the runner

Since last March, when the pandemic closed the public schools, I have been taking long drives around town with my disabled son Calvin and my dog Smellie. Almost daily, and usually before noon, we loop around on the same back roads taking in the scenery—rolling fields, salt marshes, tidal inlets, exquisite banks of oak, pine and birch which beckon and embrace me along Simpson’s Point, Pennellville, Maquoit, Mere Point, Bunganuc, Pleasant Hill and Rossmore Roads. It's very calming, and helps me pass the time during these long, monotonous days alone with my boy who can sometimes, if not often, feel impossible.

On one such drive a while back I caught sight of a runner a bit younger than I—tall, lean, focused, nimble—his face familiar from having seen him years ago while walking the dog at the college athletic fields. In some ways he reminds me of my former self—athletic, independent, driven, able to wander unencumbered.

Every so often I drive past the runner, my son in the backseat contorting himself as best he can to stare at the sun despite my efforts to cover the windows with towels and cloth shopping bags jammed into the tops of the back seat doors. Like my husband, the runner’s pace is brisk and efficient. Judging by the various points where I’ve seen him, it appears he runs quite far. I decide he must be a marathoner.

As a former hardcore swimmer who has swum thousands of grueling miles in pools, I find I prefer the ease and freedom of running. Regrettably, it has been years since I've made a habit of it, what with time constraints, a dog who seems too old to jog beside me, a teenager who can’t be left by himself, harsh Maine winters and, now, the pandemic. Alas, I find myself again living vicariously through others. As the runner races by me, his chiseled face curiously calm, I begin to wonder. Has he explored the same panoramas where I yearn to roam and linger? Has he viewed vistas that I have missed in my limited circles? Does he ever stop to test the water, marvel at the mackerel sky, or notice the grace and beauty of a dormant forest? I wonder if he, too, is attempting to escape a hardship. What losses has he suffered? Is there anything that grieves him? How painful or rewarding is his endeavor?

In these sad pandemic times, when my natural penchant to mix with others has been so stifled, and when naked (maskless) faces are a rare sighting, I look forward to my daily drives. They allow me to escape my own petty or grievous worries by taking in gorgeous panoramas and, instead, contemplate the lives of others: the Carhartt man tethered to three brawny dogs who each yank him in a different direction; the salty old guy in neon regalia pushing his pedals against all kinds of weather; the crooked old lady clad neck to heel in black lycra doing her best version of jogging. And when the runner's eyes meet mine and he raises a hand as I pass, I feel—if only for an instant—somehow lighter. 

One day, hopefully, the pandemic will be over. And when it is, my daily outings in the car will likely come to an end, and with them a most reliable method of escaping moments that can feel so lonely, confined and tiresome. Thank you, dear runner, and others, for the fleeting diversion you unwittingly give me.

Simpson's Point

running like the wind

While walking Smellie in the sweltering heat of Saturday evening, I passed the home of some friends who were in their backyard barbecuing. I heard the happy chatter of the couple with at least one of their children and perhaps one or two friends. The banter was uplifting and made me smile despite more than a tinge of sadness realizing in real time that Michael and I never have, never do, and never will have that experience with our son since he can't talk or engage with others in any kind of "normal" fashion. In fact—without exaggerating—I can probably count on ten fingers how many times Calvin has eaten a meal with us at the table. Unless friends come over, Michael and I always dine by ourselves as if empty nesters which, despite sitting constant vigil beside the baby monitor, might seem like a major bonus but in the bigger picture is a colossal loss.

Earlier in the day, I had run the Beach to Beacon 10K with about 7,000 other runners. I carpooled to the event with a neighbors' daughter, Clare, who is sweet as can be and is a serious runner. She picked up my bib and event swag for me the night before, and helped me navigate the event, which was my first-ever bona fide road race. Though it was 75 degrees with 85% humidity when the race began at 8:00 a.m., it was fun! Just before the race began I was able to hug my dear friend, Olympic Marathon Gold Medalist Joanie Benoit Samuelson, the event's founder, and she cautioned us to "please stay safe" in the heat. My goal was to finish without walking and to average a pace between 9:30 and 9:45 per mile. I came in a hair over that, which was satisfying considering the heat and the fact I had trained in earnest for just over two months. It feels good to finally be in the initial stages of getting back to my former athletic self, the one I pretty much abandoned when Calvin was born. Clare, by the way, placed fourth in the field of non-professional women with a pace of 5:59 per mile! Smokin'!

While among the stream of runners, as I smiled at the blaring, running-themed front-yard music, waved at the folks in fold-out chairs cheering and ringing cow bells, high-fived and fist-bumped the little tykes standing at the edges of yards cheering us on, I thought about what some of my friends had said to me before my race.

Just weeks prior to the race, when I was worried I hadn't trained enough distance, Joanie reassured me in a text:

"The crowds and runners will carry you in much the same way that you have carried Calvin."

The day before the race she added:

"Run like the wind!"

Her words gave me tears and chills, and I took them to heart. Other accomplished runner friends, my husband, and sibling athletes gave me advice about not overdoing it in my training, not going out too fast (I knew this from distance swimming), taking smaller strides on the hills (thanks Clare!), what to wear and what to eat and drink pre-race.

During the race, I concentrated on keeping my head up. I noted the glorious feel of the sun and wind and shade, the scenery, the tempo of my breathing. I focused on not scuffing my feet on the pavement lest I impede my own progress. And then, halfway in, I did think about Calvin and about carrying him all these years. I looked around at the close crowd of runners buoying me as if I were floating down a river out to sea. I thought about the pain of the endeavor and realized it was nothing compared to what my son endures when he seizes or suffers miserable drug side effects, or the agony he faced when he broke his hip at school. Having put it all in perspective, I was able to then forget about my little ball and chain for the rest of the race, because though I wanted to honor Calvin by doing something he might have been good at, I want running to be mine. I want at least one aspect of myself to be, for all intents and purposes, independent of Calvin since most of my life is Calvin-centric in a way altogether different from parents of neurotypical children—which is to say that my infant-toddler-teen will never grow up. I may forever be on guard, changing diapers and spoon-feeding, to say the least. And though I know parenting "ordinary" children comes with its own serious challenges, I will always lament never being able to experience the joys of things like shooting the shit with Calvin and his friends at backyard barbecues.

As I come partway off of the runner's high that I got during and after Saturday's race, and as I sit here at the top of the stairs mere feet from where Calvin is splashing in the bathtub, I realize that running—the time and space when and where I can drift and dream—is mine. 

While editing this, I recalled a post I wrote over a year ago about a winning marathoner I passed often during my pandemic back-road drives with Calvin, and with whom I've since become casual friends. In the post, I wondered about his reasons for running, whether he had suffered losses, whether there was anything that grieved him, whether he might be running to escape a hardship. But as I type, I realize my ponderings were and are mere projections—a commentary on my own situation and hardships. I also realize that running for me isn't just about escaping all-things-Calvin. It's also an attempt to ground a self that is often sent emotionally reeling by the intense, frustrating and often sorrowful caring for my child and his chronic condition, and it's an effort to get reacquainted with my true, healthier, competitive and independent self.

