Part Sixteen: Mommy's Girl

Photo by Jeremy McKnight on Unsplash

The Thanksgiving holiday is upon us, to be followed shortly thereafter by THE holidays. When I was a kid, this was indeed the most wonderful time of the year. It’s still wonderful, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how stressful it is, and how stressful this particular holiday season is. 

My mom is in the hospital. My older son, as you know, is under lockdown, and in order to help him, I’ve been living with him since April while Rob lives in Naples. At this point, we’ve lived seven months of our almost 24 month-old marriage apart. I have no idea how or where we’re celebrating the holidays, I’ve got exactly one decoration up, and the only gift I’d like from Santa is sleep. 

Actually that’s not true. 

I’d like my mom to feel better, to be herself again. 

She fell a few weeks ago, spent a week in the hospital, and was transferred to a rehabilitation facility to work on her mobility. But since she’s been in rehab, she’s not right. Maybe it’s the result of the concussion she sustained, but she goes in and out of knowing who’s who, and frequently thinks that my brother Nick is my dad. I call her, but I can’t understand what she’s saying, and that’s when she can figure out how to use the phone. 

I’m incredibly worried and, if I may be a brat for just one moment, I need her, dammit! There’s a million moments every day when I want to call her to say…

• Looks like jail time is off the table, thank God, but a deal on the rest of the sentence won’t happen until so far in the future I’ll be here a year. A year. I can’t stand it, mom, I just can’t. And he Just. Keeps. Talking. We go to court again tomorrow. The day before Thanksgiving. Why? To ask for a continuance. We couldn’t just phone that in?

• I feel like my forehead is about to explode. 

• Mr. Rugby is home. The last orthopedic guy he saw in Houston told him he has the back of a 60 year-old man. Three discs in various stages of, I don’t know, decomposing or dying or something. We saw our family doctor today and he and Mr. Rugby spoke Swahili or what have you about the whole thing. I tried to keep up, mom. I really did. But I couldn’t. I’m still trying to understand why an application for Medicaid is not also an application for a Medicaid Waiver. And why in Hell do they call it a waiver?

• I’m surrounded by paper, mom. Evaluations. Medical bills. My notes about the evaluations and medical bills. And work. All these notes about work. Post this. Assign that. Rewrite that thing over there. You know how clutter makes me crazy-er.

• I want to cry, mom. I’m exhausted and my anxiety is pounding in my ears and I’m pissed off at God for doing this to you now, when I need you. And I ALWAYS need you. You listen. You give the best advice. And sometimes when there’s nothing to say, you just sit there and let me lose it. This entire situation is a hundred times worse because you’re sick. 

God, Santa, whoever’s calling the shots up there, you can keep the sleep. I just need my mom back. I need to hear her say, Ah, Suzy. I love ya. Keep the faith. Please make her well. Now. Yesterday. Please. I don’t know how to do this without her. 

---

Thank you for being here and bearing witness to this journey my son and I are on. Sadly, we are not the only autism family in this situation and the more we can raise awareness of it, the greater the possibility we can prevent another autism family from going through it or something similar in the future.

To all my new subscribers (free and paid — you didn’t have to do that but thank you!), hello and thank you for subscribing! This is part of a piece called “Life On The Inside.” You can read all of it here, if you’d like to catch up.

If you’d like the back story on my son (both of them, actually), you’re welcome to pick up a copy of BOUNCE: A Memoir of Resilience. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll say “No wonder the woman drinks!”

If you like what you read, I hope you’ll invite your friends to subscribe and please, for the love of Pete (whoever he is!), have an absolutely wonderful Thanksgiving. Eat lots. Laugh. And stay safe.

I’ll be in touch.

Love,

Susan xo