Mom in the Hospital

Paul McCartney says life is what happens after you’ve made all your plans. He's right, and here's a case in point: Mom' been in the hospital for several days with pneumonia and won’t return home for several more. Not what any of us had planned for Christmas. Life happens.

Beside the physical pain, exhaustion, and worry, are there any redeeming lessons here? Some wisdom about the shoals we mortals must navigate, or perhaps an insight into aging and mortality?

Well, don't ask me. I’m too busy delivering burgers and pizzas to offset the hospital's dry chicken, listless veggies, and soggy toast; chasing down an array of doctors, nurses, and social workers; burning the midnight oil to meet a deadline for my job; shuttling home to San Francisco to get ready for Santa, then back to Seattle for more conversations with the medical staff; and then equipping mom’s condo for her return home.

Years from now, long after mom has regained her stride, I know this moment will display its wonderful gems. But for now, all I can tell you is this: We ramble along our paths, struggle through our ailments with sheer grit (our own and that of those who love us), make new plans, then continue the journey.

So I'll save the profound questions for later, and simply do my best to help her back on her feet--and, of course, to savor this gracious season with my husband, our son, and my mom.

Dancing with David

It's a kind of dance: At times we hold each other close, then swing out with hands still joined; now separate, now back together.

It's been like that with David lately. Lots of cuddles and tickle time, lap time to listen to his tales of the day and his latest imaginary racing car adventure. Then he takes off into his own space, exploring the other end of the block on his scooter or playing quietly in his room with his cars.

Then there are the other moments, usually at the end of a long day, when we're off to Jurassic Park. Like the other night when it was bedtime and he refused to budge from the bathtub. Or last night when he insisted on putting up the Christmas tree and his dads were just too plain tired. Suddenly the shy kid who just a year ago wouldn't let go of my hand at the park, the sensitive kid I sometimes feared was "too good for his own good," now insists loudly on having his own way.

The next morning we talk it all through, tickle and cuddle and tell stories and play with cars again, knowing that the hysterics may reappear later that day.

Yin and yang, move in close, separate, then repeat. In ways big and small, over the course of a few hours or a week. This week at least, it's the dance we do.

Getting Home

My new job is just downtown, which means I can easily bike down Market Street to the office. It's good: I spare the air and get a little exercise while I'm at it.

After work, I head to David's school where he and I catch the bus. We work as a team, hoisting the bike onto the rack at the front of the bus, then finding our way to a window seat. The rear seats in the new hybrid buses are the best because they are higher and you can see more.

David sits on my lap. As we watch the world go by, we talk of cabbages and kings: whom he sat next to at lunch, the new Spanish words he's learned, the stories behind each of the drawings he´s brought with him, what he ate for afternoon snack. We point out our favorite shops, cafes, and bookstores as the bus lumbers along. Twice we've seen Uncle Steve walking home.

When the bus gets to our stop, we climb down and run around front to reclaim the bike. David pushes the bike rack back into place, we wave goodbye to the driver, and and sometimes she beeps back. Then David hops onto the saddle and I walk alongside, steering and pushing the bike past Pauline's Pizza, up the the short hill to our front door.

That's how I come home most days, and although it seems like nothing special, it's still hard for me to take it for granted. Maybe it's because I'm an adoptive parent who knows David came to us by a kind of grace. Or maybe because raising a kid has not always been an option for gay men like me. Or maybe it's that my own life's twists and turns brought me into parenting a little later than most folks and, well, you treasure those things you have to wait for.

Can't say why for sure, but coming home like this with David each day feels miraculous.