Chapter Fifteen: The Thing with Feathers

THE MASK

I have worn the mask too long

Of the strong and capable woman

Allowing others to see

A me

Built of faith and strength

Never did I let them know that

Behind the mask

I cringed in fear, afraid

That one day,

The mask would slip and reveal the real me,

The frightened me,

The me who carried too much for too long

And never asked for help

Until the day

The mask

Slipped.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

OCTOBER 1, 2000. 9:30 PM.

            My grandmother taught me to knit when I was nine. My first effort was a disaster. It was a scarf, intended for my father, in a soft, camel brown. I dropped stitches constantly, it seemed, and always got the purl mixed up with the knit. It took an eternity to finish the scarf but my grandmother assured me that if I kept on knitting, eventually it would be done. And it was. By then, I was sick of looking at it and thought it was the ugliest thing I had ever seen. It was lumpy and lopsided and full of the mistakes of a beginning knitter. I was ashamed to give it to my dad. But my grandmother had already told him I was knitting him a scarf for his birthday, so I had no choice but to present my imperfect creation to my father.

            I thought he would laugh. Or point out the many flaws and errors I had made. The best I could hope for was that he would peep into the box and put it aside before anyone else could see it.

            My dad did none of those things. He opened the box, pulled out the much maligned scarf, and wrapped it around his neck. He began to exclaim over its good points: the softness of the wool, the warmth of the weight, the tones of the color. He failed entirely to mention the holes and the dropped stitches and the uneven edges. And as he talked about the good points of my first effort at knitting, I begn, to see it for what it was, the loving attempt of an inexperienced girl who had put care into every stitch she’d made because it was for her dad. It didn't need to be perfect.

            It didn't seem so ugly anymore.

            I’m not sure where the scarf is now, but I can assume it is tucked away somewhere in Dad’s many boxes of memories. I went onto knit many other things for Dad and other members of my family; each item was an improvement over the scarf. But I will never forget the way Dad wore the first of my creations. He wore it with pride.

            I've been thinking about knitting for two reasons. One is the way that Ron’s open wound is beginning to heal. The skin is knitting together, slowly pulling the edges of the wound towards one another. The new skin is soft and pink and shiny. Baby skin. Brand new. The first time I saw the wound—and was required to change the dressing and clean it out—I grabbed onto the dresser next to the bed where Ron lay to steady myself. It was a huge, gaping hole in his abdomen. It was raw and red and oozing. The sight of it frightened me.

            I took a deep breath. “Give me a minute,” I said to my waiting husband. “I’ll do it, but I need a minute to get used to it.” The immensity of the wound terrified me. The responsibility of cleaning and dressing it three times a day was overwhelming. How could I do this? Yet in the course of the last two weeks I have not only learned to do it without become queasy, I have perfected it into a two-minute process. Ready the bandages and the saline solution ahead of time. Lay out the gauze strips and pads and the surgical tape. Pull on the rubber gloves and peel off the used bandage with one hand, using the other hand to liberally wipe the area down with saline solution. One hand dries the area off while the other holds the gauze pad at the ready. Once that is in pace, four pieces of surgical tape are snipped and fitted into place. The horror of the wound began, gradually, to take a back seat to the wonder of our bodies and the way they have been designed to heal. Surely only a loving and kind Father could have made us with such detail and perfection! Even from such a large and gaping wound. I feel privileged---if not quite grateful—to witness the power of God within a human body.

            The second reason I am thinking about knitting is that I have seen the way my family has knit together these last months while Ron has been recovering. Yes, the kids still have their squabbles and fights but they are unfailingly kind to their father and sensitive to my needs. They seem to know when I am feeling overwhelmed and worried and they gather around me, supporting me with their arms and their love. Bonnie willingly contributes part of her paycheck to what she calls “ family importance.” Allen ignores the ignominy—for a teenager—of accepting reduced lunches at school and occasionally uses his allowance to treat us all to pizza. While he has his eye on a new $300 bike for his upcoming birthday, he knows it will have to wait. These last eight months have been decidedly difficult on all of them, yet they are stronger for it. It has been hardest on Dennis, who lives in the city and only sees our miracles second-hand.

            This week, Ron and I will celebrate our silver wedding anniversary. We are planning a service on Saturday to renew our vows and out commitment to one another. And to God. We, too, have been knitted together. Despite the trials, the bonds between us are strong. Knitting always does that; it takes a single, fine strand and wraps it around others. It is the wrapping that gives it the strength.

            Ron’s skin is knitting. Our lives are knitting. Slowly, we are beginning to heal from this latest of uphill battles. And while our early attempts may have been laughable, God has been patient with us. He has shown us the good things in our lives and has not pointed out our mistakes. While we may drop a stitch now and then, God never does.