And as I relive the Beach to Beacon 10K in my mind, the thing I remember most is not the pain, not the heat, not the hills, but the glorious feeling of running free like the wind.

Me and Clare

snapshots

After our son's first grand mal of the night, I laid in bed with him. In my head, I began to write my blog. Like our daily car rides, my thoughts looped around. Words took different turns. Images previously seen clicked into narrative landscapes—physical, emotional, virtual. Eventually, I nodded off to sleep.

Of late, Calvin has been too ill to take car rides daily. Some sort of infection—urinary tract, bladder or kidney—means we haven't been out much, or we've driven short loops close to home in case he has another daytime seizure. I lament the days in which I can't travel the backroads. I so miss seeing the gorgeous vistas, the wide open spaces, the big skies, my people: the Carhart man with his three willful dogs; the pair of women with similar haircuts and purple jackets; the tall man with his cute, wiry mutt; the black-clad couple who live at the mouth of the inlet; the bikers and joggers of every age and shape; the marathon runner; even the skinny old hippy chick with the puffy coat, nappy hat, mauve stockings, hiking shoes and poles who looks at me with a bit of suspicion as if she owns the road. They all unwittingly buoy me through this lonesome pandemic. Each sighting, smile, wave and nod somehow lifts me, makes me forget about stresses and worries, Calvin's seizures and our limitations. Without these people, I'd be feeling altogether differently; in other words, not as good. These have been some long-ass, monotonous days—over a year of them—caring for a boy who can do nothing by or for himself.

But I do find respite. Ben came up from Boston Sunday. With Calvin secure inside the house where we could check on him frequently, the three of us sat safely distant in the sunny driveway. Ben's eyes shined bluer and brighter than I remember, at times exuding understanding and compassion. A former student of Michael's, we talked about photography and discussed the art of mindfulness—of finding deeper meaning and beauty in the mundane; with that I have a lot of practice. He asked what kind of relationship Calvin has with language. I was touched by his curiosity and depth of thought.

Ben told us he brings along Polaroid snapshots of his friends when he travels for business. Lays them out in lonely hotel rooms where he can see them. It's as if his people are there in person. It helps him pass the weeks and months away from those he loves. I imagine he might feel as if they're seeing him too, which must be validating in a pandemic for those seen by few.

On Monday, after starting an antibiotic, Calvin seemed to be feeling better. So we took a longer drive down a favorite road to a boat launch eight miles south or so. On the drive out and back we passed the runner. His pace is swift and fluid, as if he never touches down. I'm reminded of the winged feet of Mercury, god of travel. Like when I swim or tread water, it seems he can run forever. Though I reckon he goes quite far, his face remains placid. His endeavor appears effortless. So as not to startle him, in passing I put my hand out the open window hoping he might see me waving as we passed by.

Though we'd already traveled a distance, Calvin remained happy in the backseat playing with his toes. The songs on the radio—some familiar, others newer—soothed me. I chose to take two more favorite loops. Nearing a quiet corner where a sloping neighborhood street meets another road, again I spotted the runner. Well before the stop I paused to give him space—for mind and body. Flying past, he waved a hand in my direction. A sense of joy and ease washed over me. As if evidence of my own pandemic existence, I had been seen and, for a moment, it felt as if he carried me along.

In taking a left turn homeward, I was made to pass the runner one last time. I hesitated to catch his gaze for fear of interfering. As his form receded in the frame of rearview mirror, I was reminded of Ben's snapshots, and of mindfulness and gratitude. I mused: mental pictures of these backroads travelers, a couple of whom have become in ways beloved, are like snapshots in my pocket. I keep them in my thoughts, forever curious of their struggles, passions, hopes and burdens. Not unlike my dearest friends, I carry memories of their forms and faces throughout my days and in-between seeing them in person, like Ben's Polaroids displayed on hotel tables. 

At 3:00 a.m., in the wake of Calvin's second grand mal, he suffered some miserable agitation. After having done all we could to aid and comfort him, I heard the train roll through. Hearing its whistle and rumble calmed me. I imagined taking it to its final destination, wherever that might be. I thought again about my backroads folks. I wondered—not so humbly—if they ever imagine, however fleetingly, my travels through landscapes, time, emotions. I wonder if I've become in some strange ways meaningful to them like they've become to me. Like a stack of snapshots, do impressions of this smiling stranger behind the wheel endure—not as a burden, but as a buoy? Or are my musings more a measure of some real pandemic loneliness and fatigue?

Photo by Ben Painter

empathy

The sky opened up at one a.m. I rose from a deep dream to shut windows in the house so the rain wouldn't come in. As I was lowering one sash, I heard the quick slap-slap of a runner's gait on wet pavement. Peering out, I saw a guy run past under the streetlight. I recognized him. A youngish man compared to me, I'd met him in town years back. We had exchanged pleasantries. Later, I had greeted him several times as he ran past me on the street and in the trails around the field, his waif-like frame, bony limbs and gaunt face as distinctive as his long wavy hair and shy smile. Had he been caught in the deluge? Or had he—perhaps anorexia's captive—been compelled to run despite the storm's arrival? Or, had running in the middle of the night been his liberation, his savior, like writing and gardening have saved me from the grief-grip-loss that my son embodies?

When I put Calvin on the bus yesterday we were no doubt floating within a cloud, its sprays of mist collecting on our heads, dripping from trees, droplets adorning webs and beading up on leaves. If not for a good breeze, the humidity would've proven oppressive. Later, on my way back from a walk with Nellie, I stopped to talk with a neighbor. A nicely-dressed woman drove up curbside and exclaimed that she was looking for a notorious local man so she could run him down. The man she hunted had been seen recently knocking and entering open homes in the area, taking cash and jewelry, ostensibly to support his heroin addiction. Police confirmed that I'd seen the stranger earlier that morning knocking on the door of a home down the street. Though I didn't see him enter, somehow I'd thought his incessant knocking odd, so I memorized his description: white guy, medium build, brown hair, early forties, khaki shorts, dark hikers or sneakers, long-sleeved tee.

I winced when the driver, a colleague of Michael's who I don't really know, said she wanted to run this guy over. She claimed he was violent. I gently (hopefully) challenged her notion, but she could provide no supporting evidence. I tried to imagine what I would do if I were in his condition. I remembered a piece I heard about a former addict who described what addiction was like. I told the woman I thought it sad that the guy was in such a state that he needed to steal from others. She lamented she'd been dealing with him for years. I wondered what I'd do if I came across him, wondered if I'd give him a buck or two.

