spring fever

My husband Michael has been away from home for three-and-a-half weeks. He’s on his way home this very minute after having shot 200 glass plates of the Savannah river. During his absence, despite a couple of rough nights, a few days without nursing help, and a sick kid on my hands, it has been fairly smooth sailing thanks to my father-in-law and a handful of friends who brought me bourbon and cheese, picked up groceries, walked Rudy, made me dinner, brought over cupcakes and homemade granola and Thai food, mixed me cocktails, called on me and slept over when Calvin was sick. Of course, things would have been a little bit easier if Rudy hadn’t pooped in the house nearly every day, if he hadn't eaten cat shit, hadn't wandered off, crossed a busy street and ended up at the Deli. Ugh.

I suppose it could have been easier, too, if it hadn’t snowed several times (again this morning), if it had inched above freezing for more than a smattering of days and, on the few days it did, if the windchill factor hadn’t made it feel like the teens. It would have been nice if the snow had melted weeks ago. Instead, I’m still looking out on a back yard covered in white and a front yard dressed in salty, gritty, filthy slush from the beaches of sand and salt the plows have been spraying on the roads and into our yard for months. Underneath the snow everything is brown. The leaves on the trees won't be appearing until mid May. Needless to say, I've got a major case of spring fever—me and everyone else in Maine.

Today is day nine. Calvin, though he’s been sick these past few days, has been in a decent mood during Michael’s stint away, which makes taking care of him a bazillion times easier. Since starting Calvin on cannabis oil, he has slept better and been ever-so-slightly calmer. At times his balance is pretty good—for him. Once or twice I've caught him making a couple of new sounds, which only the well-trained ear would notice. He has mostly stopped dropping to the ground in stubborn fits and isn’t so insistent on taking baths at all times of the day. It's still too early, however, to tell if the cannabis oil—a high THCA one, not a high CBD one—is helping to reduce his number of seizures. My gut tells me that it is, and thankfully, since he is still on a pretty small dose, there is room to move.

Sometime this week we’ll be getting the results of his antiepileptic drug blood levels. I’m anxious to see if they have changed since increasing his cannabis oil. I’ll be damn surprised if they haven’t since he’s been holding his head in his hands a lot as if he’s got a constant headache.

These drugs. They make me sick. I often wonder what would have happened had we never given him any when he began having seizures. No one had offered that as an option and, as two shell-shocked parents, we didn't know enough to ask if it was. What if we’d known about cannabis then? What nascent skills—like saying Mama once, eating with a spoon and walking without a harness—might he have perfected in the absence of a series of mind-numbing, mind-altering drugs? What kind of boy might he be? How has his behavior changed because of the thousands of milligrams of benzodiazepines that have soaked his developing brain? What kind of memory might he have had and what might he have learned as a result?

I'll never know the answers to these nagging questions—questions that come to me in the middle of the night and are nearly as vexing as my dreams of Calvin having seizures. So, I'll try to keep my mind on the positive, on the fact that the days are gradually warming, the snow will soon be gone, Michael is coming home, my spring fever will soon break and not long after we'll be barbecuing and Calvin will be able to walk in the yard again and maybe we'll be able to reduce some of his drugs and see fewer seizures and have more happy days, restful nights and simple, beautiful peace of mind.

Calvin and his nurse, July 2013

today

today
creeps like
molasses on a frozen slope
ice receding at a glacial pace
the ache in my head
steady at the temples
too much coffee
not enough
leaves furl and droop
like dalí’s clocks
everything a standstill
pools and time and memory
—my son—
only the shivering
wind moves things
but not forward
not
today

photo by Michael Kolster

neighbors

My mood is laden as the sky, brittle as its air. How, in this endless season, do I endure the cold, the hurt, the disappointment of life, the anything?

But I make myself content by doing simple things like visiting Calvin’s school where I see the students’ wonderful art tacked to its walls—paintings of ruffled flowers bursting in purple, green, yellow and red illuminating a place seemingly frozen in the dead of winter.