            In His sight, we are beautiful. We are whole. God looks on us with eyes of love.

OCTOBER 7, 2000.

            “What I have learned from my parents is the meaning of the word, ‘courage’.” This tribute comes to Ron and me from the lips of our fourteen year old son as we celebrate our anniversary. Bonnie and Dennis have already made similar comments. But Allen’s words—simple and heartfelt—burn into my mind.

            “What really matters,” he continues to explain to the congregation, “ isn't money or where you live or what you have. It’s love. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for showing me that. For letting me be me. For letting me grow. For teaching me that you just need to trust God. You don’t have to understand it all.:”

            Courage. Is there a greater gift we could have given this child who so often lacked a father? Is there a greater legacy we could have offered to these three young people that God placed within our care?

            I was a starry-eyed bride twenty-five years ago, wanting to give my future children everything; a beautiful home, a good education, a solid grounding, and opportunities to travel. But we still live in the same three bedroom “starter” home. The kids all went to public school. They had limited college choices. We've traveled more in books and movies than in physical miles. But as much as I might lament the lack of material wealth, my children taught me years ago that their home is extremely important to them.

            When the world gets tough, they head home. “Home,” as Bonnie says, “ is the place where they have to take you in.”

            Time and time again, I have seen it with Dennis, who left home at nineteen to live away at college. When a high school friend committed suicide, Dennis came home. When there were decisions to be made over class choices, Dennis came home. And he continues to come home when his cupboard is bare or he needs to talk of the world just gets tough. It’s a rough world out there. You need faith. You need strength. You need courage.

            My children were not born with a silver spoon in their mouths. They will never receive the Grand Tour of Europe as a graduation present. They’ll be lucky to get a new watch. But I hope that I have given them what they need to survive.

            The circumstances Ron and I have faced in the last twenty-five years have required courage. I would not have chosen these trials, but I do value the impact they have had on my offspring. Their strength, their faith, their perseverance are treasures. Left to choose among worldly wealth or the gifts that Allen speaks of, I’d have to side with the Cowardly Lion.

            I’d choose courage.

            I, too, have something to say on this occasion of our wedding anniversary, to relate to our gathered friends and family.

            “Usually, I find it easy to string words together into an arrangement that is somewhat articulate, but how do you encapsulate 25 years into a few phrases? A quarter of a century is too long to be boiled down into sentences and too short a time to sum up with a tidy ending. We haven’t reached the last page of the book yet. We have a lot of pages left to fill.

            “I was very young when we married. I went very quickly from being someone’s daughter to being someone’s wife without ever really know who the ‘me’ in ‘us” was. If I could only thank you for one thing, Ron, it would be for giving me room in our marriage to grow. Even when it was inconvenient for you, you've encouraged me to expand my horizons and my education and you've allowed me to become the woman God wanted me to be. In being your wife, I found out who I really was. Buried beneath Ron’s wife, and Dennis and Bonnie and Allen’s mother, I found someone I could be proud to be. There is a song from the musical, ‘Rent” that asks, ‘How do you measure a year? Do you measure it in minutes or in miles? Tears or smiles?’  525,600 minutes are in a year. For us, then , it has been 13,140,000 minutes. And they way that we have measured them is with love.”

NOVEMBER 7, 2000.

            I watch him walk down the alley to his house, balancing the queen-sized mattress on his head, his strong arms raised to support the weight, his back straight under its burden. I call after him, “You’ll be safe if a piece of Skylab hits you!”

            “Yeah,” he agrees, “I’m totally safe under here.”

            If only that could be true. One of my main jobs in my early years as this one’s mother was to protect him against the wickedness of the world. But a mother’s love can offer only limited sanctuary, especially as adulthood encroaches on her offspring.

            This one—this tall, handsome man who so easily lifts the mattress from the roof of his dad’s van—officially left our home twenty months ago. Yes, he’d lived away from us during college years but still considered our home his. So did we. Summer vacations and holidays would find Dennis back again, vying for space and control of the remote with his siblings. His mail still came to our address and, when he graduated from the University of the Arts in 1998 wearing a pair of size 18 dress shoes I’d searched up and down the tri-state area to find, so did he and his possessions.

            “Six weeks,” he said as we unloaded his things from the U-Haul. “Just until I find a place of my one.”

            Six weeks stretched into six months and Dennis reclaimed his half of the front bedroom, scattering his assorted art supplies around the house wherever there was a spare nook or cranny. We ran short on hot water and milk on a daily basis and Tom Waits’ CDs wailed into the nights. But I slept peacefully, knowing that all my chicks were safe under the same roof.