Troubled, I removed myself from the conversation, crossing the street to visit with Woody who was sitting on his porch. He was familiar with the man police were pursuing. The man's family, Woody said, had always had some sort of trouble as long as he could remember. I expressed my regret that anyone get hooked on opioids, knowing full-well—contrary to popular myth—that the average addict begins with opioids prescribed for pain by unwitting and/or cavalier physicians. Woody said the guy should get some help. I countered by admitting that I'd never been addicted to a substance, but that I imagine heroin must be nearly impossible to kick, perhaps even making it difficult to seek—or even want—help.

What flashed through my mind next was a glimpse of how others might view me and Calvin; I wondered what kind of judgment family, friends and strangers pass on us—what did she do wrong while pregnant? why is she so strict with her son? why so lenient? why is she so demanding and impatient? why is he so wild? why is she so skeptical, so harsh? why does she let him get away with this, yet make him do that?

I pondered compassion and what I see as today's empathy gap, which is widening in an increasingly polarized nation with a self-obsessed, callous man at the helm.

At the close of the day, while putting on Calvin's nighttime diaper and pad, giving him his cannabis oils and Keppra, and brushing his teeth, I listened to a piece on National Public Radio. Journalists spoke with the Idaho Director of Agriculture and to a pig farmer who described the hardship in the face of the warring trade tariffs that The Donald put in place. Hearing their distressing stories, I got teary.

"No one deserves to suffer like that," I said to Michael, "even if they voted for him."

Michael, though he agrees with me that support for The Donald is short-sighted at best, expressed his dubiousness that any of us is deserving of anything—beyond human rights such as healthcare and education—whether it be good or bad. I get it.

As the news segment closed, a wave of sorrow washed over me, leaving me wishing relief for the hard-working farmers, many who risk losing their businesses because the tariffs stand to strangle the decades-long, worldwide trading relationships they've developed. I went to sleep thinking of them.

Hours later, in the shiny black after midnight, I watched the jogger sail down the street into darkness, the driving rain matting his hair, his spine and ribs exposed beneath a soaking shirt. I wondered if he was cold. I thought of the petty thief rummaging desperately through strangers' homes just to get enough dough for his next fix. I wondered if he is lonely. I thought of the farmers, heads in hands, families to feed, crops and livestock and legacies in jeopardy, and I wondered how they'll cope. I thought of my sweet, innocent, unknowing Calvin sleeping upstairs, seventeen days since his last grand mal seizure. It's no matter, but empathy gave me some trouble falling back to sleep.

back in the world again

seven a.m. clear skies. twenty-one degrees. seventeen-mile-an-hour north winds. feels like six degrees. i take smellie for her morning walk. got my fists balled up in my pockets, a long puffy coat over quilted pants over sweat pants tucked into my boots. got my scarf wrapped around my head and tied under my chin. double masks help fight the wind. between masks and hat, a mere slit exists for my eyes to peek out. so ready to get rid of winter. today, even smellie seems done.

lonely roads on our car ride this morning. just too damn cold. i see one runner—a tiny thing—her pony tail bobbing, her own fists clad in thick mittens. then, on one stretch of road i see the carhart three-dog walker brave the frigid winds on his bicycle pulling a cart miles into town. i worry about his freezing hands. winter in maine can be unforgiving.

back at home, i resume my campaign for answers to ambiguous vaccine policy. in maine, kids like Calvin are falling through the cracks; they're not adults but are old enough to get the pfizer vaccine. i've bitched about it to the governor, the head of the cdc, health and human services, my state senator. people want to help but i keep getting the same non-answer. it's frustrating. still, i try to drive home the message.

on a second car ride in late afternoon i think about the past pandemic year. of keeping my head down. staying focused. treading water while spending eight to ten hours a day alone with a kid who can do nothing by himself. i think about going nowhere save a couple of friends' driveways and a weekend stay at a rangely cabin last october where and when calvin seized. still, i feel privileged: for one thing, i'm not sick.

at a curve in the road near a pond a news break comes on between songs. there's been a change in maine's vaccine rollout. next week people over fifty can get vaccinated. better yet, starting mid april, people sixteen and up can get a vaccine! i finish listening then switch stations to hear more music. there's a moody acoustic song playing. the lyrics i hear get me: 

every day when i open my eyes now

it feels like a saturday

taking down from the shelf

all the parts of myself

that i packed away

all i know is

i'm back in the world again

like the lift of a curse

got a whole different person

inside my head

no more trudging around

stony eyed through the town

like the living dead no

i'm back in the world again

it's the only way to be

i cry like a baby. tears flow down my cheeks. i leave them there to breathe while the rest of me exhales a year of held breaths. it's been such a long time of just trying to keep it together. of not being with people. of being stuck inside these four walls. of doing everything for calvin. i think about all the hugs i'll be able to give. the faces i'll be able to pinch. just then, the runner drives by and waves at me, snapping me out of my trance. i suddenly feel lighter. it's gonna be okay, maybe even better. i turn around and head back home. the wind has waned. it's nearly forty degrees. it feels like spring.

out of nowhere

call it what you want. a close call. an accident. incident. collision. crash. smash-up. main thing is we seem to have escaped unscathed. the motorcyclist got a gash on the sole of his foot. he was wearing sneakers instead of boots. seated on his machine, he must've come at us with some decent speed. he didn't slow or skid or stop, that is until he hit us. thankfully, he didn't smack us at ninety degrees. he hit at an acute angle and glanced off of our side panel. put a major dent in the back seat door. the impact rocked us. the three of us lurched sideways in our seats. i screamed.

it happened tuesday. calvin, smellie, and i had been taking an after-school drive along the same old beautiful back roads we often do. had stopped at simpson's point to take in the scenery, sun and wind, salt and choppy water. for whatever reason, calvin went bonkers. so we went back to moving. not long after, he calmed, so i decided to turn around. to go back and take a photo. that's when it happened. the crack-up.

after the accident, a kind bystander led me to the shoulder. calvin's teacher drove past and pulled over. he waited with calvin while i called and spoke with police. i asked the motorcyclist if he was hurt. i was concerned. he mentioned his foot. i asked him what had happened. asked if he was trying to pass me. he said, "don't play the blame game, lady." i assured him that was not what i was doing. just wanted to understand what had just occurred. as always, i had signaled before the turn. had more than ample space—200+ yards—between me and the oncoming car in front of him. i had taken the left turn safe and slow. the biker came out of nowhere. hit us as we were still curving around. i was still going slowly as one does in a turn, my signal still on.

in the end, he seemed to understand my questions. no reason to rewrite or malign. he wasn't a bad guy. i didn't get a ticket. didn't break any law. i was established in my lane. don't think i was at fault. but who does, after all?

in the wake of the mishap, i think about the what ifs (since calvin's birth, i've become good at it.) i shudder to imagine the outcome had he struck our side head on. what if he had been driving a truck? what if we had hit him on his cycle? the imaginations are sickening. it could have been so much worse. we're all okay. fortunate.

