Perversion of Devotion
I should have been happy, but I woke up with a sense of dread. It was a beautiful day for a drive. The freshness of a new spring was in the air, but it was wasted on me. I was going to get my son, Buddy, from the VA hospital where he had been for three months. His body had been shattered by a landmine in the war. Half his intestines, one leg and his balls became a red bloody puff of air in seconds. It was going to be a long drive.
I told myself I loved him, because that’s what mothers should feel. The love that comes from commonality wasn’t ours to have. He was the class clown, flighty and irresponsible. I was, and still am, humorless, which has been pointed out to me more than once. I wish I had a nickel for every time I heard the words, “lighten up.” I didn’t have the capacity or willingness to understand him. How could I love someone I didn’t understand? I didn’t, I couldn’t, instead I substituted loyalty and told myself I loved him, but I threw myself under the bus anyway.
Buddy was in his room with his physical therapist and the nurse who had been assigned his case for the duration of his stay. A friend in a wheelchair was also present. They were a jovial bunch and seemed very close. Many back-slaps, high fives and teary good-byes were exchanged. Buddy would be missed, lifetime bonds were formed
I was surprised of Buddy’s ability to get in the car. This gave me hope the ride would be emotionally uneventful. We chatted about the friends he had made. Stories of recovery and recovery mishaps were enthusiastically told with a light-heartedness I couldn’t understand. I was appalled at his laughter about twisted bodies. He made jokes about having “untwist therapy”. Surely, this perverted laughter was a direct result of his pain meds. Laughter in his condition was clearly outside the bounds of sanity. I was able to keep a pleasant look on my face and gave a smile when he talked about his achievements or “untwisting.”
We were halfway home. The bar, Big Jack’s, where Buddy had spent his bar days came into view. Some version of a bar had been there for one-hundred years. It was treasured by the community and closely guarded by the town historical society.
I hoped we would pass it without comment. I increased my speed and tried to distract him with a story about a friend of his who had been convicted and jailed for hit-and-run. I spoke as if it had just happened. I minored in theater arts and knew how to effectively modulate my voice. My efforts and talent fell flat. Buddy’s plan from the get-go was to stop there. He insisted. I knew that all around it was a bad idea, but I pulled up into the lot anyway. I had a keen awareness of his limitations and restrictions. Drinking alcohol was forbidden. We were there because I needed a drink. It was to be the first of many selfish decisions.
I knew why he wanted to be here. It was a sub-conscious grasp at what was lost. It held wonderful memories of freedom and strength, the ability to laugh and use body language. The party started when Buddy arrived. His table was the one where guffaws emanated, not just laughter, guffaws. He was alive and whole. It would be a stark reminder of his limitations, maybe too stark.
The bar held memories for me too, but not good ones. I was high on acid and drunk on cheap booze. The Vietnam war was in its second year. There wasn’t enough sex, drugs and rock-n roll to blot it out, not even a little bit.
As many times as I had walked through its door, I’ll be damned if I could remember its name. The game was always the same. Get drunk, get a guy (it was never hard), go somewhere, anywhere, smoke his dope and get laid. Repeat. My choices were phenomenally sad and pathetic. Every drug, every guy I laid plunged me deeper into self-hate. I was losing the war with my personal demons.
Buddy piloted his electric wheelchair towards the door. I went to open the it, but he stopped me and said he wanted to get it. I thought about pretending I didn’t hear him and flinging the door wide, but, against my better judgment, I refrained. I flinched as watched his hand find the doorknob.
I watched him twist the knob into the open position and pull, only to have the door fall back. He would eventually be able to get through doors but we didn’t know that then.
He rolled back in defeat. I opened the door and he piloted his way to a table. He easily, at least compared to the door, slid into the booth. It was a moment of relief for me. It was a moment of success for him. He looked around and noted the bar was about the same, same paint color, although it badly needed a new coat, same posters on the wall. Sameness was comforting for him.
However, I was not comforted. I was rattled. I sucked my breath in while trying to tell myself it was all right, but one inhalation didn’t bring me calm. An age-darkened poster was on the wall. Oh yes, I remember, Save the Dolphins. Greenpeace, I remember. The worst part is that some of us really thought we could save them.
The bar was filled with twenty-something boys in Marine uniforms. The same uniform as Buddy wore. God, I hated those uniforms. Half of those innocent naïve idiots would be dead in six months.
