s funeral and burial. Blake is up and ready to go. He notes how he struggled to get out of bed this morning, but then he remembered his grandpa. Grandpa struggled to get out of bed himself most of the time, notes Blake. In his honor, and because Grandpa could not get out of bed anymore, Blake chose to do the difficult thing – he got out of bed. In that moment, I am so filled with love for my boy.

This post is in memory of my father, who struggled with substance abuse, with depression, with body focused repetitive behaviors (BFRB’s), and with undiagnosed Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) for as long as I knew him. He gave life to three human beings – two of whom I am blessed to call my brother and sister. Dad, I hope your legacy is that we learn, we grow, and that we help ourselves and others to have hope and to seek help when it is needed. Blake chose the title of this post, “All Good Things…,” noting the dual symbolism of all good things coming to an end, as well as the fact that it is the title of the last episode of “Star Trek: The Next Generation.” His grandpa, my dad, was a devoted longtime “Star Trek” fan. He taught me to deeply appreciate science fiction, which I do to this day – as well as the occasional B horror film.

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Invictus

This morning Blake is up early, even earlier than I am. He is eating breakfast when I come downstairs.

He’s stayed up all night again,” I automatically think. To be perfectly honest, it’s a fair assumption. After all, he didn’t get out of bed until around 9 pm last night. His dad and I went to his room several times during the day encouraging him to get out of bed. It’s a familiar pattern – one that leaves me with a sense of hopelessness that sometimes spreads within me.

“I will,” was all we got – and then he plodded downstairs about an hour before the hubby and I went to sleep.

Blake heads upstairs – to go to bed, I assume – and I offer to make him a cup of coffee. To my surprise, he answers, “Yes.”

When I enter his room he is sitting in front of the space heater. I hand him the warm mug, plant a kiss on his cheek, and shut the door.


“Mom?” I hear from behind the door. I open it back up. “I didn’t stay awake all night. I actually went to bed a little after you and Dad.” He goes on to explain to me how it is possible to go back to sleep after sleeping nearly twenty-four hours.

I’m happy,” he says – words I haven’t heard from him in some time. In fact, I can’t remember when he’s said that. “I got up two days with my alarm this week,” he notes, “and while it might not have been in a row, it’s more than I’ve gotten up on my own in this entire month.”

He goes on to show me words and symbols of motivation he’s written on a white board near his bed. On that board are the letters “INV.” He wants me to see what they stand for and motions me over to his laptop. “Invictus” is a poem written in the 1800’s by William Ernest Henley. For those who do not know the poem or the poet (I didn’t, though perhaps I should have), Henley suffered periods of extreme pain in his early years due to tuberculosis of the bone. He saw one of his legs amputated below the knee due to this. And, yet, his “maimed strength and masterfulness” inspired his friend, Robert Louis Stevenson, to create the character, Long John Silver.

Blake shares the poem with me, noting that he reads it to himself nightly. He identifies with not only the words of the poem, but with Henley, himself. After I read it, I cry and we hug. I am leaving the words to the poem below:

Invictus

by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

Don’t Other People Do That?

I haven’t written much lately about Blake’s OCD. Though it’s been in a “waxing” period for some time now, there are still “rules” Blake follows all day every day. This was a moment we had last week.

Our cat presents a challenge for OCD’s contamination rules

Blake is helping me make my bed and we are chatting as we work. The only problem is, our cat isn’t cooperating. He insists on walking all over the blankets and sheets, making it nearly impossible to move or straighten anything without difficulty.

Impatient with our furry companion, Blake picks up a pillow and starts swatting at the cat. He’s not actually hitting him, just trying to encourage him to move off the bed. He swats repeatedly, but it’s a fruitless maneuver. The cat only moves a few feet so that Blake has to move to another part of the king size bed to reach him.

I watch this scene with interest. It’s a pretty ineffective technique for moving a cat who is determined to stay put, yet Blake continues to try to use it.

“How about if you actually give him a little nudge with your hand, honey? Or maybe pick him up and put him on the floor?” I finally ask.