At home, the sun streams through the kitchen window begging me to get out into it. It's still below freezing and I can see that the wind is slight. Calvin is upstairs having a bath. I clip Rudy on his leash, put on my wool peacoat over my down vest, tuck in my scarf and pull on my wool hat and polypropylene gloves. I stop at Woody’s to ask if he wants to join us for a walk, but he declines, so I invite myself back for a drink later.

At the end of the block, the early evening sun casting its long shadows on the crust of filthy, decaying snow, I see Jerry and Nico and cross to join them. Her shins are bare down to her ballet-type slipper-shoes in defiance of the icy weather. I hardly see Jerry anymore, the woman who has witnessed our deep despair, at least during the first several sorry years of Calvin's life. She’s brought us dinners in the hospital, embraced me as I sobbed at a birthday party meant for all of the March babies, which should have included Calvin if he hadn’t come six weeks early. She’s brought me flowers and often appears to have a tinge of melancholy when regarding me, not a look of pity so much as a helplessness about our situation, perhaps.

Mike, Woody’s neighbor, approaches in his all-black uniform of sorts. He’s ninety-one or two and tall, reminds me a little of the Winter Warlock—melted-heart version—and I tease him as much as I can muster. He talks about the neighborhood and how it used to be, how he used to know more people and how he never sees any of the new “ones” who have moved in on all sides. He elbows me and says, “Now, all I know is the girl who walks her dog,” and when I hear him refer to me as I girl I tell him I ought to come around more often. We all laugh and, regrettably, Jerry drives off before I have a chance to really catch up.

Rudy and I amble down the lane to the athletic fields. I can smell Bob’s pipe, then I see him moseying along in his driveway and I'm surprised at how many folks are out in the cold. It must be the sun, I think to myself. “Where’s your hat?” I ask, and he tells me he never really wears one. I joke, “That’s because you’ve got hair ... probably more than I do,” having just told Jerry mine is thinning with age. Bob is in his late eighties, and we walk together a short distance just past the mailboxes, just past a young, naked oak growing at the back of his fence. The sun is on our faces, his clear blue eyes tearing in the sharp wind, and as he wipes them away I breathe in the warm, sweet smoke of his pipe. I ask him how long he’s smoked. “A long time. But I don’t swallow it,” he adds, and I smile. He asks if I know how he met Nan, and I tell him that I knew he stole her away from California when she was just nineteen. He says she’d been born in Hawaii then had moved to California when her father began teaching at Stanford. They'd met while her father was teaching a semester here, back when Bob was a student. I remark on how much she must have loved him to have left sunny California to live in Maine where in spring it's below freezing for days on end and looks like December until May. “I got lucky,” he says, and I tell him that she’d gotten lucky, too. "I hope so," he replies, then we say our goodbyes and I head off back up the street.

At Woody’s, I wipe the sand off of my boots and step inside to a warm blanket of air. Rudy follows and the cats scatter, but not as far as usual. Woody has bought some Wild Turkey with me in mind and we sit in front of the gas fire again. We complain about the weather and about the approaching storm. I mention that we’re losing Calvin’s nurse and how much I like her. We discuss the universe(s), the existence of God, of which neither of us are so sure, of the stories man has perhaps invented to keep folks in line or to explain the inexplicable. I mention the earthquake in Haiti, which has eroded into a cholera epidemic, and how some extremists said it was an act of God, a form of punishment. "If there is a God, he wouldn't take sides," I say, and we muse on the idea that our energy, our soul or spirit or whatever you want to call it, probably doesn't go away, just changes, like boiling water into steam. In a moment of thoughtful silence we sip our drinks and I think of my dad whose ashes are still somewhere reflecting the sun's light.

