Returning Son

     He was angry, I could tell.  Limping into the kitchen, he balanced on one foot while he peeled a banana,  grabbed a box of cereal down from the shelf, and mumbled something about how hungry he was.  "Could I help?" I asked.  "Yah, put my coffee on the table."  I almost said, I'm your mother, not your slave.  But I silently lifted the cup and set it on the table.  What was he angry about?  Hadn't he slept well?  Did he take his pain medication the night before?  Had he broken up with his girlfriend?  Was I really responsible for his mood?

     Dec. 20th he had suffered a serious ski accident on Whistler Mountain in Canada. Completely severed his ACL--anterior cruciate ligament--and had to be gondolaed off the mountain.  He was 40, unmarried, and cried on the phone when he finally called me the next day.  "Mom, I tore the ligament in my leg," he sobbed.  "I don't know when I'll be able to work again."  My heart was breaking.

     We got him home, that is, to OUR home, saw an ortho doctor Christmas Eve day, and scheduled surgery for the following week.  His own apartment was a three floor walk-up in Chicago back of the yards.  Not a place for a cripple to heal.  So, his father and I were it--his temporary rescuers.  We were glad to help but life would not be the same for quite a while.  I'm sure he didn't like losing his independence, any more than we did.

     It is now three months later.  I've gotten to know my son John, maybe better than I had ever imagined possible.   He is almost completely healed, with only a few more sessions left of physical therapy.  It's been tumultuous and unpredictable and sweet, all those feelings together.  As he healed, I was struck by his energy.  Putting dishes away is a cacophony of loud, crashing sounds.  The dish-washer drawer is yanked out, the plates slid forcefully into the cupboard, silverware tumbled into the appropriate partitions.  Slam, the coffee-maker is pushed along the counter; thud, the garbage can is kicked open; thwack, the dishcloth thrown against the sink.  Is he really trying to be helpful?  I'm tempted to hop up to intervene and save the lives of my appliances, but I stay put.  "Be calm," I tell myself.  Maybe this is a good sign.  He's ready to be in his own apartment, his own kitchen, where he can take out his frustrations on his own belongings.  

     I think about relationships, how much of a mix they are of love, hate, tolerance, impatience, joy, sorrow.  Always changing, and just when you're ready to say, "I've had it, I give up, get out of my life," the friend, lover, or child will do or say something that melts your heart and you're ready to try to make it work again.  John has told me more than I want to know about his girlfriend's failings, her scathing E-mails to him, their near-breakups.  I almost feel like I'm dating again myself--so relieved when she agrees to join us for Easter dinner AND bring her mother along, too.

     The latest crisis is John's purchase of a car on E-bay, exactly like his falling-apart vehicle, if one can believe the photo on the computer.  According to my son's information from the seller, it's in mint condition--what else?  But where does he need to pick up this beauty?  Tinley Park?Lockport?  Downers Grove?  Of course not.  Odessa, Texas!  Does this make sense?  But the price was right, he says.  How about the airfare, I ask, to get there?  What if it doesn't drive well?  Will you have to stay at a motel one or two nights on the drive back?  Loud noises follow.  "You never believe in me!  You keep telling me I should buy a different car, and now you're only negative about my choice!"  More discussion ensues; we calm down.  Then I tell him, if he needs a ride, I'll drive him to the airport.  He says, "Thanks," and we can both smile again.

     John is at the doctor's office now, anxious to get his release to return to work.  Then comes the call to his work.  Do they still have a job for him?  He hopes so. I hope so.  Now if only his Texas car can get him there!