            Dennis returned to the city in March of 1999 with impeccable timing—just before the pie hit the fan—to a rented house with two roommates, a job in scenic design to pay the bills, and dreams of becoming a painter. His new ID now bears an address different from mine. It always will.

            This shift in our lives has, of course, necessitated a shift in roles. I am no longer in charge of his clean socks or feeding his stomach. I do not know what time he gets in at night or who all of his friends are. I no longer have the power to keep him safe. I never really did.

            I laid for this child—and the others God entrusted to me—a foundation of love, but that offered no more physical protection than the mattress he so easily hoists up the steps of his house. Somehow, by God’s grace, he has survived harm. His is tall and strong in body, mind, and spirit.

            But while his address may be different, he still ventures to that place called home often, pours himself a cup of coffee, and settles at the kitchen table.”Mom, “he’ll say, “can we talk?” And he will spin out his dreams of being a painter, of having his work in glossy New York magazines, his paintings hanging in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. My part is easy. I smile. I nod. I offer counsel only when he asks and bite my tongue when he does not.

            Sooner or later, these precious visits end and he returns to the city with a carton of groceries and household appliances we’ll never see again. I could not keep him from going. I would not try.

            But my role in Dennis’ life is no less important than it was when I washed his clothes and walked him to school. He washes his own clothes these days and navigates the city with a grace that astounds me. I no longer guard him against the evils of the world.

            Now, I guard his dreams.

NOVEMBER 20. 6:30PM

            Once again, the hospital has become our stomping grounds. Ron is showing signs of a urinary tract infection and a culture taken from his wound indicates three different types of bacteria. He will need three types of antibiotics to combat it. Along with changing the dressing three times a day, I am now charged with treating it with betadine, a brownish liquid that stains the sheets. While my routine with the open wound has become a model of economic motions, the betadine often slips from my hands and splatters over the dresser top. I am tired of late and my hand often shakes.

            Joan Huffman, surgeon extraordinaire, has laid out careful plans for further surgery while expressing sorrow that there has to be more surgery. She can be no sorrier than we are. Once the infection to the wound has been cleared up, she will remove the mesh. This seems to be where the bacteria is growing. This, she says optimistically, will keep him in the hospital for ten days. I listen to this without similar optimism, quite confident that the ten days will stretch to twenty. Once the infection is clear, Joan continues, an as yet unknown plastic surgeon will take a piece of skin from Ron’s inner thigh and graft it to the open wound. While Ron can come home to recover, he will need to stay on his back for five days. Joy. I can only imagine how we will deal with that. This comprises the first stage of Joan’s grand plan.

            Once the graft is healing—sometime after the first of the year but the time line is fuzzy—we will go back to the hospital to insert a shield and perform plastic surgery over the muscle. The recovery time on this is unclear; Joan hedges when I ask her. I know she is reluctant to impart the news to me. But, really, can it be any worse than what we have already been through?

            So here I am once again, forced to count my blessings to keep myself from becoming discouraged. The old hymn says, “Count your blessings, name them one by one, count your many blessings see what God has done.” Sure, the words are true. But it is becoming much easier to count the trials. On a tally sheet, we seem a little heavy on the negative side. In the wake of Thanksgiving, with three more surgeries and several more months of recovery looming ahead, with a final to study for at graduate school and holiday shopping to do on a taut shoestring, I have my fair share of trials. The upbeat nature my friends refer to as Susie Sunshine has taken a beating lately.

            I thin about the word, “discouragement.” The word itself is depressing: a soft “s” sound followed by a hard “c”. A guttural “r” begins the inner word “rage.” It ends with a sharp “t”. It is a word I try to avoid. There are just too many letters to cope with, too many sounds to say. It is just too hard to handle.

            And yet, lately, I am the poster child for discouragement. I admit that I am tired, but it really is so much more than just a physical state. My head swims the very moment I blink my eyes open and I swirl in looping circles behind my eyelids, my body teetering ever so slightly as I struggle to an upright position and keep my eyes open.

            I have so little time to contemplate this state! My day begins before the dawn cracks and I heave myself reluctantly into the early morning. A hot shower. Dressing. Blow-drying hair that has lost what vitality it had with the doldrums of winter. There is the inevitable laundry to gather and drag down the stops. Descending into the dark and dank basement on feet wary of a cat in search of his breakfast. The cat is a reminder of our last year. He was to have been Ron’s cat, but with Ron in the hospital, little Jimi bonded to Allen. Then I fix Allen’s breakfast and make Bonnie’s coffee, her necessary jumpstart to the day. I start dinner in the crockpot and write a brief and cheery note for Ron with a short list of easy tasks for him to accomplish, something to give him a sense of purpose.

