First Born and Second Chances

Brandon was my first-born in the wilderness, son of my youth. He gave me motherhood in all its facets. He was my first pregnancy, my first labor and delivery, my first experience with breast-feeding and teething and diapering and loving thoroughly another perfect human being who depended on me completely for his life. On him I practiced, with him I was infatuated, from him I received much love as he was a cheerful baby, but on him I made the most mistakes. I didn't know nearly as much as I thought I did. As he grew up he became more and more independent--sometimes too independent to my way of thinking--and the problems, experiences, the trials, the joys, the successes, and even the mundane, all became more complicated because soon we were a family of four and then five, and Brandon was not just the first-born, he was the older brother, the one we expected to set the example for the others, the one who, no matter how old he became, was always the first child. Whether he was 12 or 22, my experiences with him were always new. Always a trial run. Always a crap shoot if I was doing it right or not. But Brandon seemed to be able to handle it.

Later as I grew in wisdom as a parent, I lamented the fact that I could do a much better job with Brandon if only I had the chance to do it over again. I got my wish July 30, 1998 when Brandon survived a major car accident. Horror. We didn't know it that day, but Brandon was going to come out of his coma a 200 lb infant; we were going to do all the things with him that we'd done the first time around. He had to relearn everything and we were going to re-raise him only this time with an upped ante--magnified personality traits, a man who didn't realize anything was mentally wrong, intense temporal lobe rages that put us in physical danger, an inability to reason, and all with the same strong independent will as before and a physical strength that returned well before his mental capabilities did. God help us all if he stopped progressing at 15! Thankfully, he didn't. But even in the most difficult circumstances we found some humor.

Shortly after Brandon first came home after three months in the hospital, he went from using a wheel chair to walking with a walker. His balance was very poor. The doctor had emphasized how devastating it would be if Brandon fell in the shower or anywhere and hit his head again. For that reason, one of us always followed him to the bathroom to stand guard in case he started to fall. Chantel even put on her bathing suit and helped him in the shower a couple of times. I remember one time in particular, Brandon went into the bathroom and I was close behind him. He was physically progressing rapidly and was irritated when any of us were in there with him. In frustration he turned around and hollered, "Well, you followed me in here-- do you want to hold my penis for me too while I take a piss?" There he was! The old Brandon! Shortly after that, he quit using the walker and we gave him back some privacy.

Another time, Larry, who had became Brandon's full-time-every-kind-of therapist, (fodder for another post) decided that he needed to increase the level of Brandon's physical activity. Brandon had surpassed every physical goal, from being able to walk to the corner and back, to walking around the track down at the school, to walking around the block and up the hill. Larry often brought the wheelchair with them in case Brandon needed it to get home, but one day he decided to sit in the wheelchair and let Brandon push him. That was the day that a neighbor drove by and scowled at Larry as if to say, "What a mean father you are, making that poor crippled boy push you up the hill!"

Remembering those times makes me proud of how the Dayley family sacrificed for Brandon and how hard he worked to 'come back.' It makes me marvel at how determined he was to overcome his limitations and to what degree Larry and Chantel and Clayton gave to make that happen. It makes me reflect with gratitude on the power of faith, the hundreds, maybe thousands of prayers that were offered up for all of us, and it makes me hopeful that I will have the opportunity to help the families of other head-injury victims, even if it's just a word of courage to them.

I do feel sad to remember how open ended our grief was in those days. The Brandon we knew had died, but his body had not. Although people sent numerous cards, and offered many prayers and messages of condolence, there was no funeral and no closure. We wore our grief like shackles, with no one to explain to us the grieving process or how to get through it. At the time, Brandon's accident was the worst trial I'd ever been through. I didn't think I'd ever go through anything more difficult than that. I was wrong. But would I go back and change those days? Fast forward over the early years to a place where Brandon was mature and confident and hopeful? Not a chance. I learned so much with him and from him, and from my family also. Those years were a gift, a blessing in the form of adversity. Brandon should have died in that car wreck. The day I stood at his gravesite and spoke was the day I realized that he didn't need to have been here, to struggle like he did these past ten years. It was the rest of us who were given the opportunities to grow. We became more patient, more understanding, more willing to give and do and love, more forgiving, more filled with compassion. And isn't that the idea? To return home with honor to our Heavenly Father and Mother, having received the experiences we came to earth for? Sometimes I ask myself: If I had the chance to relive those years, knowing what I know now, would I? My answer is always the same: You bet your life. And mine too. In a heartbeat.