After the pause, I gently ask Woody about his son, and he tells me all of it and I listen and we cry and we hug for a long time and I tell him that I love him and he says it back and he tells me that I’m a good person and I mention how much I am glad we’ve met and he says how he looks forward to my visits and I tell him so do I and he says it’s just because of the chocolates and then he adds that it’s for the bourbon too and I don’t deny it and we laugh and cry some more.

We have another splash from the bottle before I leave and I promise him the next time it’ll be at my place, and we both agree that Michael won’t mind, whether he’s home or not, because that's what love and friendship are about. Then I say goodnight and I walk three houses down and open the door to greet a nurse that I love and a boy that I love even more.

photo by Michael Kolster

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shackles

People described it as, “pretty rough,” and, “hard to watch.” Some said they couldn’t watch it at all. But their words did not dissuade me, instead, compelled me, because I don’t want to forget our history and its legacy, don’t want to avert my eyes from the sorry truth, even if knowing it, seeing it, might be painful.

I reclined on the futon and powered through my salad while skipping through the previews, wanted to avoid eating during the film. I’d braced myself for, 12 Years a Slave, knowing it would hurt to watch, yet mindful that my hurt would amount to a speck of salt in a sea of misery that was slavery. For over two hours I buckled and wept and cringed while Calvin slept peacefully in the room next door.

Though I long for the day when Hollywood produces fewer films about black oppression and more about their triumphs (minus the storied white savior, please—and I'm not referring to Jesus) the film is good, ambitious, important. It is essential in its historic account, its black biographical perspective, of a despicable institution for which some still unabashedly wave their flags today. I must admit, however, wondering if the film's raw violence inadvertently serves to sate the sadistic fetishes of some.

An upsetting account, the film incited anger and shame for all the hateful things that mankind is willing to do in the name of prejudice, avarice and clout, such as the vile decrees that the favored, self-righteous pressed onto the masses, to which the greedy, ignorant, cowardly, and bigoted were complicit. I contemplate the shackles of slavery, its heinous laws, its vicious crimes, the craze for power, profit and tyranny, and the employment of whips, chains, muzzles, ropes and guns on innocent human beings.

I lament the fact that certain Americans still find themselves at the wrong end of a barrel through no fault of their own. I consider the film’s depiction of atrocities—of children torn from their mothers, of men cuffed, thrown into cells and flogged, of women raped, beaten and mutilated, of youths tortured for having the "wrong" color skin, for challenging authority, for defending themselves, of families splintered, workers exploited, innocents lynched, of decent, moral people being shamed, blamed, trodden upon and wronged—and I think to myself how things haven't much changed in the hearts, minds, fists and attitudes of some dyed-in-the-wool, mostly white men, and their followers, who continue to shape policy, enforce laws, issue verdicts and impose penalties on people for whom they feel contempt.

And, as always, I consider my ten-year-old son Calvin whose health and well-being are being jerked around—shackled—by a baseless federal law that demonizes and outlaws cannabis, a law unwilling to validate the plant’s proven medicinal properties and the good that it can do. I hasten to say that the prohibition of marijuana was—and likely remains—a bogus, calculating, racist measure, a twisted effort initially meant to outlaw hemp, and by doing so preserved timber and plastics industries (think Hearst and DuPont), and shored up Harry Anslinger’s struggling Federal Bureau of Narcotics during Great Depression cutbacks (Anslinger was good friends with the DuPonts, by the way.) Anslinger, an outspoken racist, fabricated data about his war on drugs and fueled its fire by slinging racial slurs about marijuana smokers, saying:

"Most are Negroes, Hispanics, Filipinos and entertainers. Their Satanic music, jazz and swing result from marijuana use. This marijuana causes white women to seek sexual relations with Negroes, entertainers and any others."

and:

“Reefer makes darkies think they're as good as white men."

Even today, black people are nearly four times as likely as whites to be arrested on charges of marijuana possession—in some states six times as likely—despite data suggesting they use the drug at about the same rate as whites. Moreover, black incarceration rates handily outpace the rates of their white counterparts, their sentences often quite harsh compared with their offense. The institution of slavery, which made white plantation owners and others rich, has morphed into the mass incarceration of our black countrymen, while the prison-industrial complex gains billions in revenue.

