Jeremy Hargrave

My grandparents took us in after the divorce. For 20 years they took care of us. They fed us, bathed us, and sheltered us. They gave us warmth and love and asked for nothing in return. We were now their responsibility and we owed them a debt we could not repay. But all debts must be paid; it is only a matter of when. We lived in comfort for many years under their hospitality. My mother was only 38 when we moved in. Plenty of time left to get a job, to build a career, to give herself a future free from living with her parents. But she did not. My mother has nothing, and when the time comes, she will be me and my brother’s burden to bear. But I love my mother, and love makes even the most difficult weights bearable. I will not look down on her or admonish her. I owe everything I am and everything I have to many people, especially her. She will find only kindness from me, if only from me.

My mother-in-law sits alone in her room with the TV on and her phone in hand. It is how she spends most of her days. She too did not prepare herself to be independent, to be successful and have a future not dictated by others. She did not have the same luxury of having a stable place to call her home for the past 20 years. She bounced around many places but did nothing to land on her feet. She is now me and my fiancée’s burden to bear. Her phone stops working but she says she is fine and needs a break from people anyway. She says this to spare us the weight of her being there, of needing something from us. But it is a lie. She has nothing. She is not fine and I know this. I get her a new phone and she is immediately talking to others throughout the day again. I will not look down on her or yell at her about it. I see my mother in her. I see a woman subject to the pull of others because she did not have the strength to create her own gravity, to create her own direction in life. But I will lend her mine, just as I will lend it to my own mother.

It is Christmas and my grandmother lies in her bed. She calls out for help, unable to sit up or move. The ambulance comes to take her to the hospital. There is nothing they can do for her besides adjust her medication. They discharge her and I travel to assist with bringing her home. She cries when she sees me, as she does most times she sees family. I do not recognize her the way I used to. I remember seeing a woman spatting with my grandfather while they played cards in the kitchen. I remember seeing a woman laughing and talking with her children and grandchildren at holiday gatherings. I remember seeing a swirling black hole of enormous vigor and energy. But like all black holes, she begins to shrink, crushed by the weight of her long life, more and more until there is only a sliver of light left. Her life, a flash of brilliance on the cosmic scale, coalesces into what it is now. “I want to be with Pop-Pop” she says over and over again.  She is over 90 years old and no longer wants to be alive, but neither nature nor science can give her what she wants. Life will not release its grip to send her out in a big bang. Instead, she continues to grow heavier, continues to collapse and pull in the light around her. It can no longer escape. It does not shine like it did those summer nights on the boardwalk. It does not shine like it did those weekends in the pool. The weight grows.  An amazing person who lived an amazing life, reduced to the size of an atom but with the mass of a star, sitting on our shoulders. She is now our burden to bear. But she is our mother, our grandmother, our great-grandmother, and we bear it with open hearts. No one person, however, can bear it alone.

My mother sits in the living room at night, trying to stir up an appetite while listening out for my grandmother in case she needs something. My grandmother is asleep but can wake up delirious. She is able to feed herself but can leave the gas on. She is capable of navigating her house but is blind in one eye. My mother provides supervision. She cares for her to the best of her ability, like a parent caring for their adult child after a divorce, or an adult child caring for their parent after a life of bad decisions. The cycle of burden is complete. The debt begins to collect. My mother bears the weight of 20 years gone by, the weight of caring for an elderly woman who wants to be reunited with her husband of 60 years, the weight of an uncertain future where she will once again have to turn to others for help.

There is a breaking point in each of our lives. I have felt the balance tip, like so many of us have, but have not yet fallen over. My mother has reached it more than most, and I fear she approaches the edge once more. She will face it like she has so many times before, and I will do my best to help her find the way back.

I love you Mom.

On no particular day, in no particular year, the world is at war. Three men are in a boat for routine maintenance. They begin to test the ship’s gun but there is a malfunction. Smoke appears, fire will follow, but one of the men is able to clear the jam and return things to normal. I am amazed by his heroism and ask my grandfather what his reward was. “A pat on the back and a ‘Good job’”, he replies. I am disappointed and too young to understand; surely there should be a reward for saving the day. Instead he shows me a fake ruby and gold ring. He points to a dent on one side and recounts how it got there. A boy in the neighborhood was harassing my grandmother so my grandfather knocked his tooth out. Another tale of heroism. I ask if I can have the ring and he agrees. I put the ring away in my treasure chest and place it on the shelf. It is my reward from my grandfather, my prize for listening to his story. I am no longer disappointed, but I am still too young to understand.

My grandfather had many stories to tell. Stories of his youth told at holidays, stories of my mother’s youth told at the dinner table. It was hard to tell fact from fiction, but the story of my own youth was still being written, and to me, everything was true. We played poker for quarters at night, we ate breakfast together, and went swimming in the pool. But youth turned into adolescence, and adolescence turned into indifference. My inquiries and amazement turned into silent nods and occasional grins. I return home from school each day and can only smile and nod at my grandparents’ greetings.  I tuck myself away to play video games or do homework while they play cards at the kitchen table. They bicker the whole time, the way old people bicker. My mother rolls her eyes and I smile. It is no particular day, in no particular year, and we are content.

The days roll on, my grandfather drops me off at school each morning and I nod at his farewell. I spend the school days being extroverted and a class clown to make my friends laugh, to make myself laugh, to be liked. But the final bell rings and I am exhausted. I am ready to go home. I hastily make my way to the exit, my anxiety growing with each step. I make it home, no energy left to talk, and simply nod at my grandparents. They are playing cards and bickering, but not the old people kind. My mother doesn’t roll her eyes. Her depression grows. I tuck myself away from it all. I am waiting for my reward.

