By Pat Gee
Author Thomas Wolfe wrote that you can't go home again, because the place and the people will never be the same. You will never be the same either. But I managed to come back to Honolulu ten years ago, and make a home again in the same house, but with different people. So happy was I to be back, that "home" became one of my favorite words.
Unfortunately, my move meant uprooting my son, Billy, from his home in Kona. For Billy, "airplane" in American Sign Language is the word that lights up his face because an airplane is the way for him to get home. He yearns to return to the place where he had a mom AND a dad, and a grandma and grandpa, whose lives revolved around him.
Even though it's been four years since he's been back to Kona to see his dad, he still signs "airplane" to me every few months when his inner time clock tells him he's due for a visit. He still hasn't forgotten or given up on the desire. But his father has made a new life for himself in which he finds it far too difficult to care for a severely handicapped son -- even for one week, three times a year.
Billy's determination to re-experience the idyllic world he had growing up is certainly understandable when every Thanksgiving and Christmas, airports are clogged with people trying to get home to their loved ones. Unlike Billy, most people have extremely busy lives, jammed with responsibility, yet they brave the chaos of traveling through the minefield of holiday air traffic so that they can eat Mom's home cooking and revive fond memories, if they are lucky enough to have them.
Although Billy now has a very happy life with me, my family, and new friends, there's still that longing for home within him that compels him to open the garage closet regularly to check on the big blue suitcase that accompanied him on the trip home. Usually he tears that suitcase off the shelf and runs with it, rolling behind him, into the house and back to his room unless I can stop him before that.
All 65 pounds of him pulls that suitcase through the house as fast as he can, knocking on doorjambs and bouncing it off the corners of every wall. So determined is he, to relive the anticipation of packing his bag for a trip home.
If he gets as far as his room, he hauls the heavy suitcase onto his bed, unzips it with glee, and looks at me expectantly, It's as if he is thinking, "if I can just get that suitcase packed, maybe I can go."
I sign to him, "Sorry, no airplane," shaking my head.
It does no good. He still looks hopeful and starts to gather the essentials from his closet -- his wetsuit so his dad can take him swimming; his diapers; T-shirts; and the sandals he wears only to Kona. Then he grabs my hand and puts it on the items, indicating that he wants me to put them into his suitcase.
Again, I shake my head, my heart in my throat, and sign, "Sorry, sorry, no airplane."
I make a bed of pillows in the suitcase so he can crawl in and curl up like he used to. This keeps him chuckling happily for five minutes, his long, spindly legs dangling over the side of the bag. Billy is 22-years-old, but he has the body of an 8-year-old -- and the mind of a very smart toddler.
After a while he tries again to make me pack. I sign to him, "Sorry no airplane."
Do I lie to him in sign language, "Daddy sick" or "Daddy working"? Or just tell him, "No more Dad'? That's the hardest part -- trying to tell him why. But I will NOT tell him, "Dad doesn't want you."
It is heartbreaking to tell a child who has only a rudimentary use of sign language why his dad doesn't want him. I imagine that explaining this to a normal child who can understand a lot more, must be the killer of all time. Think of how many children grow up and never get over this rejection, and spend the rest of their lives trying to get someone to love them.
My mom and sisters discuss how we can make it up to Billy by taking him on an airplane trip somewhere else. But to Billy, getting on a plane is only the means to an end, and it means only one thing -- he gets to go home. Putting him on a plane to go somewhere else would not do it; neither would packing the suitcase and taking him to a hotel or to someone's home.
Whenever someone goes on a trip and uses that blue suitcase, Billy thinks that they are going to visit his dad. He probably wonders why he can't go too. Even if I could make him understand, I don't think it would matter to him. He would still want to go, just as some fully-developed adults keep trying to recreate an ideal time in their lives in some form or another, either to re-experience the most secure feeling they've have ever had, or perhaps, to get it right, "this time".
***************************************
Copyright 2005 Pat Gee
Pat Gee is a reporter for the Honolulu Star-Bulletin.
Showing posts with label Pat Gee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pat Gee. Show all posts
Caring for Billy
By Pat Gee
It's been 20 years since my life was turned upside down, given a hard shake, and was never the same again.
The "life-quake" was caused by the birth of my son, Billy, an occasion my family will be celebrating Thursday evening. But Billy won't be gobbling down the roast beef dinner like the rest of us.
You see, Billy can't really eat -- not stuff like roast beef or anything that has to be chewed. He gets most of his nutrition via a tube in his stomach. Yes, he gets to sample the soft foods, like mashed potatoes and brown gravy (his favorite), ice cream and frosting on the cake. But he isn't allowed to swallow much of it.
He'll sit there, humming to himself and twirling the ribbon attached to a big balloon (another favorite), coming out of his own world occasionally to smile and giggle at the goings-on, if we're lucky. Or he'll pull the tablecloth, and plunge his hand into the potatoes, if we're not.