an outpouring of care and concern came in from folks who saw our smashed-up car on facebook. dozens of kind words and love streamed in. yesterday morning, while walking on the wooded trails with smellie, i ran into (not literally!) a runner i used to see often on my back roads travels. he paused his workout to ask if we were okay. i gave him the details. he seemed relieved. i expressed my appreciation for his kindness and concern. then, he sped away.

yesterday afternoon, i stayed home with calvin. we traipsed around the house and did circles in the garden. didn't venture onto the roads. calvin was in a good mood. no problems at school. i spoke with his teacher on the phone. thanked him for his role on the side of the road. i realized, that though the accident itself was jarring, i wasn't shaken. perhaps, since he was born, little beyond calvin can faze me.

this morning at four a.m., calvin suffered a grand mal. it had been nineteen days since the last one occurred. unlike the scene of the crash, it was grisly. calvin's little body was stiff and wracked with spasms. his face and fingertips turned ashen. after the attack, his airway was jammed. we rolled him on his side. he restarted breathing. i crawled in and cradled him while his heart was still racing. his eyes were wide open, vacant, not tracing. later, he turned to me and held my neck. pressed my head against his own, as if to lessen some hurt from his brain's wreck. i wish i had seen the thing coming. maybe i could have restrained it. but when it comes to things hurtling from out of nowhere, sometimes there's just no way of escaping.

Calvin going berserk at simpson's point.

on running

A little less than two years ago I began running in earnest for the first time in my life. My dear friend, Olympic gold-medalist and world-class marathoner, Joanie Benoit Samuelson, knowing that I had once been a division I swimmer, had been asking me for years, "When are you going to get back into the pool?" and, "You know, swimmers make good runners." 

I had long lost interest in swimming for fitness, in doing lap after boring lap despite how good my body felt moving swiftly through the water. But I was desperate to feel like my former athletic self. More so, I pined for an escape, a respite—even if only fleetingly—from the responsibilities of taking care of my autistic, disabled, chronically ill child, Calvin. I yearned for something to occupy my mind besides the worry, anxiety, frustration and disappointment that loom too large caring for someone like him. I needed something that was wholly mine. 

For the first fifteen months of the pandemic—before Covid vaccines were developed—we didn't send Calvin to school, didn't take our usual outings to the grocery store, and had given up our in-home nursing help. To pass the time, Calvin and I went for daily drives on the nearby backroads taking in the beautiful scenery and listening to music. On our drives I often imagined pulling over, getting out of the car and running into the vast meadows just to lose myself. It was during our drives that I spotted an ambitious and wicked-quick runner who glided for miles and miles even in the harshest weather. I wondered what compelled him to run so far, wondered if he, like me, felt driven to run from some sadness, burden or worry, toward some kind of reward, or perhaps a little of both.

A year later, Joanie gave me a pair of fancy running shoes in exchange for an ice cream cake I had made for her husband's birthday. That was the moment I knew I had to commit to training for her world-renowned Beach to Beacon 10k, which she founded in 1998 and in which she had urged me to participate. It would be my first road race ever, and one that would get me hooked on the sport and on competing again.

Since that first race in August of last year, I've competed in four 10ks, three 5ks, one ten-miler, and a half marathon, which was in early October. I've enjoyed some small successes. Mostly, though, running has done for me what I hoped it would. I feel like my old self again in many ways—more light and lithe and spry. I'm healthier and happier. My capacity to endure my son's troubles has, perhaps, expanded. I think—hope—I'm a better person, friend, wife, mom. I've befriended some sweet and amazing people whose generosity, expert advice and encouragement has been essential to my accomplishments.

Getting out on the trails and roads, especially at my beloved Pennellville with its big sky, open fields, and expansive views across the water has been cathartic. I love to feel the sun and rain and wind—and sometimes snowflakes—on my face.

The one downside, however, is that I've been writing a lot less. Notably, though, when running, I almost never think of Calvin (and therefore I don't feel at all stressed or anxious.) I hear only the sound of my breathing and my feet striking the ground, the swish of my jacket, the song and chirp of birds and crickets, the babbling of brooks. I smell the sweetness of fresh-cut grass, clover, rose rugosa, smoke from a wood stove. I smile and wave at passing runners, bicyclists, truckers. I drink in whatever Maine has to offer on any given day throughout the year. I lose myself. In short, I finally have a time and place where I feel free.

Last week I signed up for the New York City Half Marathon in March with the hope of running with 24,000 other athletes over the Brooklyn Bridge, up Seventh Avenue and into Central Park (thanks to John Blood for that recommendation). I qualified for the event, but I missed the cutoff date for the guaranteed timed entry, so I'm hoping to be chosen in the random lottery which is at the end of this month. Cross your fingers, knock on wood.

I'll be forever grateful to the many lovely people who have brought me to this sublime place called running: my father, our family's original athlete who ran a 4:28 mile at the Naval Academy in 1948; my husband, Michael, who has been running four or five fast 5ks every week for nearly a decade; Joanie Benoit Samuelson, for urging me on for so many years; Rob Ashby, marathoner extraordinaire, who unwittingly inspired me to go the distance, and so many others since who have inspired, supported and encouraged me to keep on trucking. Thank you.

absences

As I walk the dog at the fields in late afternoon the sun descends, casting its long, early-autumn shadows. Bathed in the golden light, I get a mix of feelings both sublime and glum. I'm reminded of my splendid childhood summers, but also of times my mother rang the dinner bell calling me away from playing with my friends. I knew the fun part of my day had come to an end. It didn't matter that I'd wake up to another one. I didn't think of it. Just hung my head mourning the absence of my friends. Dragged my feet over the gravely road, heading home alone.

Leaving the fields, a boy jogs across my path. He must be twelve or thirteen. He's a little taller than Calvin and nearly as thin. That's where their commonalities stop. The boy is on his own. He is nimble. He can run. He's a fast athlete and, even at that age, serious and focused on his endeavor. Seeing him gives me pause, and I find myself thinking again about Calvin and our sorry situation with him—what if things hadn't gone so wrong?

I watch the boy run down the path and disappear around the bend. In the distance, a bunch of college students plays soccer, their fit bodies able to do exactly what their brains tell them to do. Their laughter is bittersweet to my ears. Hearing it makes my heart soar and sink, my eyes sting and blink, my mouth tighten into a smile then slacken into something more somber.

My precious boy doesn't have a single friend. He has no concept of play or sport, camaraderie or competition. He can't do those things. Doesn't have language. Navigates his world as if he were blind. Isn't very adept at walking. Has poor coordination. Virtually zero fine-motor skills. He's at the mercy of a brain anomaly, unforgiving seizures and drug side effects. I quietly lament: there's so little joy in life for him.