Influence

Years ago when I was fighting with my oldest and almost regretting motherhood in its entirety, a counselor explained that within every family is a member who acts as the thermometer. That person takes upon themselves the role of checking the family's health with the ultimate job of doing whatever is necessary to keep them all together, even if that means, and for us it frequently did, that the mission is accomplished through strife and contention, which takes the focus off the areas that aren't working as well, and transfers the attention to the one causing the problems, much like a decoy--Hey! Over here! Not ideal, of course, but it works. But what happens when the one playing that role one is gone? Does someone else take it on, or is the family left to stand or fall, depending on its strength as a whole? Is the thermometer role just for the growing years, or is there always someone around trying to take a temperature?

I think about the first family picture taken without him, at the cemetery in Idaho where we'd driven in order to bury him in the only town he ever truly called home. A blustery afternoon. We squint into the coldness of a spring sun; elevation 5000 ft. Windswept hair. Mouths drawn crooked like the stick figures we'd become. I wonder if his absence has changed the dynamics somehow, of if we have become what we would have regardless. Memory says that his presence all those busy uspside down years, and his great needs during the past ten years, served to keep us together in a unique way. Maybe its supposed to be this way now. The four of us. In ways it is easier. No fighting between siblings. No phone calls from the neighbors, the police, the hospital. I think about the photo again but it is wrong. The wind gusted that day and hollowed a space where he should have been standing, with his strong arms around one of us or another. On better days I'll tell myself that he was there all along. It was only mortality and lack of faith blurring my vision. But other times I'll always wonder: What happens to the family when the thermometer breaks?

Caterpillar

The grieving process is personal and solitary, and yet, I am the MOM. And somehow, that means that I should have the answers, or can find them, in spite of my own grief, that I can kiss the hurts and make them all better. I read my daughter's blog entry recently and cried, for her sorrows and mine. I wonder if I haven't been there enough for her, if somehow in our separate journies we've put on a good front for one another when maybe we needed to cry together. Or maybe she is grieving in the best way for her and the fact that she can write about it with such honesty is evidence of strong, emotional and spiritual health. Still, I am shocked to realize that yesterday was the six month anniversary of Brandon's death and I lived the entire day--me--the one who is organized and sentimental and aways starts new endeavors at the beginning of the month or the week, yet, somenow, I missed the day's significance. How did that happen? Lying here in this room three thousand miles across the country from Maryland, I realize that Michele has made a collage of pictures for Rolan, all the people of significance in his life, and I'm grateful. She hung it low on the wall, at his eye level, and mine at this moment; thoughts of Rolan remind me of the continuity of life even when I feel the world has stopped revolving; his sweetness is balm to my spirit. One picture grabs my attention--taken in 2005 when Clayton was moving to San Diego. We had a party for him then, at the Martinez Marina and we posed together, the five of us. Fire and water. Moonlight and sun. I have a copy of that photo in my apartment in Baltimore but today I see details I hadn't noticed before. The uneven slant of Brandon's shoulders after the accident, the minuscle web of lines in Larry's and my faces, the result of full lives--the kind I haven't always prayed for, but began to, perhaps in my thirties, when I began to look back and see not just the expense of adversity, but the gifts I've received in the process. And even though my awareness of the costs grows every year, death and sorrows, divorce and illnesses, it is a full life, the only kind worth experiencing. I know that the faith my daughter wrote about has the power to heal us and our broken bodies and broken lives. It's the same faith that sent a dawn breeze through the open window this morning when only the lower edge of the night sky was turning gray, then lavendar, then pink. It's the same faith that assured me of Clayton's birth long before its reality and I can't imagine his never being here--especially now. The words "my son" have taken on a whole different meaning. The faith that turns the world on its axis is the same faith that causes trees and plant life to reach up, in spite of wind and rain and ice. And I still want that, life in all its raw beauty, even the blackness against which all other lights shine.




