Only Child. Last Choice.

I have reached the age where the loss of a parent has moved from a thing (hopefully) way down the road to a thing that needs to be discussed with the relevant parties because that’s how time and the natural progression of age works. Over the last couple years several friends have lost a parent. Some have one parent left and for some both are now gone. For me, I only have one parent since I have not seen the other in over 30 years and the one I do have, my mother, has had one foot out the door of my life since I left home the second time in 2001. Not health-wise or physically just emotionally. Which feels worse. 

The feeling of being intentionally abandoned by a parent is, in my opinion, the same as being a once-beloved main character on a show and then being written off midseason with little to no explanation and being left with unanswered questions and unresolved plot lines. 

There are many specific examples and cringe-worthy stories to share but I’ll stick to one since I need to keep some back so I have other stuff to write about. 

The current situation goes back to the loss of a parent thing I mentioned above. Since we are living through a global pandemic and it’s approaching three years since my mother has seen her only grandchild (that she last saw when she was 6 weeks) old and still has no plans or intention to visit because of her responsibilities to her Real Family I have no idea if I will see her again myself. 

With all this in mind I decided to ask her if she had her affairs in order. She said she did. I asked who the executor would be so I would have an idea of what I needed to be ready for. I was then informed my mother had chosen her sisters instead of her only child because “I live too far away” since apparently she believes I would have to rely on the Pony Express or a similarly antiquated method of communication to handle anything. Please note that “too far away” is the six hour drive she won’t make to visit us which at the moment is irrelevant because she still refuses to get vaccinated. 

I’ll be honest, hearing that stung. It’s the most recent example of choosing her Real Family over me and I am sure that her middle sister is the one who told her to arrange it that way. It’s not like there is much to her estate to settle but that’s not the point. Regardless of her noble intentions of saving me from headache and hassle, it shows that she doesn’t trust me to handle it, or the more likely scenario, those around her convinced her that was the case. Considering the current state of my relationships with her middle and younger sisters I doubt I will have any extended interactions with them before or only for business after the necessary time. 

When you are an only child and your mother doesn’t choose you but chooses her sisters that she knows you don’t have any kind of relationship with over you it stings and it in no uncertain terms announces your place in her life vs. the importance of her Real Family. I don’t know why I expected anything different from her. I shouldn’t have and won’t in the future so it will be less of a let down when her actions don’t surprise me again. 

Ring My Bell

Picture it: Christmas break, probably 1994 maybe ‘95.

It all started innocently enough. My mother’s youngest sister and her husband who were pastors in the Salvation Army and were in Kansas City at the time and I was in college a couple hours south in Missouri. As most anyone who goes near any retail or downtown area between Thanksgiving and Christmas knows, the Salvation Army posts people with handbells and buckets to collect money. My mother’s youngest sister and her husband were in charge of that. 

The words “It seemed like a good idea at the time” have bitten me in the ass so many times I’m surprised I have any ass left. But I digress. 

When the idea of me being a bell ringer for about a week before flying home to Chicago was initially proposed I was told that I would be inside a fancy mall so I should pack nice clothes to make a good impression on the shoppers whose ears I would be accosting with my handbell. However, when I got there I was told that for some reason I would be outside in the elements. 

I had not packed for that. 

I did it one day and nearly got frostbite and no that is not hyperbolic. Kansas City can get hella cold in the winter. 

I called my mother to update her on the situation and got no support. Instead I got a double whammy of guilt and shame with some religious guilt thrown in for good measure. Another example of my mother taking the other side and one of many times her youngest sister and her husband fucked me over. 

NOTE: Karma has come around for them, probably more than once if I had to guess so it all evens out in the end. 

Back to the story: They begrudgingly allowed me to not freeze as long as I did other physical labor. The next few days were spent painting various rooms of their house. They weren’t home during the day and it was before I started smoking (a bad habit I picked up at bible college, go figure) so the days I had left were bearable. 

I was only there one weekend and was graciously allowed to stay home from church so I could keep working on the projects I had left before heading to Chicago. They had left for church with their kids so I waited until I was sure they were gone to go upstairs to grab coffee and some sort of breakfast. I was staying in the guest room which was in the finished basement with a half bath. That will be relevant in a moment. 

I got to the top of the stairs and the door standing between me and coffee was locked. 

They fucking locked me in the fucking basement. 

I was furious but trapped so I decided to write about it in whatever journal I was using at the time and then go back to sleep since there was nothing else to do. 

They got home from church a few hours later and claimed it was a force of habit to lock the basement door before they left but I call bullshit on that. I think they didn’t like me (and it’s probably still the same) and did some harmless micro aggression that would be nothing more than an inconvenience. Now you see why the half bath in the basement was important. 

Another call to my mother and the same thing. It was somehow my fault. No matter what happened it was ultimately my fault. I made the same mistake of doing work for them over Christmas break a year or two later. That was the last time. 

I’ve seen them a couple times over the last ten years or so and not much more than a hello and “I’m fine, thanks” and that’s probably all it will ever be. I have no reason to see or speak to them. Especially now. 

None of them are vaccinated and these are the people my unvaccinated mother chooses to live near and spend her time with. There’s some weird beholden-ness with them too where she’s spending her time taking care of her youngest sister’s grandson and hasn’t seen her only grandchild in almost three years and has no plans to. 

People make choices and have to live with the consequences of their choices. 

I choose to stay away from people with a track record of fucking me over and then trying to gaslight me into thinking it’s somehow my fault. 

For the mental and physical health and well-being of my own family I am making choices too and my choices do not include allowing actively toxic people into my life or my family. 