As I stroll home, the sun at my back and the afterimage of the running boy blazing in my brain, I feel lonesome. The wide street that runs in front of my house is desolate. There are no neighbors tending their gardens. No cars or skaters or bikers sailing by. No parents pushing strollers. No flocks of happy students crossing the road. Loneliness is not an emotion I feel often; I like my own company, like being alone. What I feel is the distinct absence of a child beside me. The loss is palpable. I sense the emptiness in it—the absence of conversation, of exchanging ideas, sharing hopes, hearing dreams, of feeling the sheer joy of walking, running, talking, biking alongside one's child. The hollow pit in my gut deepens as if weighted by a stone. The grief and loss constantly and for years gnawing at it. Thankfully, the burden has softened over time, not to the point of being in any way comfortable or easy, just slightly less dark, sharp and heavy. Less likely to literally bring me to my knees.

I've been rereading my blog posts from nine years ago. Back then, Calvin went seventy-eight days without any seizures. Regrettably, his behavior was unbearable—relentless and terrible side effects from taking high doses of three powerful anticonvulsant drugs. It wasn't a fair or sensible trade-off, so we began weaning the drugs one by one. It took us a number of painful years to get him from three down to one. Since then, however, nothing we've tried—five different kinds and repeated tries of CBD cannabis oil, Epidiolex, probiotics, increasing his Keppra, reducing his Keppra—has helped him regain any kind of seizure freedom longer than a few weeks. Lately, he goes mere days between seizures. I'm still fiddling with his dose of homemade THCA cannabis oil hoping to find a sweet spot.

I think about the boy athlete again, the young runner so sure, quick and lithe. I like to believe Calvin would be like him if things hadn't gone so wrong. And, so, I'm mourning the absence of a healthy, able child. But last night, when Calvin wasn't doing so well, I crawled into bed next to him. He reached for me, wrapped his skinny arms around my neck, curled his knees up to his little bird chest and pulled my head to his. With his eyes closed, he relished my kisses on his eyes, nose, cheeks and chin. Then, like he does sometimes, he made the sweet and soft hum I love so much—uh-uh. In my mind, it sounds a bit like Mama, which long ago he said just once. And for a fleeting moment, that empty sense of absence was filled right up.

Photo by Michael Kolster

the kindness of strangers

It's Thursday at two a.m. I'm in bed with Calvin after his seizure. With my hand draped across his side to monitor his breathing, I reminisce about my previous day. I think about the kindness of strangers: the salty, sunburned guy in sleeveless sweatshirt and torn jeans who wanted to help me when Calvin dropped down in the middle of the grocery store; the woman in the checkout line who let me and my impatient, pre-seizure Calvin cut in front of her; the kind clerk who was uber-patient as I fumbled with my wallet and stumbling child.

In the darkness of the room, my thoughts then drift to the strangers I've met while driving around on the back roads with Calvin. Countless folks brightened my brutally-long and sometimes dark pandemic days, but none as much as the runner, the Carhart dog walker, and the black-clad couple, all of whom I used to encounter with some frequency. Since our car-ride schedule has changed, however, and since Calvin is having so many seizures which require a day or two of recovery, I rarely see these familiar faces anymore. I miss them, miss our exchange of nods and smiles and waves. Because my days are still long and my child is still sometimes near impossible, their absence is palpable. Recently, I finally pulled over, introduced myself and connected with the latter three for more than a fleeting moment in passing. I expressed my gratitude for their unwitting source of comfort amid a difficult time. The first of these roadside stops was with the black-clad couple. It yielded a kind invitation from the woman, Lynn, for me and Calvin to visit her and her husband, John, at their home on the Point. Yesterday, while Calvin was in school, I took her up on her offer, deciding to go solo to suss things out for a possible future trip with Calvin. As we got acquainted in their kitchen, John frothed up some milk for my coffee and made us breakfast. With plates of cinnamon French toast and berries propped in our laps, we sat on their deck overlooking a misty inlet. We spoke of a dear mutual friend, of the other back-roads travelers, of art and family and pharmaceuticals and politics and pandemic. Lynn then gave me a tour of their home and gardens, which she and her husband have worked on improving for decades. I found the two of them to be intelligent and artistic, with good senses of humor, and they revealed an easygoing openness and humility. The short time I spent with them in their idyllic setting felt like being on vacation. Upon my leaving, Lynn and I gave each other goodbye hugs, and made a mental plan to get together on my turf; it felt as if I'd known her for years.

Finally, dawn begins seeping in through the windows, and as it does, my day at the grocer and with John and Lynn seems like a distant memory. As the shadows recede, so too does the risk of Calvin's demise from SUDEP (Sudden Unexpected Death in Epilepsy), so I finally sneak out of his bed and into mine. As a cool breeze drifts over my body from the open windows, I close my eyes and continue to dream and wonder about the lives of strangers, and of the pleasure of making friends with them. 

glorious morning

it's a glorious morning when calvin wakes up on his seventh day without seizures, eats all of his breakfast, then gets on the bus heading to school. it's a glorious morning when a field sparkling with frost crunches underfoot, when trees have turned neon and the sky is blue. it's a glorious morning when it's thirty degrees and the sun is warming my face and shoulders. it's a glorious morning when i see people i like and love on the roads and fields and trails.

this morning, smellie and i went on a stroll with lauren and her dog, hola. we caught up on all things newsworthy and personal. we took a detour to an open space i rarely go. there, the marathon runner i used to see quite often on my pandemic car rides glided by and said hello. later, on the second part of an extra-long walk, i ran into a smiling tahnthawan, gave her a hug and talked with her about dogs, sparkly things, and trying something new. back at home, i marveled at the morning light splashing on the acidy, autumn foliage in my garden. any one of my few encounters were enough to make my day a good one.

after a late-morning bowl of steel-cut oatmeal with spoonfuls of honey and flaxseed meal, i drove along the back roads to michelle's house. she gave me a tour of her gardens, which are magnificent and ruggedly lovely, even as the perennials have gone to seed. then, we set out for a little jaunt, at first walking along the sleepy street that runs in front of her home. from there, we dipped into a quiet neighborhood and, at the dead end, ducked into the woods. the path, which was blanketed with fallen leaves, spilled onto a salt marsh offering a wide-open view of maquoit bay. we were surrounded by maine's astonishing beauty. warmed by the sun and standing on mats of soggy reeds and wooden planks stuck in the mud, we talked about caring for our disabled and chronically ill kids. as a hospital nurse, she shared some of her nightmarish emergency room covid stories, and we agreed that now is not the time to give up on measures meant to combat the pandemic, save lives, and suppress the emergence of more virulent strains, by getting vaccinated and wearing masks indoors. we also agreed that places like the one we were immersed in have saved us during the pandemic—that if we didn't have easy access to roam in and around wild, beautiful landscapes, our lives as caretakers during the pandemic would be much harder. i told her that the pandemic—most notably because of my daily drives along back roads with calvin when he wasn't in school—had made me more grateful for maine, its space, beauty, and its people. in essence, familiarity has endeared me to it.

