Coming home

Apr 08, 2010 20:06

Those two words have gone through so many permeations this month alone. Coming home. To this place, and to places I have never been before, but are home just as much. I've been meaning to write about my stepfather for a good while now. It's been a very long while since I've written about him here.

Two weeks ago, Earl asked me how Gordon and I were doing, and replied that we hadn't had a fight in over fifteen months. Which earned a scoff and the pointing out that I had been gone for fourteen of them. I don't take offense to any part of this, but in fact a great compliment. Earl (like many, many people) has been very protective over me for over a decade against the endless fights Gordon and I had from the moment he showed up when I was fourteen.

It really was no lie to say if we managed ten minutes of civil conversation then it was miracle. I spent many years cultivating staring at my hands, counting to two hundred, trying desperately not to raise to the bait every time I was insulted for and reminding myself with great endless vigor that this was the man my mother loved and that even if I could not respect him or his treatment of me, I did respect her and her choices, of which he was one of.

I don't remember the last time I had a fight with Gordon. I really don't. And if there are only a certain number of things to remember in my life that is not one of the ones I will ever need to know, nor are the past times of the decades relating to that something I need to hold on to. The pain and all those gory painful details do me no service to keep. No matter where our future goes.

What I can remember is that I lived with them for the month between my Masters and Korea, day and night, and we never fought. Day and night, and they took care of me, without a comment toward my not having work during the time. Day and night, helped me close all the doors on my life up until then, everything from school and apartment.

What I can remember is that I lived in another country, where they came to visit me, and had an amazing week visit where they traveled both by themselves and with me. Where they helped me handled all my my loans and bills and everything else that could come up. Where they sent me boxes of things they thoughts I'd like and called me on videos, when I was open enough for people during the times I was.

What I can remember is that when I pulled away I was never once yelled at or guilted or abandoned.

What I can remember is that when I came home I was welcomed with open arms, into their home, for a week, and everything was brought to me with help. And that in return I was asked for one thing during the time I was not working: to come and be Gordon's caretakers after his knee replacement. I agreed.

I showed up every morning, and saw him through his therapy group, and little by little I saw the person I'm becoming. In every moment, where I felt myself leaving the girl, scared and scarred by him and by my younger self, where I placed my hand on his hand or on his back and told him to try just a little harder, to take another step, or breathe and take a break. When I fetched water or brought him something to make him laugh or thank the nurses. Anything. Everything.

And then I did the next week, coming to run errands and drive the car for him. To remind him of when he was walking wrong and set up the machine or watch him nap. And if he is not the man that I remember from my haunted and hurt childhood, I am not that girl either. She could not have done the jobs I have done.

That girl is not the one who as even the smallest of a days example, one who walks up behind him, and places her hand lightly on his shoulder blade, while he's in line and says quietly, "I'm here" so he won't bump into anything backing up his walker. Or minds the carpets, or plays music and handles the smallest details or grumping with a smile.

There was not comfortable silence in that world. No mutual space.
A place where I have been hugged more in a month than ten years.
A place where I am skittish, as is to be expected, but still there.

Come be his caretaker. Such easy words to open a revelations door.
I make the effort now as much as see it made, and that is a difference, too.
Does it change the past? No. No, the past can not be changed. It's already been lived.

But the maybe, just maybe, we're making sure the future won't be its reflection either.

will & grace, family

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