You see, he can't hear or speak, so joining in the conversation is not how he entertains himself. Don't worry, he'll get to do something fun before dinner. I eat fast, with one eye always watching him, so that he can't do anything too mischievous or gross.
Life with Billy involves the ability to anticipate problems and being prepared for them. Frankly, he's a pain in the butt, but I love him.
Billy is pretty tine for 20, at only 4.5 feet tall and 58 pounds. He was born with a double cleft lip and palate, that was corrected by an operation that left noticeable scars, so his face is a bit lopsided. But I adore his face, and can't help covering it with kisses every day.
People, mostly kids, often stare at him as if he's the most repulsive thing they've ever seen, while other's immediately exclaim, "He's so cute!" It truly astounds me how beauty is a reflection of one's heart.
Raising a child who is autistic and severely handicapped is, to quote a philosopher whose name I can't recall, "like licking honey from a thorn."
You have to try to glean the sweetness of life under the bitterest of circumstances, without having the heart cut out of you. And somehow when you've managed this unlikely feat, the reward is all the more sweet.
What do I get out of it? His crooked little smile lights up my day, and he has an endearing charm that grabs my heart. His giggle is contageous -- except when I hear it at 3 AM, accompanied by his bounding out of bed and turning on the lights. When he reveals how smart he is, we all take the time to marvel at it.
To handle the heartbreaks and frustrations, I've been forced to become resilient and resourceful, comparable to someone with a tenacity to survive in the wilderness. But please don't put me to the test -- I hate camping.
I used to feel like a failure because I hadn't achieved my goals. But one day, I realized that without getting any promotion, becoming a millionaire, or doing whatever the world regards as being a success -- I am a very important person -- even if only to my son. If I were to die, he would suffer because no one would be there to love or care for him, as I have.
There's an inspirational message that sums up my feelings. It goes something like this: In 100 years, it won't matter what kind of car I drove, what kind of house I lived in, or how much money I made. The only thing of lasting value will be that I was important in the life of my child.
***********************
Copyright 2003 Pat Gee
It's been 20 years since my life was turned upside down, given a hard shake, and was never the same again.
The "life-quake" was caused by the birth of my son, Billy, an occasion my family will be celebrating Thursday evening. But Billy won't be gobbling down the roast beef dinner like the rest of us.
You see, Billy can't really eat -- not stuff like roast beef or anything that has to be chewed. He gets most of his nutrition via a tube in his stomach. Yes, he gets to sample the soft foods, like mashed potatoes and brown gravy (his favorite), ice cream and frosting on the cake. But he isn't allowed to swallow much of it.
He'll sit there, humming to himself and twirling the ribbon attached to a big balloon (another favorite), coming out of his own world occasionally to smile and giggle at the goings-on, if we're lucky. Or he'll pull the tablecloth, and plunge his hand into the potatoes, if we're not.
You see, he can't hear or speak, so joining in the conversation is not how he entertains himself. Don't worry, he'll get to do something fun before dinner. I eat fast, with one eye always watching him, so that he can't do anything too mischievous or gross.
Life with Billy involves the ability to anticipate problems and being prepared for them. Frankly, he's a pain in the butt, but I love him.
Billy is pretty tine for 20, at only 4.5 feet tall and 58 pounds. He was born with a double cleft lip and palate, that was corrected by an operation that left noticeable scars, so his face is a bit lopsided. But I adore his face, and can't help covering it with kisses every day.
People, mostly kids, often stare at him as if he's the most repulsive thing they've ever seen, while other's immediately exclaim, "He's so cute!" It truly astounds me how beauty is a reflection of one's heart.
Raising a child who is autistic and severely handicapped is, to quote a philosopher whose name I can't recall, "like licking honey from a thorn."
You have to try to glean the sweetness of life under the bitterest of circumstances, without having the heart cut out of you. And somehow when you've managed this unlikely feat, the reward is all the more sweet.
What do I get out of it? His crooked little smile lights up my day, and he has an endearing charm that grabs my heart. His giggle is contageous -- except when I hear it at 3 AM, accompanied by his bounding out of bed and turning on the lights. When he reveals how smart he is, we all take the time to marvel at it.
To handle the heartbreaks and frustrations, I've been forced to become resilient and resourceful, comparable to someone with a tenacity to survive in the wilderness. But please don't put me to the test -- I hate camping.
I used to feel like a failure because I hadn't achieved my goals. But one day, I realized that without getting any promotion, becoming a millionaire, or doing whatever the world regards as being a success -- I am a very important person -- even if only to my son. If I were to die, he would suffer because no one would be there to love or care for him, as I have.
There's an inspirational message that sums up my feelings. It goes something like this: In 100 years, it won't matter what kind of car I drove, what kind of house I lived in, or how much money I made. The only thing of lasting value will be that I was important in the life of my child.
***********************
Copyright 2003 Pat Gee
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