They would be shocked when they got hit. The screaming would start. “Tell so-and-so I love them, promise.” “I promise,” said the unlucky soldier, who had to witness their death. That false assurance was the last words they would hear. Their beloved so-and-sos never got their dying messages. It was an impossible promise and both men knew it. It was the last pathetic gasp of a dying man trying to leave a legacy of love for another.
I ran my hand over a heart that had been carved into the table. It was my heart. Tom loves Beth. I had drawn the arrow. Tom and I spent many hours at that table laughing and, of course, talking the philosophy du jour. As time went on, we faded away and didn’t see one another as much. Then the day came when I was told I wouldn’t be seeing Tom at all. He had been shot by another troop member. He died by friendly fire. His parents were inconsolable and never recovered. Tom was their only child. He was my secret love. He was never to know my deep love for him. Oh, Tom. Goodbye.
A particularly insensitive, bumbling troop member, stopped at our table. He couldn’t see Buddy’s stump or the shit bag under his shirt. “Hey Bud, he said with a big dumb smile, “How ya doin’ champ? Let’s get you out of that wheelchair and play some pool. You can do it, nothing could ever beat you!”
Here it is, I thought, the first of many ignorant, cruel remarks.
Shut up! He can’t get out of the chair, you moron! Why wouldn’t he shut-the-fuck-up?
“Not tonight man, I just got out of the VA. I’m on drugs, you know, pain pills. I don’t think I would be very good.”
“Haha. Oh, your’re high! Haha. Ahhh, now that would give us a decent chance. Haha.”
Shut up you dumb fuck. How was it you made it through? Geeeez.
“Maybe some other time, man,” Buddy mumbled.
It was time to leave.
Buddy didn’t bother to put on a brave face. He lapsed into a crippled ball of anger and fear. When we got to the door, he didn’t reach for the knob. His ambition to accomplish a simple act had vanished and all due to an ignorant lout. It wasn’t like this in the VA. People were kind there and encouraging.
Silence and the hardness of the world hung over us on the rest of ride home.
The sound of tires on gravel signaled we were home. Sounds of spring filled the air. Even so, all I heard was the parking brake ratcheting up and the engine go silent. I felt the same sense of dread as I had when I left the house. This was it.
We focused on the door. Buddy’s body language betrayed his forced smile as he stared ahead. He was scared.
At that moment, I knew. I knew the best, the smartest thing to do would be to check out. Grab a handful of Buddy’s opioids and gulp! I wanted to fly away. Peace was at hand. I have seen death and am not threatened by gruesome tales of hell. I was ready, but I was loyal.
I didn’t need a maimed son to teach me a new life lesson. I had already been a caretaker to my reckless husband whose ATV flipped and bounced into a three-foot pile of rocks. I resented his utter stupidity, but was eventually able to forgive and love him. I made amends to him for my resentment and unkind deeds. He had a peaceful death. I lay next to him and held his hand. We were one. Then his spirit let go. It was beautiful. His spirit had passed through this world. I felt him pass, but I didn’t feel alone. I felt blessed to have such an exquisite experience.
I was ravaged with guilt over Buddy. I couldn’t give him the love he needed to help him recover his body and his anguished spirit. The Team at the hospital loved and respected him. He thrived there, but I knew his thriving would halt here. He would revert back to his twisted body and frightened mind.
It was going to be hell to stay alive here with my son. Hell.
It took us three days to get settled in. When the dust settled, there was happiness of a sort. He was glad to have a safe and familiar place. I was glad to have some familiar company. Sadly and predictably, these feelings were lost to us within a week.
Mentally, I got his humor. I understood his words, but not the laughter. I viewed his injuries with horror and disgust. He was a grotesque human being, a misguided idiot, to laugh and to think he was of value. He was simply a burden and always would be.
He was, however, courteous and sensitive to my needs. I liked coffee and silence in the morning. I simply didn’t’ speak for the first hour. It was my way of greeting the day. I liked to ease in. Buddy respected my hour. He would barrel in an hour’s time, sometimes to the minute. He would jabber on about anything, his weird dreams, politics and humor-filled hospital stories. I didn’t have the mental capacity to talk about politics or hospital stories that I found grotesque and pathetic. I certainly didn’t understand or want to hear his dreams, especially when I was in them.
He got his coffee, two glasses of water and a dry piece of toast. “Have to stay hydrated,” he would say. That was quickly followed with, “Mom, you should drink more water.” Should…? No, no, no, you don’t get to “should” me, I thought, and why was he so damn cheerful? He considered eight glasses water a victory. I could tell this was something that was a big deal at the hospital. I pictured the cheers he got from The Team. He noted his water consumption after every glass. He wanted me to be his cheering team. I wasn’t and never would be.