The years roll on and I am in college. My brother is graduating from his and the ceremony is being held on campus. My grandparents are bickering, my mother joining them as we all get ready to go. I ride in the back with my mother as we drive to the college. We arrive and begin making our way to the ceremony. My grandfather is behind us, his pace continuing to slow. He cannot make it the rest of the way. We call for campus security to give us a ride and finally get to the ceremony. We watch my brother get his diploma and return home. My grandparents will not be joining us for the celebratory dinner afterwards. My grandfather needs to rest. He tucks himself away in bed. He is waiting for his reward. It will come soon. I return home one night from class and turn towards my grandparents’ room to check in and say good night. My mother and brother are already in there helping my grandfather get out of bed to go to the bathroom. I do not want to interrupt or get in the way so I go to my room instead. I will check in tomorrow. Tomorrow comes and my mother wakes me. She is in tears but she is strong. The kind of strength a mother summons to comfort and protect her child. It is December 18, 2014, and on this particular day, in this particular year, my grandfather is no longer with us.

It is 6 years later and I am driving past the cemetery. I briefly think about stopping and visiting his grave but I decide against it and instead continue on my way home. I am not anxious or exhausted. I am no longer disappointed that every story doesn’t have a happy ending. I am no longer disappointed that every day doesn’t end with a prize. As my grandfather’s ring sits in the box now in my own house, I am no longer too young to understand that a pat on the back and a “Good job”, especially from someone you love and miss, is sometimes the only reward you need.

Lying awake in the middle of the night, there is a commotion outside. A man and a woman I do not know are across the street from one another, yelling over some domestic dispute I do not care about. It doesn’t matter to me; it’s just another night in the neighborhood, another moment of my life that will pass. I have school in the morning. My mother will wake me and get me started with my day. My father will get ready for work. She will make me breakfast, comb my hair, and send me out the door. He will be waiting to drive my brother and me to school. They do not interact. It’s for the best.

To understand the man I am today, I have to remember how I got here. We grew up in a less-than-ideal neighborhood, a place that might cause some to sink deeper. It didn’t affect me much; I was young, shy, and rarely left the house of my own volition. We still went on family walks around the block, so it couldn’t be that bad. It’s hard to recall what family looked like back then. My older brother was a constant; my mother and father were too, but not often in tandem. Sometimes I remember happy moments of the four of us: Christmas mornings, walks to the nearby water ice stand, family gatherings. But more in focus are the unhappy moments: a shattered fish tank, a bloody hand, cops at the house. I remember coming home from the morning bowling league with my father. I remember pulling into the driveway and immediately looking up at their bedroom window. I remember the relief I felt at seeing the shade still closed. It meant she is still in bed. It meant they won’t have to interact. It’s for the best.   

Memories with my father often involve trips to the grocery store, outings to the playground, and watching R-rated movies in the living room. He took me to do the fun things, the mundane things, and the necessary things. He pushed me to work hard, to get good grades in school, and to be successful. He taught me to be polite, to have manners, to be respectful. He taught me to be good.

Memories with my mother growing up elicit images of her making us Thursday night hot dogs, listening to Barbra Streisand on the stereo, and letting my brother and me watch wrestling. She nurtured me, took care of me when I was sick, and made sure I was happy. She pushed me to try my best, to get along with others, and to never give up. She taught me to love, to have empathy, to be kind. She taught be to be good.

I remember when they finally separated. My mother went to live with my grandparents, my brother and I stayed with my father for the time being. I remember not feeling sad about the separation. I remember not feeling sad that I wasn’t with my mom. I was relieved the fighting was over. Then one night it hit me. My brother and I were staying at my aunt’s house while my father looked for a new place to live. I remember lying awake, trying to sleep in an unfamiliar place, in an unfamiliar bed. Everything caught up to me. I tearfully asked my brother why mom and dad couldn’t just love each other and be together. He didn’t have an answer.

Lying awake in the middle of the night, there was no more commotion. The man and woman did not yell anymore. They won’t interact again. It’s for the best.

A simple phrase, but one he could not express. As my hands wrapped firmly around his wrist, locking the excrement in place, I looked around the room. Mom returned quickly, carrying with her a pack of wipes, and began cleaning the mess from his hand. I stared, stone-faced, into his eyes and he returned mine with an equally blank gaze. He knew why. I knew why. With the mess adequately cleaned we hurried to the bathroom, went through the rituals, washed our hands, and returned to the couch.

My client is a young man, diagnosed with Autism and intellectual disabilities. He cannot communicate what he wants, how he feels, or why he smears himself with his own waste. But everyone familiar with the case knows why. Mom, tearfully, painfully, knows why. He wants a bath, every day, so many baths that his skin is raw and dry. He smiles when you scratch his itch and he laughs when you tickle him. He can disarm a passerby with his rocking and giggling, and he can send his mother scurrying to the other side of the apartment with just a look.  She apologizes for the incident. I had heard about it, read about it, but it was the first time dealing with it. I was unfazed. Part of the job. She, however, a middle-aged single mother, was not unfazed. It wasn’t part of the job she signed up for, not for this long at least. She chokes back tears as she tells me about a trip she took to a specialized hospital when he was an infant. She remembers seeing a little girl, disabled and disfigured, sitting in the waiting room. She watches her while she waits for her son’s diagnosis. She prays for him to not have a life like this little girl’s. She prays to not have a life like the one she is living.

I express my sympathies. I tell her I can’t imagine living this way. I leave after my two hour session is over. I go home and think about the family. I consult the therapists on the case. I think about strategies and treatments we can implement, trainings we can give the mother. I think about what I can do to make it better for them. I want to make it better for them; it’s my job to make it better. I sit with my fiancee in front of the TV and think about my own life. I can’t imagine living that way. I push my client and his mother to the back of my mind. Right now I just want to live my life. I want to relax. I want a bath.