            I melt into the morning fog, tugging open the frozen doors on my ancient Celebrity and inching my way through the gloom, my damaged corneas blinking back painful tears at the onslaught of approaching headlights. I drop Allen off at school. Pencil? Pen? Lunch money? Homework? He is not a morning person, but I feel obligated to keep up a cheerful line of prattle until he exits the car. Life is hard. Dad is ill. The least I can give him is a mother’s smile, the one I carefully paste on most mornings.

            After the car door slams, my mind shifts into neutral. I arrive at my destination with little recall of how I got there. At some time in my journey the sun will have begun its rise but I will have missed the pinks and purples while I slumbered somewhere behind my eyelids and my car independently navigated the twists and turns into Chester County.

            The click of my classroom keys brings me temporarily to life. I turn the lock, swing open the door, and enter my classroom. I turn on the lights and drop my book bag behind my desk. It is a routine that requires no concentration. I check my voice-mail. Turn on the hall light. Open the computer lab. I lose myself in the day.

            My students bring animation to the room, their voices and energy arriving long before they do. They are the ghosts of my innocence. I smile. I laugh. I teach. For seven hours, they occupy my every molecule. Even my infrequent trips to the ladies’ room are done in a rush. Once in a while, though, I will lean against the door of the stall before exiting, allowing my eyes to flutter shut, feeling the coolness of the metal frame beneath my blazer. I could stay here, I think in the quiet and the coolness. But, as always, there are bodies in my classroom and questions to be answered. The day is over before I have begun to taste it and my sixth graders leave the room with far more haste than they entered it. This is not their real life. Teaching is bitter-sweet.

            I clean off my blackboard and straighten the desks, pick up forgotten pencils and papers from the floor. My back hurts as I bend, too many laundry baskets of burdens carried for too long.

            Then I pack my book bag with things I meant to get to in the course of the day but didn't. I will cart it home again, an invader to my evening. It may or may not get my attention. It depends on what awaits me.

            The sunlight hurts my eyes. I live an indoor life, forays to the dining hall and the science building my only outings. It is bitterly cold today and it bites at me, stealing my breath in sharp, quick pangs. I shield my right eye from the sun, driving home with one hand and squinting. It is the way I see the world, through a vague sort of blur.

            My book bag weighs me down like a load of guilt. Spelling tests to grade. Lesson plans. Teacherly articles on non-verbal learning disorder. These things will eat at me this evening, stealing my time. Or they will sit ignored on the window seat, taunting me. All teachers are bag ladies, carrying in our hand luggage the things that define us. Red pens. Composition books.

            I square my shoulders where our front steps meet the sidewalk and whisper a prayer. Dear God, let it have been a good day. Even as I utter it, I know what an ineffectual prayer it is, its time lapse evident. I should have prayed this when I stood  with my weary head against the stall in the ladies’ room.

            I do not call home during the day. In the early days of Ron’s recovery, I did, offering him tidbits of my day, but I no longer have the energy to give. No news is good news. I have been startled enough by my ringing desk phone or the secretary’s soft tap at my door. More than enough trips to the ER or the OR or a parade of green and beige waiting rooms has been the result.

            I am tired.

            Tired of the worry and the wait. Tired of stretching my paycheck to cover what used to take two. Tired of being needed so very, very much.

            Their moods hinge on mine. I slap a cheery look onto my face, force a spring into my step I do not feel. It is a poem by William Carlos Williams that I read to my sixth grade students. So much depends upon a red wheel barrow. So much depends upon me.

            If it has been an okay day, Ron will be seated on the couch watching ESPN and folding laundry. It is as if he waits for my car to pull up to the house before engaging in this bit of activity, having filled the ten hours I have been gone with other pressing demands on his attention. In reality there are no other demands except for doctors’ appointments and the cheery little notes I leave behind. If it has been a down day, he is asleep or feigning sleep and will likely pounce on me like a lion on its unsuspecting prey when my foot crosses the threshold. I am loathe to enter on those days, too weary to push open the door and descend into the pit. There are worse days, though, manic ones that he spends scribbling lists at the dining room table, circling want ads he will never answer, filling out forms for work-at-home schemes that will deplete our dwindling funds even further. It is why, for the last six months, I have put most of my paycheck into my own bank account. At least I know the money will be there when I need it, not withdrawn in some manic phase he will not remember.

            Once in a great while it will have been a good day. He will be bustling about the kitchen, setting the table and frying burgers. Those days are the cruelest because they give me hope. And hope , being the thing with feathers, can quickly fly away.

            And so I am tired. At night I seek solace under the quilt my grandmother made for my wedding day, burrowing myself deep into my pillows. But I am never really rested.