I did muster a few polite comments. They were limited to “good” and “how many is that today?” He was more than happy to tell me and go on about the benefits of hydration. Ok, I’ve heard it. Shut-the-fuck-up. I felt soul-sickened with resentment.
He had a ritual before bed. He would roll to the bathroom and empty his shit bag and brush his teeth. Oh, God, I thought. Shit bag and teeth! He would exit and announce, “everything’s good, A-Ok.” I finally figured out he was talking about his bag. This must have been a big damn deal at the hospital as well. When “things” were not A-Ok, he would mumble that he needed more fiber and water. That would be his goal for the following day. Maybe he would dream about it, who knew?
I was finally able to tune out his shit reports with the help of various podcasts. I had watched to see if he was shitting normally when he was little, but that was the last thing I wanted now and I really, really didn’t need his pathetic shit-bag jokes. “Hey Mom, get this one,” he would say. I braced myself. “I’m like a marsupial giving birth to a little shit-ball.” He thought that was hysterical. When I didn’t respond he rolled away. I told him I didn’t want to hear about his bag status or bag jokes. He said, “Ok, I won’t. I promise.” As he rolled away, he would laugh and yell ”SHIT BALL, SHIT BALL, SHIT BALL.” He had me. I couldn’t fight with humor. It only made me feel more resentful. He had something I didn’t.
I became angry. I resented his ability to cope with his tragic circumstance. I felt he was getting off easy. Where was the suffering, the anger? If he had either one, I could, at least, feel sorry for him, but pity wasn’t something he wanted.
I kept to my routine, but my coffee now had a shot of Irish whisky in it and whipped cream on top. I wanted to make Buddy uncomfortable just as I was with his humor. I waited to make the drink just before he usually came down so the whipped cream wouldn’t dissolve into the hot coffee. I wanted his sense of smell and sight to be aroused, especially since I had something he could no longer have.
I became excited about my plan when I heard him coming closer. His demeanor changed as I came into view. His eyes darted to my drink and stayed there. He seemed shocked and confused. I also detected a glimmer of hurt in his eyes. He rolled to the sink to get his water and then to the coffee maker. He came to the table and positioned his wheelchair slightly closer to me than usual. It was obvious why. He wanted to observe my fancy-looking drink. I had it in a clear glass mug, the way it is traditionally served in bars. “Fancy,” was all he could muster. I had put an end, albeit temporary, to his light-heartedness and jokes. My drink tasted wonderful. I was celebrating and would become high in the process.
But he started to chat. He mustered a few things to say. He said he had an upcoming gastroenterology appointment. That was clever. He was playing head games. His aim was to provoke my memories of his shit bag reports and jokes. He succeeded. His words silently resurfaced. SHIT BALL, SHIT BALL, SHIT BALL! Good one, Buddy, I thought. You won. I slowly sipped my drink. It was getting cold so I topped it off with some hot coffee. This was planned. I was keenly aware of the effect. Pungent aromas of coffee and alcohol were an unwanted assault on him. I saw him flinch and turn away as one does when something offensive is in the air. I hit my mark. Bullseye!
Buddy’s demeanor changed again. He looked at the drink and then turned away. I was waiting for this. He blurted out, slightly louder than usual, “I’m going to get one of those too. “Whiskey’s mixed with the coffee, so it’s ok. One won’t hurt.” The room became silent except for the unfamiliar clacking of the booze cabinet and unmistakable sucking sound of the refrigerator door. Sounds of victory. My unthinkable plan was working.
The knowledge of him crossing into forbidden territory hung in the air. He spun around and resumed his spot at the table. He set his drink down next to his water which was only half empty. He wasn’t talking about dehydration now! I waited for him to make the first move, to speak. That’s the way I thought of it, the first move.
What now, Buddy? Where are your jokes now?
He asked about his friend who was convicted of hit-and-run while he was gone. He asked questions as his sips became more frequent. He rapidly shot out questions, what happened, who did he hit, was he drunk, and on and on. He took a big swig as I paused to answer. He had minimized his drinking by talking about a tragedy made more important because his friend was involved. It got worse. After he finished his Irish coffee, he grabbed his water and said, ”Gotta be on water now, I’m a little behind, but I can still chug eight glasses down.” He continued on and made a dark joke.
