In my defense, it was busy.
The Boy is at college, his first year. Loads of new experiences for him, and conundrums.
Sunday night I got a call from the Boy.
“What kind of salt do I get to soak an ingrown toenail?”
“Epsom salts. E-P-S-O-M.”
He responds, “Yeah, I’m at grocery store and I can’t find that.”
I think for a long second and then, “You’re in the spice aisle, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s in the medicine section kiddo.”
“Ohhhhh.”
There is a distinct story that accompanies the image. The night before as we sat in the family room - my wife, my mother, the Boy and myself - I heard the sound of gushing water from somewhere in the backyard. I went to the door leading to our patio and in the darkness I thought I could barely see what resembled a geyser in the far garden bed of the yard. I went outside and as I got closer it was indeed a fountain of water, 10 feet or more in height shooting straight up. further investigation showed a faucet hose bib pipe had somehow cracked and water, at full pressure, was pouring out of it.
I raced to find the shut off for the sprinkler lines but when I did it was rusted into the open position. I worked for 10 minutes to get it closed, applying WD40, only to discover once I did that the hose bib, for some stupid reason was connected, not to the sprinkler valves, but to the main house line (which explained the substantial water pressure involved.) So my only option to stop the flow was to turn off the entire water main to the house. I returned to the pond that now existed at the hose bib and determined I could not fix it in the dark and would need to wait til morning. I cautioned the rest of the house that we would be without water until it was repaired, so don't flush or think about showering.
The next morning I assessed the damage and the job ahead. The crack was below grade and would require digging out the pipe. The ground surrounding it could best be described as a swampy mudpit. I headed to the hardware store for supplies and returned as the rest of the house was waking. With shovel I began the miserable task of digging out that mess, and clearing the pipe to begin the repairs. It was awful as my feet sucked deep into the muck and I quickly became caked in the stuff. Having never repaired PVC lines before I classically had gotten the wrong size pieces for repair and had to return to the hardware store. It would be the first of three more trips to the store as I could not seem to get the correct items, or pipe dope, or whatever. What should have taken no more than an hour ended up taking nearly 5 hours to complete.
I struggled through the process, adding coat after coat of mud cake to my body, covering my arms and legs and face and hair in the gunk. Just keeping the pipe clean in order to securely repair it was insanely difficult as muddy water kept seeping down around it. I became more and more frustrated. But the worst part was the swelling anger I felt that all this time it was taking was time I was not spending with my son.
Since his birth 20 days earlier I had become enamored of the kid, spending all my time, with him, or around him, or holding him, or just staring at him. It was narcotic, and I never wanted that feeling to end. Yet here I was stuck in mud to my knees, needing to get this fixed to let water flow again into my home, and the longer it took the less time I had with my Boy.
When I finally finished, it was roughly one o'clock and I was a swamp thing from head to toe. I informed my wife the water was back on and we could now flush and shower. She looked at me and suggested I shower first. I accepted her offer, but as the the earth washed off me in that shower I could not ease my anger. I just wanted to get clean and see my son.
I dressed and went to our patio, breathing deeply. My wife brought the Boy out to me and put him in my arms, before heading to shower herself. As I held him, despite finally having him in my arms, I was still seething. The universe had robbed me of 5 hours I was supposed to get with him, had stolen time I would never get back. That anger was blocking the endorphins I should be loading from being with him. So I tried calming myself. I told myself it was only 5 hours, I had plenty of time left. And I began listing the time in front of us:
it would be a month before he could focus on anything further than a foot in front of his face;
it would be 3 months before he could even sit up;
6 months before he ate solid food;
a full year before he might walk;
perhaps 2 years at least before he and I had anything resembling a conversation;
3 whole years before he was out of diapers;
more than 5 years before he began kindergarten;
there was an inconceivable 18 years before he went to college.
I had plenty of time, I told myself. These lost 5 hours, and anger, would fade from my memory. "Relax." Slowly I found the anger receding, a calm returning. That was when my wife emerged and snapped the picture you see.
But all that was a lie.
Those lost 5 hours did not fade. There was not plenty of time.
He turned 18 last month. He leaves for college in the fall. I spent more time with him in the last 18 years than most fathers are ever privileged enough to be allowed. And it wasn't enough. Every moment with him mattered. Every lost moment is painful. There was never enough time.
The only "good" that emerged from that turmoil 18 years ago today was the sense that I couldn't waste any of it - that every single second with him, and later my Girls, must be treasured. He was only 20 days old and I knew it was going by too quickly. I was warned for the coming years. That is why the image has rested on this page for all these years - as a reminder to fight for, and cling tightly to, every bit of time allotted.
For that, at least, I am appreciative (despite wanting those 5 hours back.)
