Son’s Recovery Slow But Enlightening

I started a new job Monday. Thank God, too… it is good therapy. Dylan is taking care of himself now, making his own meals, recovering on his own weird ’sleep-all-day, stay-up-all-night’ pace. Whatever works for him. We converted our extra bedroom into a recording studio for him to use, even though we already have another studio set up on our property. He uses computers. We play through amps. We are so old school. Our musical tastes have such a wide range, my son turned to jazz in rebellion. But I have to give him credit. He’s turned me onto some really great music, and being a drummer, I am in awe of his ability to figure out the complex, progressive rhythms.

It is such a joy to watch him recovering, after being sick for so long. It has been hard, but just like dealing with any adversity, it has made me stronger. I have discovered how much patience I actually do have. I have learned empathy for others with sick children, and find gratitude in the fact that my child is doing well. I have experienced the kindness and caring of friends, co-workers and strangers. I have learned to live with the fact I cannot expect the same from my family or my husband’s family. I have accepted that this is our burden, and blessing, to struggle with and learn from.

I am a better person because of Dylan… when he was born, I grew up. I also knew what unconditional love felt like for the first time in my life. And I watched in awe as he suffered, knowing that I would not be nearly as cool if I were in that situation. And even though Dylan will be 17 this month, his illness made me overprotective… I’m sure he would just call it annoying. But that’s ok. He can roll his eyes all he wants… at the end of the day, I know he loves me. We make each other laugh… we have long conversations about politics, music, movies and books. We get really competitive at Scrabble. We have enough in common to keep us close.

I am beginning to see all the love my husband and I have shown him being repaid now, even at this age. He is very protective of me, and comes and hugs me if I am sad. After all the years of comforting him, it feels good to have him wrap me in his long, warm arms. It feels rewarding. But it isn’t all just about me. I believe the sickness taught him compassion.

I’m slowly realizing that he is on the threshold of manhood, and I can let him go, although it will be a little bit at a time. I feel sad that his childhood was interrupted when Crohn’s disease thrust him into a world of pain, fear, medication, doctors and hospitals…. But, on the other hand, I am comforted by his endurance, grace under pressure, and maturity. Not that he doesn’t get frustrated and angry. But he told me he stopped asking “why?” a long time ago. He said it was the same as wondering why he wasn’t born in a third world country. He is very wise. And I am very lucky. 

 

 

The Greener Grass

I remember hearing a comic say that when you are single, all you see are couples. When you are married, all you see are whores. Or something like that.

I sure know that when you’ve been married 22 years, you think that there must be wonderful things about being single that you are missing out on. Freedom, an exciting social life, dating new, exciting people and sleeping around. But there is something else married people are missing. Crushing loneliness.

Of course, if your spouse runs off with someone else or dies, you have no choice. But my husband is sleeping at his brother’s. Why? Because he did something I didn’t like and I am a vicious bitch who won’t let it go.

We are really sick of  arguing with each other. Sick of life. Sick of our running streak of bad luck, including the stress of having a teenager with a chronic illness. I don’t see how we’ve made it this long, actually. And it this point, it could go either way.

But there’s a part of me, the part that hates change, the girl that married at 20, that misses her groom. People change, people have all kinds of crisis, not just the mid-life kind, and people do stupid things. Do you throw away half a lifetime over what, in the big picture, are probably small things? A lot of people do. Some fall out of love. I wish I knew what was happening to us. I don’t. I only know I wish he was here, even if just to ignore me talking. Apparently I am set in my ways.

I wonder what will happen if he doesn’t come home. He might be able to move on, but I feel sort of paralyzed. On the other hand, if he does come home, I want to feel happy about it. I want to be thrilled. I want him to love me enough to marry me all over again. Most of all, I want to be worthy of it. I want to make him happy too. I just have this fear of an awkward silence, a moment when we realize there isn’t anything left to build on, the sadness of walking away. It would hurt less to just stay alone. I am afraid of high hopes. You know what happens when you fly too close to the sun.

Sex With Myself

Sex is great, I think we can all agree on that. Most of the time, anyway. There is the excitement and headrush of being with someone new or the content, loving arms of someone familiar.

It’s sex by yourself that gets weird. We all do it… and differently I would suppose. I’ve never known a blind man to blame masturbation for his condition, or proof of any of those other myths about touching yourself. Apparently some people have issues with it. What’s the big deal? It’s your body.

I know for me it is almost an afterthought at times, something to do because I’m bored and need a thrill. But even if I lit candles and dressed up, it would be predictable and thus, disappointing, because I know exactly what I’m going to do. I don’t get lonely, as my fantasies usually involve at least one other person. But I can totally read my own mind. There’s no mystery… and not even the best R&B can solve that.

Sex alone becomes routine, but we all still go back. The way a hungry person finds the refrigerator. It’s just so efficient. No need to bother your partner, if you have one. But there’s no cuddling or whispers afterward. There’s no phone call or flowers the next morning, no matter how great it was. I know I am not the only one who looks in the mirror and feels a little used. I might as well keep a $50 on the dresser just to emphasize the cold and business-like way I treat myself. I have to come to terms with the fact that sex with myself is basically a booty call.