Five
 

"Bye Mommy"

When "Big Bob" walked out of the door he was "gone." Whatever was there in the way of a rudimentary relationship, father to son, son to father, was immediately destroyed. It wasn't squelched, its infantile nature was simply put to death.

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The same can be said to a smaller extent for the relationship I had with Mom. I "time travelled" the day my aunt was at the house to pick up my sister and I and cannot recall the rest of the day. It's amazing how at some level our consciousness can move us to a state of protection all in an effort to only give us what we can handle. My grandmother, Nana, my mother's mother, always commented that "he's the sensitive one" when speaking of me. She never tried to hide the words; she knew there was nothing wrong with speaking the truth.

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Over the years I would become skilled at time travelling, evading the reality of situations and my senses and when I couldn't muster this without little effort, I would find ways to make it happen whether it was by substances, alcohol, or the like.

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That morning that we left for school all was as good as could be expected in our home. My mother was trying to manage as best she could. She managed to get us to school. We managed to arrive home after school. But something changed at levels I could never understand at that young age. I knew my father was gone. I was feeling the beginnings of abandonment, and my nature quickly began to match this rough force. My nature was only at the beginning of becoming very colorful.

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Mom was gone now too. At times I think there is nothing more baffling than having a parent but not having a parent. They are there but they are not there. In the physical sense they are in your life but in all other areas they are not. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually they are empty shells. They are unable to be nurturing in a positive manner. My father was always like this to a great extent, but my mother was not. From day one all she wanted was to be the best wife and mother that she could be. She wanted better than what she grew up with. Don't we all want this most of the time?

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What my mother went through literally killed her. As her unborn child was destroyed so was her spirit. So was her will to live. It was a slow and painful death. It was a death by a thousand cuts. The cuts being lashes against her consciousness and she suffered from this until the day she died.

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She tried. She tried with all the strength that she could muster to rise above this traumatic experience and at times she only seemed to surmount it. But for the better part she spent her days and nights in a deep slumber, in a deep sleep. She tried to time travel, to evade the reality of it, but most times was not successful. She learned to wear a mask and put on a happy face.

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I recall the presence of my family all about us, but I cannot recall my father being anywhere at all. I remember my mother's parents, Nana and Papa, always being there in a constant manner. They became the "Rocks" in my life. My father's mother, we called her "Moo," was also there but to a lesser extent. I would find out exactly why later. My father's brother, Rick, became a greater part of our lives. These would be the family members who would step in and act as our parents because Dad refused, and Mom gave up to a certain extent.

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Nana and Papa were the bedrock throughout the course of my life until the day each of them died and growing up we spent nearly every weekend with them. Though I cannot recall who it was that we stayed with while Mom was "away" I know it was Nana who took us to visit her.

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Shortly after my brother was taken, my mother was brought to Butler Hospital, one of our state's mental institutions. I remember walking the grounds on another one of those not a cloud in the sky sunny days and there were people gathered all about. It was like a scene out of a movie where "people went to rest." I believe it was a Saturday or Sunday and there was almost a carnival-like atmosphere to it all. It wasn't what you typically see today in these institutions. In hindsight it as though hope was something they put at the forefront of treatment.

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On the grounds outside they had these giant washing machines that were modified. The agitator, the impeller, was removed and you could attach a thick cardboard square to the bottom of the inside. They would start them up and then you would drip different colored paints inside creating a splash pattern on the card. I remember making one and giving it to Mom. She wasn't there. She had this faraway look in her eyes, and it terrified me. I instinctively knew my father was gone and didn't want my mother to leave me too. I never wanted to be abandoned.

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But she did leave. She experienced a violent collision with her faith and would spend her life trying to surmount the guilt, shame, and remorse in an effort to recapture her connection to God.