I look at the photo again. Brandon on one end, body language defying his limitations. A strong arm around his smiling sister who appears to be almost bursting in the joy of being with her brothers. Brandon pulls her against him, while her upper body leans slightly against Clayton. Clayton in the center, deep smile, arms wide with one around Chantel and the other around me. Larry standing on the other end, leaning into me and suddenly, I see it. We are the caterpillar. Parts that move independently, but dependent upon one another. Together in spite of our seperateness, coming together to make up the whole, even if just once in awhile. Brandon is close by. Chantel and Clayton are loving and strong. Larry is a part me. Forever. And for today, it is enough.

I Heard This in Church

"Parenting is like being pecked to death by a flock of chickens."

Mother's Boundless Love

It didn't occur to me just how much Mother loved me, and how good she was at showing that love, until after I became a grandmother. When my children were born, the center of my world was them. No child had ever been born that was as beautiful, smart or adorable as mine. (The adorable part waned during adolescence, but that's another story). Mother agreed with me, or I believed she did. So over the span of eight years, while I was having children, I telephoned Mother frequently about "firsts." First steps. First waves bye-bye. First words.

"Mother! Guess what? Brandon said "Dada!"
"Mother! Guess what? Chantel sang the alphabet to us backwards in Spanish!" (Just kidding Tel, but you were a quick-minded little thing).
"Mother! Guess what? Clayton is sitting up by himself, right now!"

I was so thrilled with every little accomplishment and I never tired of sharing the news with her. It never once occured to me that perhaps she wasn't as thrilled as I was. Never mind that she had already raised her six siblings, a couple of cousins, a nephew, five children of her own, and by the time Clayton came along, was the grandmother of thirteen and the great-grandmother of at least three more. Oh, no, she had seen her share of many firsts, yet she always responded the same to the announcements of mine:

"Ohhhh? Well, isn't that special?"

I always heard the smiling in her voice. And I always hung up marveling at how amazing my children were. Now as I look back, I wonder that she loved me that much. Because I truly believe that she did know how I felt, because she had felt it too and yet she never tired of the wonder of little ones. Her love was boundless. When I called to share my happiness with another woman, she of all the women in my life, knew how I felt. Unlike I who laughs at the wrong things and doesn't always have the right words, Mother always knew what to say. I was blessed to be her daughter-in-law those many years. Someday I will see her again and I'll tell her once more how much those years meant to me. And with a smile on her face, she'll look me in the eyes and say, "Ohhhh? And wasn't that special?" And I'll reply with a smile too, "Indeed, Mother. Indeed it was."

Interlude

Rocksprings, Wyoming. Quality Inn. I remember living in this town for three weeks in a small trailer on a construction site in the dead of winter. Brandon was 3 and 1/2 and Chantel was about 1. It was a motherhood adventure, trying to cook when the pipes were frozen, entertain children, keep them clean and warm, all the while using water from the neighbor's garden hose for cooking and bathing. I have sweet memories of those days. Brandon played with a little foster child named "Chewey" from the house next door; Chantel was the happiest baby. She learned to stand alone and she was so proud of herself! She took her first steps shortly after we went home to Burley.

Larry returned to Rock Springs and worked for another month, glad that we hadn't stayed with him because the temperatures dropped even more and the weather was brutal. Terry, I think his name was, offered Larry a partnership and we talked about it, but we would have had to move to Wyoming among other things. Larry enjoyed working with his father, too. Staying in Burley was a good decision and one we never regretted.

Forward Motion

A giant THANKYOU to Dr. Sawchuk who arranged for Brandon to have some neuro-psyche testing done. It's only been 8 1/2 years since the accident! Brandon's first battery of tests were Monday and he goes back for more next week. After the first appointment, he thanked me for being "a great Mom" said he didn't know what he'd do without me, and "I love you." I think he's relieved that we're finally going to get some answers, even though most of the time he pretends that everything is fine. I remember the days when he didn't even use the words "head injury," much less admit that he'd had one. Progress is slow but the direction is UP. One of these days I might even get that website going...but ask me about that later...the ideas are still marinating...