i drove home with the windows rolled down. a sunny, sixty degrees feels balmy in a maine november. the breeze blowing through my hair felt exhilarating, like riding my bike as a girl. heading down the hill toward the bay, i could see forever—a rare thing in this place of few soaring vistas. i felt a sense of freedom i don't often feel anymore. i still had two hours to kill before calvin's return from school. i had time for a long, hot shower, and a chance to do some writing. having worked up an appetite, i dreamed about all the delicious leftovers we might eat for dinner—black beans and salmon, chicken curry, turkey-ricotta meatballs in puttanesca over homemade noodles—and the chocolate-malt-marshmallow-oreo ice cream cake i just made but have yet to taste. i was filled with gratitude. and i wondered, after such a glorious morning, if anything else (besides my amazing husband) might just jump right out and delight me. right then, calvin's bus pulled up to the curb, and my drooly, smiling turkey stepped off and almost hugged me.

heartening

We had seen Calvin's seizure coming for several days. At five o'clock yesterday morning it finally arrived with a godawful, blood-curdling shriek. I half expected it to last a long time considering it had been seventeen days since his last grand mal, but it was the usual ninety seconds. Afterwards, so as to monitor his breathing, I got in bed with him. Though still little for his age, he's big enough to spoon. For an hour, I held my boy as he shivered and twitched in the wake of the fit. 

Thankfully, by late morning he seemed well enough to go for a car ride. I chose to drive the close-to-home loops in case his condition went south. At Simpson's Point, the bay was socked in by fog. Within minutes of our arrival, though, it began to lift. I took it as a good omen that things might be looking up.

Despite my son's chronic condition amid pandemic miseries, I've been heartened by other events of late: the ongoing efforts of some amazing people to get Calvin vaccinated sooner than later; vaccine appointments for me and Michael this coming Saturday; the promise of longer, warmer days for gardening and barbecuing; an offer by Calvin's already-vaccinated former aide to help take care of him in the coming weeks; a seeming decrease in Calvin's overall seizures; cardinals announcing themselves on the tops of trees; an unforeseen and out-of-context greeting with the Carhart three-dog walker smiling and bicycling past me and Smellie as we strolled down our street; a serendipitous and safely-distant yet close encounter with the runner as he rounded a sleepy backroad corner. With my window down and the heat on (an alternative version of underwater respite), he paused his workout and kindly asked how Calvin was doing (he has been reading the blog.) Calvin was in the backseat trying to eat his sock.

After my late-afternoon walk with Smellie, I sat on the front stoop for a spell to watch the world go by. I could hear Calvin stomping around inside the house with Michael; I was thankful to be off-duty for awhile. As cars and folks passed by, I found myself missing my old friend Woody. His porch—high, broad and covered—was so much better for people-watching than mine, plus it came with Woody. We'd sit there for the good part of an hour. Sometimes we'd say nothing at all. Mostly, we'd tease each other or talk about the mundane. Other times he'd listen to me grieve about my little Calvin, at times wiping my tears away. Once in a while, we'd grasp each other's hand from opposite sides of the Adirondack-style bench his son had built for him. He'd tell me that I was the best thing to happen to our street. I'd say the same thing about him. Sometimes his eyes got misty. He would have turned eighty-nine this July. It's heartening to think of him.

Sitting alone on my porch, I studied a slightly irksome, partially obstructed view of the street which I found strangely unfamiliar, considering it's my home. Feeling dissatisfied, I was about to retire indoors when I gazed upwards. There, in the clear blue, I saw the half moon, white as can be like an inverted cup in the sky. It was framed by thousands of little red buds fattening up on the branches of our maple tree. Yet again I felt heartened, this time by the unmistakable arrival of spring.

Simpson's Point

the calm before the storm

the sky holds its own burden. the air is close and still. the tempest is on its way. it's coming up the coast. the bugs keep in their lairs. is this the calm before the storm? trees let go their dewdrops. from high up, one plops into my coffee. the forest reeks dank with mildew. smellie chomps deer droppings, then drags her paws on running trails. i wonder if she feels the storm drawing near.

the back roads are mostly deserted. no sightings of my favorite usuals. no runner. no dog walker. no nice couple from the point. been missing them lately. wish we could commune. at the point, the tide is high and choppy. the sky begins to sprinkle. two sopping swimmers come ashore, tethered to bobbing neon buoys. i think they might be my neighbors. smiling, i do a u-turn. at the edge of a stretch dividing fields, a gaggle of canada geese stop and stare. i stop and stare, too. they're hesitant. what the hell are we all doing? outside my window, a hawk swoops along at forty miles an hour. it's keeping time with me. in a blink, i've lost him. easy come, easy go.

in the back seat, calvin yanks off his shoe and chews it. he's not quite himself. his cheeks are flushed like during certain seizures. it's day nine. a full moon. i keep expecting the fit to fall. i was awake last night for three hours. ended up switching beds. didn't really help at all.

at home, we traipse our millionth circuit between these four walls, making well-worn paths from room to room. little fingerprints smudge the walls. other surfaces are covered with drool. i try to wipe them down as i go. a window finally pried open gives neglected plants a chance to breathe. i've never seen their stems and fronds move. i guess they're alive after all.

we get outside before the storm. walk three doors to woody's old home. calvin tries dropping down. i brace him from doing so. lead him across the street. knock on bill and cathey's outside wall. they're home. they take us in. we teeter through their kitchen and living room. out the back door to their deck. there, my son looks suspicious, as if having a little seizure. cathey helps him down the steps. both with bare feet, she and bill escort us home. tell me to call them no matter what i might need. just in case. i feel taken care of. the world—this town—is my beloved home. in the calm before the storm.

a good day for musing

it's a good day for musing: on crystalline skies and arctic climes; on bundling up and trudging down open roads; on icy patterns fanning across salt-blanched tarmac and pristine white ponds; on a twenty-something runner with thick-braided pigtails jogging past me, smiling and breathing in time with her rock star companion, steven tyler; on a place so calm the music still found my ears from half a mile down the road.

it's a good day for musing: on the beauty of a frozen tidal cove; on its greenish gash resembling a clownish mouth, white pancake makeup and all; on its vast flatness; on the footprints of those who dared walk across as it invisibly ebbed and flowed; on the marvel of ever-changing landscapes; on two huge birds perched atop a gnarly oak; on their wide wings and undersides white as snow; on a skinny dog who runs to my side from the middle of the road whenever i call; on the musky scent of weed wafting from an open window of a passing truck; on having—only minutes before—filtered some alcohol-soaked bud in the making of calvin's cannabis oil, filling the house with its rich aroma.

it's a good day for musing: on freezing cold fingers sheathed in polypropylene gloves; on unknown yet friendly ones which wave to me from behind windshields; on the satisfying click of my panasonic's shutter when i push its shiny metal button; on finding someone's running shoes which had been buried in the blizzard then unearthed by a passing plow; on who might be missing them: perhaps a pigtailed runner?