“Haha, Jimmy never was a good driver. He squashed a lot of squirrels. Prior bad acts. Haha. Roadkill and run. Haha.” He was on a roll literally and figuratively. That kid could joke about anything. I was deflated.
My drink was finished, but I needed another and another after that. He was jovial, but in a short time I would be slurring and staggering. Little twit had won again.
I was miserable the next day and needed coffee in a big way. I put an ice cube in my first cup so I could quickly knock it back. I learned that system in my college days. It boosted me up just enough to make the next cup.
Buddy came in and announced he had been up for hours. Ok, ok, I get it. Little twit. He was sympathetic and asked if he could do anything. He had a hangover dish that he swore by. He scrambled eggs mixed with cheese, bacon and ramen noodles.
He didn’t remember, but I had given him that recipe and it did work. He was sincerely glad he could be of service. He set a glass of water in front of me without a word. I was grateful for the much-needed water and his forthcoming hangover dish. He set the dish in front of me and said he hoped I felt better. Silence was always important to me and now it was critically important. Buddy knew this and sat quietly across the table. When I couldn’t finish my plate, he asked if I was okay. I wasn’t, of course, but I was better. He asked if there was anything else he could do. No, there wasn’t. He queried again. My answer was the same. I walked slowly up the stairs and went to bed. I was grateful for my son.
Unlike my younger days, I now had a hard time concealing my drunkenness. It wasn’t fun anymore. I became incoherent and inappropriate after three drinks. I would make sexual innuendos and rub up the person next to me. I felt rejected and confused when they didn’t respond. After all, I was a hot little number in the old days, at least I thought so. I started to get disapproving glances and stares everywhere we went. I became indignant when my husband apologized for me.
I found I could stop for weeks, but then I would go on a weekend bender. I was convinced I could quit whenever I wanted. After all, I could quit for weeks, unlike others, and I still held a job. This pattern continued for years. My husband nearly left me several times, but died instead.
For a short while, I was able to hide my drinking from Buddy. To my horror, he caught on quickly. Worse, he called a buddy of his who was in AA. Oh God, they wanted me to go to a meeting, but I wasn’t having any of it. I righteously explained to them I wasn’t an alcoholic and could quit anytime. Two weeks, three weeks. I was okay, but I would always find something to celebrate or cry about. It could be anything. When Buddy finally got his leg prosthesis, I really tied one on. Yay, Buddy! He had learned, with the help of a physical therapist, how to walk again. He was doing very well. I wasn’t.
We would make fun plans, but when the time came, I was too tired, too drunk or too hungover. I was always repentant. I assured them of better times to come. Tomorrow, next week, whenever. I never admitted drunkenness. I just didn’t feel well enough. It was a recurrence of the flu or a migraine headache, but my ploys were met with pity. Pity! I was not pitiable! I needed a drink.
Buddy became more and more discouraged. He wasn’t light-hearted or joking. I needed his jokes now. Oh Buddy, please, please say something funny. I needed him to acknowledge me as a sacrificing mother. Someone who has been good to him. Instead, I got fucking pity. He had given up on me.
Winter seemed to come suddenly. I missed fall. I became aware of winter when Christmas carolers showed up at the door. I loved the Holidays. My family had the ability to set aside all the broken promises and hurts that had accrued during the year.
Buddy and his friend put up a beautiful Christmas tree and decorated the house. It was festive and cheerful. I was ecstatic!
I don’t recall, but was later told, about my singing and dancing to Jingle Bells. Although, I distinctly remember the loud crashing noise and agonizing screams of pain. I had danced into the Christmas tree and was entangled in lights. Buddy was on the floor grabbing his leg. He had been standing on a step-stool reaching to top the tree with a star. It was the last ornament. He was in agony. His prosthesis had been torn off at the stump. The other leg was twisted in an unnatural position. It was broken.
Buddy went back to the VA hospital. He was there for a month. They couldn’t get him a new prosthesis. He came back in a wheelchair.
He was gone within a week. No good-bye, no thank you. Nothing.
He left a note. It was in an envelope addressed to Beth, not Mom, just Beth. My heart began to sink. Buddy’s writing was hurried and furious. It read: You won’t see me again. Get help. No signature.
His joy and jokes were gone. I would have liked to think of him as broken, but I knew he wouldn’t break. He was too strong, too brave and was blessed with a mirthful soul.
I detest him. My soul is sickened with resentment. I am dying.
I wish I had checked out, but I am loyal.