“Then I’d have to go wash my hands and I’m trying to wash my hands less,” he answers.

I don’t say anything. My silence obviously speaks to Blake who asks me, “That’s not unusual, is it? People wash their hands when they touch their pets, right? Right?”

“Um…that’s not what most people do. I mean, most people don’t run to wash their hands immediately after they touch their pets.”

“They don’t?”

“No. They don’t.”

“Ew. I don’t think that would be very uncomfortable.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Do you think I’m wrong?”

“Blake, you asked if other people wash their hands when they touch their pets. I answered you that most people don’t.”

“But am I wrong?” he asks.

“Only you can decide that, honey.”

“I don’t like to feel uncomfortable,” he answers.

“I know,” I say kindly. “Maybe, if you wanted to, you could expand the limits of what makes you uncomfortable by just waiting a tiny bit longer to wash after you touch our pets.”

“Thank you, mom,” he says.

That’s my signal that the message is received and he’s done with the conversation. Yet, this is the first time I can ever recall that Blake is questioning his behavior. He’s always just asserted that he is the way he is and that he thinks he is right. Today he is questioning whether his rules about what’s contaminated are in keeping with what others do. I don’t know that it means anything…but maybe it does.

Back Home

Blake has been home now for just over two months. It’s been nice having him home. He’s been more self-reflective and more open to sharing. It’s also been a relief to know he’s eating and taking his medication more regularly. The hubby and I have been able to be calmer with him than before and less impatient with him in many ways. Yet, at the same time, things are still so uncertain with him and it’s tough to know what ways things will go.

He wants to be a writer and he spends his days working on a book he’d love to publish. Some days he write a lot. Other days – not so much. The topic of his book is a secret. I only know that it is a work of fiction, maybe even sci-fi. He ponders whether he should return to school at some point. And sometimes he’s very sad and lonely.

Recently, when he was feeling very sad, he shared that the only things he really looks forward to are eating and sitting in front of his space heater. I reminded him of how, a month ago, he enjoyed playing video games with his brother and a friend.

“I think that you’re actually a social guy and that it’s important for you to get out of the house and be with people on a regular basis.”

“But what would I do?” he asked.

“Maybe apply for a volunteer position where you’re required to show up at the same time every week?”

With a little more talk, he agreed to try. He reached out, with my help, to several organizations in our community and started a weekly position with our local food pantry. For the past three weekends, he’s ridden in the big truck with the driver, picking up donations from local grocery stores. It’s heavy lifting work and is probably good for his mood. He and his driver sound like an odd pair, yet Blake has taken to this young man (who is about 10 years older than him). Blake has even learned to appreciate a new music genre: Hick Hop! He actually looks forward to going each time.

In addition, Blake has started a blog. Again, it was at my urging, but he joyfully wrote his first post. It’s a humor blog and that first post was pretty hysterical to all of us. We’ll see where it goes. The hubby and I hope that, little by little, Blake will build up momentum to living in the world and taking more steps on his own.

Lost Enjoyment

“I don’t know if this is depression or not,” says Blake, “but it’s like there’s always a grayness over everything I do.”

Blake and I are preparing dinner together. The hubby and Michael are upstairs playing a video game and Blake has come down to help me with something in the kitchen. He had been upstairs with his dad and his brother and he is noticing how nice it is to have someone to play his new video game with. This causes him to recognize the stark difference between how he feels in this moment and how he feels much of the time.

“The thing is, for the longest time now, I’ve had trouble enjoying anything. Video games don’t even seem fun to me anymore.”

Video games are Blake’s long held passion. He doesn’t just play them; he dreams of them and plots and plans new ones. Many times I’ve caught him wandering around the family room, seemingly lost in a fog, a smile planted on his face. The smile broadens when he solves a problem in his video game planning process. That he’s saying now that video games don’t seem fun is significant.

“It’s why I haven’t played this game until today. My mind tells me that starting a new game will be too hard. There’s too much of a learning curve. It seems like too much to even try. The thing is, once I start and get into it, it actually starts to get fun and it doesn’t feel that way anymore.”