it's a good day for musing: on juniors and seniors; on having known them and watched them grow; on infants and toddlers who turn into runners, skiers, skaters; on grade schoolers who morph into gawky tweens and smart, creative, athletic teens; on ellis, a sweet, curious and extraverted girl—calvin's first grade classmate, his first and only play date; on her mother, who stops by sometimes with flowers, jars of homespun applesauce or tins filled with herbal salve; on the bit of my childhood self who i see reflected in ellis—her effervescence, wit, energy, and unabashedness; on ellis' friend fiona, with whom i used to read books at school as calvin flailed, who now—all of a sudden—seems so grown up.

it's a good day for musing: on finnegan and his mother; on bringing the world to her in loving words and photographs; on our picnic and long walk one evening last summer; on reliving the feeling of jumping with her in the dark from a nearby bridge into brackish waters while wearing almost nothing; on the freeing feeling of trusting others; on laughter and weeping; on the sensuality of maine's extreme weather—heavy and sweltering at times, at others, clear and light with cold that cuts to the bone—all worth feeling.

it's a good day for musing: on my enigmatic child who never grows up; on the toys he's loved and chewed for years; on his wordlessness and seizures; on his peculiarity and fleeting moments of normalcy; on his steadfast and loving behavior; on having just had one of his best months, seizure-wise, in two years; on beauty in all its forms, understanding, forgiveness, gratitude and hope.

breakthroughs on a somber day

again, my mood is somber, reflected in the sky's leaden heaviness. weighty as a handful of stones in my pocket. but like a cloudy sky, there are breakthrough moments of light. little bits of levity, like when i pick up a sleek and clean smellie from the groomer and she goes cutely berserk. or when my husband comes home early. or when i see the space open up as i chop down a sickly, old, monster rhododendron, and michael finishes it off with woody's chainsaw—so much possibility for something beautiful to take its place. something less beastly and oppressive. something i don't have to wrestle. something that doesn't burden me like my son's ongoing struggles.

lately, sorrow has been setting in as i'm reminded of how calvin, who is seventeen, should be a rising senior in high school—should be looking into colleges, reading interesting and complex novels, mowing lawns, hanging out with friends on the town mall or bowdoin quad, leaping off of piers and low bridges into brackish waters. instead, he's chewing on a crocheted rabbit rattle, having his hand held while walking down the sidewalk, tossing his sippy cup sideways like a toddler, playing with baby toys, being potty trained, wetting diapers.

several of my friends and acquaintances have kids his age. they're so grown up. independent in nearly every way. they've got futures as bright as breakthroughs of sunshine and blue sky in a bank of dark clouds—hopeful, sparkling, limitless. witnessing them is lovely, yet, like bittersweet lozenges, hard for me to swallow.

and as the pandemic has slackened a bit of its grip, i feel surprisingly unmoored. as the tethers are loosened, i'm not sure what to do. i find myself flailing. it's a strange mix of emotions. free and yet still imprisoned by my son and his condition. and while my husband made plans to visit italy this fall to print his next book (having photographed in paris and hawaii several times in recent years) i find myself wondering how i'll get through today, tomorrow, and the day after that. wonder where i'll be or have traveled, or what this normally-prolific self will have accomplished in two, five, ten years. nowhere? nothing? same old same old?

and i'm missing the handful of folks who unwittingly helped ground me during the pandemic. familiar strangers—the runner(s), bikers, strollers, dog walker(s)—smiling, nodding and waving to me from the roads. faces i look forward to seeing. lives i can only imagine and live vicariously through. haven't seen them lately. like a starless sky, without them i'm having trouble navigating through the pandemic's rough and receding seas. other than my husband and son, and the landscape itself, they've been my constants this past year, like little beacons or shards of light in a darkened sky. saw them much more than my own friends, though from afar. without their grounding, i feel as though i'm drifting from shore. and though i'm a pro at treading water, i feel slighly seasick. but perhaps, like stars on a cloudy night, they're not reliable. and why should they be? i'm nobody to these strangers. we all have our own lives and loved ones and struggles. and yet i remain eternally hopeful for communion, compassion, friendship, empathy, understanding.

today, however, on a favorite stretch of wooded road, i saw the black-clad couple (though this day wearing more earthen tones) who live on the point. i slowed and pulled over. rolled down my window and introduced myself. while trying hard not to choke up, i told them how i'd seen them frequently while driving the same roads nearly every day during the pandemic with my nonverbal, legally blind, autistic, epileptic, seventeen-year-old boy. they peaked in on calvin, who was in the back seat craning hard to find an absent sun. i told them how reassuring it was to see the familiar faces of strangers like them during months on end of long, lonely days spent solo with my son. they said they recognized my car. i'd seen them wave. the three of us visited for quite awhile, discussing neighbors and kids, drugs and doctors, the pandemic and back roads. i invited them to read my blog. it felt good to finally meet and connect with folks who have unwittingly been my mooring during a very difficult year. felt healing to offer them my gratitude in person. i wish i could have hugged them. they seemed quite affable and open.

finally, we said our so longs, and as i put the car in gear and headed to the point, i felt the sun's warmth and saw its rays start breaking through cracks in a vast bank of clouds reflected in a tranquil sea.

embraces

just before three a.m. on sunday. embracing my son in the wake of his grand mal. his skin is warm and soft. his breathing is shallow. his limbs, lanky and long. in the dark, i reflect on our saturday, just before drifting off:

smelling sweet magnolia blossoms on my morning walk. making our first trip to the garden store since the pandemic's start. resisting calvin's desire to drop. proud of his half-successful efforts at keeping a mask on. taking a short backroads drive with a kid who is "off." exchanging smiles with the runner and the carhart man with his dogs. the sickly one is missing. i wonder if something is wrong. 

relishing strolls in the sunny backyard. paper-white, pink and purplish rhododendrons opening up. lamenting calvin's poor balance and grousing. delighting in a surprise visit from friends driving by. giving thanks for in-town living. the sun and warm breeze kissing my skin. calvin crosslegged in the grass trying to eat sticks.

sitting maskless in the garden with barbara and jens. little gabriel playing with barbecue tongs. sipping the chilled bubbly jens delivered last sunday. nibbling crispy sea salt and chocolate chip cookies just out of the oven. raising a glass to toast our covid vaccinations. barbara smiling in her pretty spring dress. her hair twisted up at the back of her head. the four of us chatting and laughing. feeding my boy blueberries one by one. blocking his efforts to stare at the sun. in-between bites, receiving his needy embraces. jens noting calvin's grieving and discontent. explaining to them that he's due for a fit.

gabriel cozying right up to michael. like petals, his dollface is slightly blushed. feeling his tiny hand in my palm. leading me to the compost pile. inspecting its rotting items with wonder and surprise. wishing i had such a child. grateful to call this cute, curious being my friend. missing his big brother nate. he's away for the weekend. such adorable people i can hardly stand it.