When the movie was over I sat quietly in the dark listening to the music as the credits rolled by. I heard Calvin rustling in his bed and wondered how I'd feel if my child were ripped away by strangers. I tried to imagine what it would be like, if I were Native or African American—or other minority—to have my homeland seized, my tribe obliterated, my culture, language and religion crushed, my village torched, my family torn apart, my daughter sold into slavery, my sister burned alive in a church, my brother thrashing at the end of a fire hose or a noose, my leader assassinated for advocating on behalf of truth and justice, my teenager murdered by a racist menace while minding his own business, my husband's life snuffed out beneath the knees of a uniformed mob, my assailant acquitted because he is white, my mother imprisoned for trying to improve my education.

I go further and imagine my brother being beaten and left for dead because he was gay, my sister raped by a commanding officer whose cronies ensure he gets off the hook, my body bruised or burned or urinated on because I am homeless, my virtue, commitment and drive constantly questioned because I need food stamps, my rights withheld because of who I love, my vote, my wage, my education, my safety, my chance at promotion impinged on just because of who I am or what I look like.

Luckily, I don't know exactly how it would feel if these injustices happened to me. But I do know, for millions in America—a country that is proudly touted by some as the greatest nation on earth—daily life is rough and painful, scary and dispiriting, unjust and seemingly hopeless. I see evidence on the news and in the papers. I hear slurs on the street and in nasty Facebook posts and at times from the mouths of people who are close to me. Sometimes it's blatant, others, insidious. No matter, it's hard to witness, much less live. But watch I will, though not in silence, and never will I be unmoved.

day seven

Yanking the hair at the back of my neck, he drags his teeth across my face. He’s trying to tell me something. He whines and won't stop poking the hell out of his eye, even when he is walking. His nose is running and at times he laughs hysterically. His balance is for shit. I feel it coming. Already.

He doesn’t want to take a bath. He hasn’t pooped all day. Everything is slightly off, like the voice-over in a spaghetti western. He breathes deep in his sleep, twitches and snaps his fingers. He snores.

Still black outside, I hear him cough. Barely awake, I listen and crane my neck to see if the monitor’s green light jumps. It doesn’t. I fall back to sleep until almost six when I hear him rustling again. I detach the netting above his bed, step up on the stool and reach in to reposition him. He falls right back to sleep, snoring again.

I write to Michael a series of emails:

5:58 am
hi,
the kid is being strangely quiet this morning. i heard him cough at 4:30 but didn’t go check on him. i wonder if he woke to a seizure. seems awake now sort of. ugh. i hate this shit.
rudy pooped in his bed again even though he went out last night for a long time.
i guess i need my coffee.
xo

6:12 am
yep.
strange. even though yesterday was only day six i’d begun thinking he was headed toward a seizure. runny nose. no poop. was breathing heavily when i checked on him before i went to bed. stuffy.
i repositioned him at 5:50 and he put his arm around my neck then went to sleep. he is in a weird position right now, asleep again.
fuck. fuck. fuck.

6:38 am
just woke to a seizure.

I go up and spoon Calvin's medicines into him, take his temperature, change his diaper and tuck him back into bed.

Michael writes:

6:43 am
I’m sorry.

6:54 am
me too. only day 7. seems we add more meds to the daytime and the seizures just move to the night and early morning. fuck again. he’s asleep now at least. snoring before the seizure. poor little bugger. i love him so much. was not smiling when he came off of the bus yesterday. that is always an omen.

Quiet and content, he’s awake now. It’s twenty degrees outside. I look out the windows to see the rhododendrons pathetically shriveled and frozen. I wonder if this bitter season is ever going to give up its grip.

one of my faves

Calvin at 18 months, before the seizures and the drugs, photo by Michael Kolster