This has been a portion of my Festivus Airing of Grievances.

Birthdays are for Other People

Birthdays. 

Everyone has one and some people even like theirs. 

There are those who go all out and insist on a month long celebration.

There are those who prefer a quiet time at home with family and maybe a couple friends.

Then there are those like me who prefer to pretend it doesn’t exist, only share it under duress, and banish those who go against my wishes to ignore it. 

I’ve gotten better about acknowledging and even celebrating my birthday in the last few years but there was a good couple decade stretch where I was one of those who went from Halloween to Christmas to avoid that whole Thanksgiving thing. 

I am one of the lucky ones  that has a birthday that falls on Thanksgiving week (that’s sarcasm, people). Growing up, this meant it was difficult to have a birthday party because of it’s proximity to a major holiday. There are pictures of me at exactly one birthday party. I was probably 3 (I’m terrible with estimating age in pictures - even my own) and it didn’t look terrible. Since there are no pictures of birthday parties for me after that I can only assume that that’s when things started to change. 

Even around 4 or 5 I knew Grandma was “sick” but I didn’t fully understand. By age 9 I had a much better grasp of the situation and knew (in my limited understanding) that Grandma lost it from about two weeks before Thanksgiving until about mid-January every year. Some years were better than others but it wasn’t something that could be accurately predicted beforehand and the severity could only be judged after the season was over. 

What this meant for me as a kid, tween, and teen was hiding as far from the yelling, fighting, and crazy as I could. 

As I got older I would get inexplicably twitchy around Halloween and then it was explicable. I knew and sensed what was coming and was already dreading it. 

I was the same in high school and college. Never telling friends when my birthday was even at the expense of free desserts at chain restaurants. 

When I moved back to Chicago after college a friend found out when it was and organized a small group to go out and sprung it on me after I admitted I didn’t have plans. It was a group that hung out at least a couple times a week so I wasn’t suspicious. I went and it wasn’t terrible. The fact I acknowledged and actually celebrated my birthday felt like growth. 

The following year things were already much crazier and more stressful and I begged the same friend who organized the previous year to drop it. She ignored my request and landed a much larger surprise party. We argued over the phone and after various unpleasantries were exchanged I went over to the party. Walked in the front door, said some hellos, walked out the back door, went home, and turned off my phone. 

We didn’t speak for months and our relationship was never the same after that. 

Since then, every few years I’ll decide to celebrate my birthday and let a few people know when it is. Then, some bullshit will happen and I’ll retreat back to my shell. 

A few years ago when I was turning 40 I was in a pretty good place. I was about a year past the end of a bad relationship and was in the beginnings of a much better relationship and decided to go to the Joshua Tree in the high desert of Southern California. I invited Jess to join me in the desert and it was an incredibly romantic and magical time. 

Since then I’ve been much more in control of my own situation and we would go for a meal or to a movie or something. Nothing big or flashy. I’m still not a big party person and I still don’t broadcast when it is. 

I believe that my experiences growing up are why I am all about making birthdays, half birthdays, and all holidays as peaceful and joyous as possible for my own Tiny Human. I absolutely do not want to pass on any generational bullshit to her. She deserves better than that and I will do everything I can to make sure she gets it. 

If you’ve read this far, thank you and I hope you understand  my specific neurosis a little better now and I’m still not telling when my birthday is. 

I Just Bought That

9:08am. 

Great. 

Running late again. 

Hopefully the train won’t be too crowded. 

It’s raining? 

Awesome.

Do I have my umbrella? 

Nope. 

Shit.

Forgot to get cash from the bodega last night. 

The bodega on the corner by the subway has an ATM and sells umbrellas. 

Do I really want to pay rainy day bodega umbrella prices? 

Do I have a choice?

The answer to both is no.

Seriously?

You’re going to cut in front of me to steal a seat when you see I have a cane? 

Asshole. 

The joys of commuting on the New York City subway. 

Not nearly as glamorous as it looks on Seinfeld or one of those other shows set in New York.

The seat thief leaves their earbuds in and doesn’t look up even though I am standing right in front of them. 

I feel a fart brewing. 

Side effect of early morning coffee. 

I manage to turn around and aim my butt at the offending seat occupier and let it rip. 

Oh yeah, I had Thai food last night. 

The seat thief inhales deep and yells profanities and invokes variations of deity names.  

Twenty-five minutes and a sore knee later I’m at my stop. 

I navigate the crowd up the stairs to street level and try to stay under as many awnings as possible. 

For the first time since the last time it rained there is a line in the bodega. 

Bodega cat winds between everyone’s legs leaving dander and cat hair in his wake.

I grab an umbrella, a Hal’s seltzer, and a pack of smokes. 

$43.50 later I’m on my way.

Since I’m already late and paid luxury prices for a $4 umbrella I need a coffee. 

My cart guy ran out of Anthora cups a few days ago and hasn’t gotten more yet. 

I blame that on my no good, very bad, rainy, wet day. 

There’s something about those blue and white Greek style coffee cups that I find comforting. 

No rhyme or reason to it.

I just do.

Balancing a dangerously hot cup of coffee, my new umbrella, and trying to light a cigarette is as much of a workout as I will get for the foreseeable future.

Lean into it.

Take a sip, take a drag, wait.

Four steps across the street and a massive wind gust hits.

I hear a snap. 

I feel rain on my head. 

My rainy-day-price-bodega-umbrella is now in two pieces. 

The handle, which I am holding, and the top part that is supposed to keep me dry is skipping through traffic. 

I just bought that. 

Now it’s gone.