I get there early. Pickup is a awful - the main artery to the school is a hellscape and the school parking lot a nightmare. So I park a VERY long block away, under the shade of overhanging trees and wait. I bring something to read. The New Yorker is a nice choice, but of late I'm re-reading Elisha Cooper's memoir, Crawling, about the first year with his firstborn daughter, who was born just a year and a half before our Boy was born.
I'm not the only one who opts to avoid the traffic hell. There are a few other parents with pickup duty who have discovered my spot. They park there too and wait, cracking their own books. Part of the reason I get there early is to beat them to the shady spot.
Once school lets out I watch as the kids make their way up that long block from us. You can see them at a great distance. The space between us is an enormous athletic field, unobstructed by trees. I make out the Girl, as always, five minutes before she arrives, spying her across the expanse, through the chainlink fences. I think, even at this distance, I can see her huge smile, but I definitely recognize that walk: that confident, effortlessly happy, saunter she has mastered.
I'm fortunate that she always seems to be in front of the pack, only passed by the kids with faster transport - scooters, skateboards, bikes. There are two boys who ride by daily on motocross bikes, both of them with black backpacks and black baseball caps, flying in single file. There's the boy on the fat-wheeled bike who leisurely lumbers his way past me, always seeming a little out of control. Behind him comes the kid who, for some unknown reason, removes the front wheel of his bike and straps it to his backpack before doing a wheelie all the way home. We pass him later, a mile down the road, the front fork still high in the air, peddling madly in "Hi Ho Silver" mode.
Across from me there's a mom who always parks her minivan on the other side of the street. She waits as I do, though perhaps a bit anxiously I've noticed, until her son arrives, around the same time the Girl makes it to the corner. The son, 15 or so, is in a wheelchair that is sleek and sporty, wheels tipped in towards his torso at the top of their circumference. When she sees him she she exits the minivan, pops the back and waits for him to finish the short distance from the corner to her car, before helping him load the chair and get in. The two of them seem to have been doing this a while - seem to have a system now. I find myself curious about his circumstance: How long has he been in a wheelchair? What happened? Even though I would never ask, when her eyes meet mine I nod and smile, trying to be friendly, trying let her know I empathize and understand. But, of course, I don't understand. There is no way I can.
There is so much about our kids that we "have been doing for a while, that has a system" - IEPs or 504s, doctor appointments, MRIs and CAT scans, back braces and therapists. We rarely discuss it with anyone anymore, rarely share the day in/day out aspects of it. After 12 years it just is. And there is also the sense on our part - not necessarily unwarranted - that most people won't get it.
A decade ago K was talking to someone about the kids - about the cardiologists, and orthopedists, and ophthalmologists, and rheumatologists, and the dislocations and subluxations and general pain the kids experience daily. The person she was talking to nodded sagely and said, "My cousin's youngest has ADHD so I know exactly what you're going through," before spending 20 minutes discussing her cousin's difficult days.
No one can know, not really, about what's become routine now, very much part of who we are, now.
The Girl has an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon next week. She has been out of her back brace for nearly a year. The expectation was she would be fine and at her age she should see no more curvature added to her scoliosis. However, last February at a followup the curve had gotten worse. The appointment next week is to see if that worsening has continued. If so, she will go back in the brace, or possibly face surgery to fuse her vertebrae.
She mentions to me on the way home from school that her friend with scoliosis saw her surgeon last week and due to the worsening state, spinal surgery is scheduled for her next month. All of this weighs on the Girl's mind. Why wouldn't it?
The Girl hated that brace, hated spending 18 hours a day in it for 18 months. But she never whined, she never complained, she followed the routine. She wanted it over with and was aware that sticking to the rules meant it would come off sooner and never return. Now she fears that it didn't matter, that she will be back in it, potentially off and on for the rest of her life. Or worse, spinal surgery. So I hold her as she cries, listening to this tough-as-nails kid with that amazing saunter as she weeps and l just hug her, helpless to do more.
I find myself thinking of the mom in the minivan, waiting every day to pop open the back of the van, to help the son she obviously loves into the seat. Is this what she imagined all of it would be? I think of Elisha Cooper, whose second book was about that same firstborn daughter - about when she was diagnosed with cancer at age seven, and the emotional turmoil that entailed. Did he ever suspect what was in front of him?
I think of all the new parents that look into their newborn's eyes, fall in love in that oxytocin rush, idealizing a perfect future for that baby, and I wonder if they ever imagine the things that may be lurking, the changes that will happen. How could they?
Every moment of being a parent is magic - every single moment - and I wouldn't trade one for anything, but how would we ever become parents if foresight gave us any inkling of what might be coming?