approaching five o'clock. time to say so long. deciding to hug barbara a week before my peak resistance (she got her first shot and recently tested negative.) amazed feeling her embrace. i linger in her arms not wanting to let go. my eyes begin to well and sting. after a bit, jens takes her place. we hug like some siblings. he kisses my head. i cry like a baby, as if we've never embraced. my yearlong hunger for this kind of connection finally, though not wholly, sated. basking in the healing power of dear friends' lovely embraces.

every path i take

it had been just four days since calvin's last grand mal. still, i sensed it coming on. his agitation and mania. his restlessness and intensity. his peculiar noises and expressions. last night, while walking smellie along a familiar path at dusk, it arrived. it was the cusp of the new moon. i returned home to find my husband cradling a postictal calvin, who had bitten his check or tongue till it bled.

after the seizure, i spooned my sleeping child. wide awake, my hand on his chest, i reminisced on recent events: finally jogging the trails with my dog; nice, longish visits with a few, familiar, back-roads strangers i had finally and very happily met; a kind invitation from one of them to sit by the sea; chatting under stars and strings of lights on a girlfriend's back deck; sipping the delicious blackberry, mint, gin cocktail her daughter had concocted; meeting an unknown runner who stopped mid-workout just to visit with me and calvin on the sidewalk; four separate gatherings with new and old friends; my glorious bike ride to simpson's point and back again; along the way, hearing a hermit thrush's haunting song; eating lobster rolls and corn on the cob; a conversation about pity and compassion with my visiting sister-in-law.

finally, sleep arrived. like life sometimes, my dreams were vivid and difficult. at five o'clock, we awoke to a second grand mal and, when it was over, i crawled in next to calvin again. this time, shut-eye proved impossible. instead, i mused on recent expressions of compassion and love from friends and strangers:

i've had deep sympathy for you from day one; i think about you and calvin all the time; i couldn't handle your situation with the grace you show; i wish there were something i could do; i love you then now always; you break open the heart and the stories; thank you for the little window into your world; wish that the pain i genuinely feel for you could somehow make your days easier; all you want is to live in your full motherhood and not as a caregiver, too. not too much to ask, my friend. not at all. 

knowing i'd be mostly stuck indoors for the next day or two, i laid awake imagining travels, like my next back-roads adventure, a bike ride to the rise where i can see the salt marsh meeting the sea, hearing that hermit thrush croon, rolling up my jeans and wading into the bay at simpson's point, running the shaded trails on a gorgeous morning like today. most of all, receiving love and compassion from friends and strangers along every path i take.

once an athlete

Cyclers in their bright regalia whiz past us. I spot them out of the corner of my eye as Calvin stumbles around trees, careens into bushes, stares up at the sun, teeters and tips. When we are on the grass I let him fall with minimal support since it is soft and he needs to learn, though he may never, that when he looks at the sun he’ll tumble. His balance is for shit to begin with—you know, the seizure drugs and all—and the sun adds another vexing element to his complicated equation.

I think to myself, I’d be kicking some ass out there, as scores of toned athletes hunched over their bikes take me back to my days as an athlete. As a collegiate swimmer, in some circles I was pretty good while in others, like the PAC-10 conference, I was mediocre at best. Regardless, I’d have the advantage as a triathlete, something I’ve toyed with doing over the years since I’m also a decent runner and I know I’d do well at cycling if I had the right bike. But the four hours of training every day for years on end has soured me on the idea and has curbed my desire for getting back into the pool on a regular basis. And though my body has softened and my brain could use the regular dose of endorphins that swimming offers and, despite my age, I know my muscle memory will help get me back into shape quickly, I still find myself in a prolonged rut, making all sorts of excuses not to get back into the pool:

it’s too cold it’s too sunny i don’t feel good i’m too tired i have a headache i want to lose five pounds before i get into a swimsuit i think i'm coming down with something i want to garden instead i want to write instead i don’t feel like it i have too much to do today

And so it has been the same for nine years ... since Calvin was born. And I try to motivate myself by thinking of my glory days, of my once svelte body, of the ribbons and medals and trophies I’ve won and since given away, of the Most Inspirational and Team Captain honors which my teammates lovingly bestowed upon me in summer league and high school and AAU and college, of my All-American state championship relay in high school, of our men’s and women’s NAIA National Championship titles. Still, none of it rouses my desire.

So for now, instead of athlete, I’ll be coach and captain to my son Calvin. I’ll commit to his development and praise his triumphs and guide his progress and critique his mistakes and inspire his perseverance and set his goals and celebrate his victories and tend to his bumps and bruises, even as the colorful blur of athletes unknowingly speed past us and until one day I try again for myself.

circa 1971 when I was a couple of years younger than Calvin is today

on seeing people

Calvin is good. He's sleeping well, eating well, is mostly sane. He's had zero seizures for almost a week. Still, he's a handful, even when he's at his best.

These long, monotonous days of the pandemic have become even longer now that Michael is back to teaching (in addition to making photos, producing a book, coordinating its publishing, writing an essay for it, interviewing art department candidates, writing referrals and evaluations and pitches, advising students, attending a myriad of zoom meetings, and other niggling responsibilities that he keeps to himself so as not to burden me.) Though I am grateful to have such a supportive husband who is gainfully employed, handles the finances, does all of the grocery shopping during the pandemic, all of the cooking—always—and much if not most of the laundry, it's not that easy to spend eight to nine-plus hours on most days alone with a boy who can do nothing by himself. By the end of the day I'm sometimes a bit fatigued or frazzled. (Thank goodness I'm unemployed!) In a more general sense, I'm feeling the need to see other human beings. I wonder if Calvin shares my sentiments about this extended pandemic sequester, this lack of seeing others, if only viscerally.

On today's drive, again I saw no one—no runner(s), no dogs walking their owners, no salty old men peddling their bicycles—only the ghost of strangers sitting behind the glare of their windshields. In search of other sustenance, and with nothing else to do in the cold, damp, icy outdoors, I drove further south than usual on roads I rarely travel along. My companions were my kid and dog, plus The Police, some Cars, some Beatles, Carly Simon, Stevie Wonder, Steely Dan, Carole King, Van Morrison, Pink Floyd, Elton John, Neil Young and Sharon Van Etten.

Instead of familiar faces, I saw birds, a couple of live red squirrels and some dead grey ones, at least one chipmunk and a few cows. When I stepped out of the car to take pictures I heard cardinals, finches and perhaps one robin. I watched a steer crane his neck to scratch his side with the tip of his horn. I saw color emerging from a bland, white landscape, smoke drifting from chimneys, mist rising from the earth and water.

While I'm grateful for these beautiful vistas, ones which I'm unsure if Calvin regards but are now more than ever essential to me, they are no replacement for seeing people. So, if you find yourself with an extra moment and feel like visiting—outside, in the driveway, masked up and/or safely distant—don't be shy. I'd love to see you.

Click any image to enlarge.