A Black Friday

When I started this process of getting a life, I told myself that this time I would do it right. Before I wrote my first blog, I made a promise that I would be as honest as I could be, and share as much of my soul as I was comfortable sharing. I have written about many things pertaining to my life, both past and present. Well, this particular entry is about someone that shaped who I am, and taught me one of the greatest lessons I have ever learned. I'll warn you now, it may get heavy. If you were looking for a light-hearted read, this ain't it.
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Yesterday was the day after Thanksgiving, the day know as Black Friday. It's the biggest shopping day of the year and was a challenging day emotionally. The holidays in general can get pretty melancholy, and for me (as I am sure many others) downright grim.

I avoided the malls and major centers of commerce all day. Dealing with the sale crazed lunatics, obsessed with this morose ritual, was not my idea of fun. I did how ever manage to get to the gym after the crowds died out and in the process, dug up some old memories and found new inspiration from a place I had never thought to look. From my mother. Let me back up.

On July 28, 1971, a young woman, barely 20 years of age, gave birth to a seven pound, eleven ounce baby boy. Women in black and white uniforms, committed to a higher power, tended to the infant as she rested from her ordeal. The boys father, the whole time in the waiting room, watching a baseball game and waiting for the news of his son. Her recovery went smoothly and soon the small family headed home to begin a new chapter in their lives.

A few months after that eventful day, the young woman (my mother) began to have trouble using her hands. She was unable to control them at times and her grip would become weak. This made it difficult to take care of me. She had to rely on the help of family to accomplish even the most basic tasks of my care. After a couple of weeks of this, she decided it was time to find out what was wrong.

The news came back and the prognosis hit my family like a ton of bricks. She was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. MS is an autoimmune disease that affects the brain and spinal cord (central nervous system). Symptoms vary, because the location and severity of each attack can be different. This explained why she couldn't control her hands. The doctors said she most likely had it for a while, and my birth had made it manifest itself. A fact my mother kept from me until I was an adult. The effect of the MS on her hands soon subsided and took up residency in her legs. This is where it would stay for the rest of her life.

At first it was an intermittent nuisance. She would have her good days and bad. It really only seemed to flair up in times of emotional duress, which my father provided in spades. I don't want to paint my father as a monster though. He was just a misguided and selfish man at the time, that could not see what a beautiful thing he had. Later in life I would witness his regret and watch it over take him in the form of raging alcoholism, fits of depression and four other failed marriages. He has paid his penance and we have made our peace.

When I was about three years old, my father filed for divorce and my mother and I moved to San Diego. There we lived with my grandparents, as well as eight or so aunts and uncles, and tried to start a new life. It was a much needed haven from the roller coaster ride my father was putting her through. But being a strong willed woman, she got right to the business of moving on and we settled in to a new chapter of our little family's life. This time one less member.

My childhood was typical of the seventies. My mother loved me very much and made sure that I knew it when ever possible. In all honesty, I didn't really notice the absence of the father figure that turned tail and ran. She made sure of that. My uncles and my grandfather, on both sides of my family, became my surrogates and that allowed her to just worry about being a mom. She read poetry and stories to me constantly and encouraged my creativity. She taught me the value of hard work, and the importance of having love in my life. And through her battle with that wretched disease, I learned how to be a man.

As I grew her symptoms grew as well. She still had her good days and bad, but she soon had to begin to rely on aide to help her walk. This started when I was about 5 years old. I was just the right height for her to hold onto and I would help her get from point A to point B on a daily basis. She would often joke, that I would probably be three inches taller if it weren't for having to use me as a crutch. Pretty soon though, I alone wasn't enough.

Around the age of seven, she began to use both me and a cane. As the years progressed she would eventually require a wheel chair, which she fought tooth and nail. My mother was not the type to go quietly. She was a fighter. Hating the fact that she needed assistance from anyone, she would try her level best to do things on her own. She managed to pull this off for several years, until I was about 29.

Her sickness was getting worse. My wife and I moved ourselves, and our two small children, into my old bedroom, to help take care of her. By this time she required assistance getting in and out of bed, with showers and going to the bathroom. She had graduated to using an electric wheelchair, which required my step-father to reenforce the door jams with metal braces. She was hell on wheels for sure and the collateral damage to the house was evidence of that.

For the next couple of years I would help my mother get into bed as often as I could. We had a lift that most people used to accomplish the task, but I found it to be a pain as well as too mechanical and cold. I didn't need it. I was no longer that four year old walking, talking crutch. At 6' 2" and 280 pounds, I gently lifted my mother from her chair and placed her in bed. She would ask me to lay next to her and then tell me stories of when I was younger. We would watch TV and just spend a little time together before the exhaustion of the day lulled her to sleep. I cherished those moments.

Things had come full circle. The woman who had the strength to raise a child on her own while fighting a terminal illness, was now frail and slight. The boy she had brought into this world and raised to be strong and independent, was now a man and her willing caretaker.

She waged war with that goddamn affliction on a daily basis. After nearly three decades and a myriad of treatments to try and slow it's progression, my mother lost the battle. Just after my 30th birthday, she passed away. This chapter of my family was now closed. She always pushed me to be the best that I could be. It was through her example, that I learned that the only limits I have in my life, are the ones I shackle myself with. It was now up to me, to take her wisdom and example, and teach my children how to apply it to their lives.

Back to the present day, my short walk from the parking lot to the gym tested my resolve to exercise. The holiday festivities brought back a flood of memories, both happy and sad. This was my mother's favorite time of the seasons. The decorations and music blaring over loud speakers, a painful reminder of the void I had in my life without her. A void I manage to ignore 345 or so days out of the year. Overcome with emotion, I almost turned around and went home to retreat into a bottle Whisky, but I pressed on. Mama didn't raise no quitter! I got it together and continued with the plan.

As I hit the recumbent bike, I continued to think of her example. I pedaled hard and stayed strong for 20 minutes of the most intense work out I had had in a while. The music screaming from my iPod, made me work even harder and the sweat soon began to flow. On the very last minute of the workout, I pushed the resistance up as high as I could stand. My legs burned and it felt like my chest would explode if I continued even one second more. In that moment of physical exhaustion and pain, mixed with the onslaught of remembrance, the dam burst and tears began to mingle with the sweat that was already dripping down my face. The perfect camouflage to hide my moment of suffering.

Getting off the bike, I paused to catch my breath then continued to the exit. The instant I stepped outside, a large gust of cold air shot through me and it began to rain. I closed my eyes and let the water wash over me my face as looked towards the sky. In that moment of absolution and reconciliation with the memories of my mother, an intense wave of calm washed over me. I had finished what I set out to do, and I finished strong.

As I gained my composure and wiped the wetness from my face, I smiled. Under my breath I said something I hadn't said in a very long time. "Thanks mom. That one was for you."