“Yes, that’s depression, and you’ve described it perfectly,” I tell him. “It colors everything gray. It tells us that things will be too tough, that we shouldn’t even try. And, yet, once we do the hard work of getting going, there’s momentum. You know, you’ve uncovered depression’s secret: if we can find strength to get going, it builds on itself and helps us to recover.”

Blake considers this for a moment, seeming to absorb it. I suggest to him that he may wish to tell his psychiatrist about the way he feels the next time they meet. He’s doing a nice job of communicating it to me; it would probably help his doctor to make decisions with him about his medication if he truly understood how Blake experiences his days. He nods and runs back upstairs to be with his dad and his brother.

Alone in the kitchen now, I am grateful that he is sharing with me. This is a new experience for us, his actually communicating, voluntarily, what he is going through. Perhaps it is another step in the direction of his taking care of his own mental health.

The Semester Winds Down

One of the successes: A lasagna Blake made for himself. He likes to photograph his meals.

Blake has been at college for an entire semester – or one week shy of it anyway. It began unceremoniously, with Blake declaring that this would be the shortest college experience of anyone in our family and dreading the start of classes. I flew back home fearful of the unknown and how my youngest might fare.

It’s been a semester of ups and downs. The downs include Blake not making it to class many days, him sleeping way into the evening on days when depression made bed the only option that felt viable, MANY assignments never turned in or even attempted. It included many phone calls from Blake saying he just couldn’t do this, that he needed to drop out. And there were the tears Blake cried over not feeling adequate, losing hope, and no longer knowing what his passion is.

The ups included Blake cooking for himself, grocery shopping, keeping up on haircuts – and being the only one in the apartment to actually clean the bathroom (though that may have been prompted by OCD fears – I digress). They include Blake joining clubs on campus and even attending murder mystery special events (something he rarely did while at home, and then only with much prompting). In short, my 19-year-old moved to a new city, lived in an apartment with three others, shared a room, and took care of the basic things he needed to in order to survive. I’d venture to say that joining clubs is a step beyond the basics.

Still, college itself definitely did not go well. I don’t know how well Blake performed in any class; I don’t know if he even knows. He has decided that this is just not the right time for school for him and he is coming home. He’s not happy about that. In fact, he feels like a failure and fears he’ll only continue to fail and to suffer emotionally. He hates the idea of being an adult in his parents’ home (and cannot seem to recognize that he is certainly not alone in that status).

Late next week, I will fly to meet him. We will pack up his apartment and come home. But we won’t be flying. The hubby and I felt that being back home in a matter of hours was too abrupt a shift from what we think was a growing experience for our boy. So Blake and I will take a road trip home. We have no planned route, no place we must stop – only an ending destination of home in a time span of three days. There will be a lot of open road and empty expanses on our way. My plan is to remind my boy of the successes he had and hope that he can find a way to hold onto those, even for a brief moment.

Monday Morning

It’s 8:32 in the morning and I send a text message to both of my boys about the Thanksgiving holiday, which is over a month away. I have to make airplane reservations and I want to check on their schedules. I expect I’ll hear from Michael; it’s three hours later where he is and he already had a class this morning. Blake I don’t expect to hear from until at least late afternoon or evening with his sleep issues. He has a 10 am class, but he’s missed attending nearly every week.

To my surprise, it’s Blake I hear back from first at 8:39 am. He confirms his schedule for me. 

Me: Whatcha doing?

Blake: Waking up.

Me: You heading out to class?

Blake: Yeah 

Me: Out of bed yet?

Blake: Showered.

Me: Wow. Just wow.

Blake: I appreciate your amazement at my basic levels of human functioning. 😛

Me: It’s a mom thing.

Blake: Are turnovers a breakfast pastry or dessert?

Me: They are whatever you like them to be. Love you.

Blake: Love you too!

It’s a brief moment in time, but it’s a victory nonetheless. Blake is awake. He got himself showered at a time that allows him to participate in the day. Whether he will leave his apartment and head to school or head back to bed is uncertain. It is just this – a moment.