My Boy

Recently, a friend and his wife had their first son. I congratulated him but he said, jokingly, “Reading your blog about Speedos and girlfriends is scaring me!” He was teasing, I know, but lest there be any doubt from any of my readers, I wish to be clear in one thing: despite the dirt bikes, video games, and ill-advised purchase of European swimwear, my son has been and continues to be an unspeakable joy to me. I’m afraid that parenting of teens sometimes gets a “bad rap” only because it is easy to quantify things like text messaging and curfew violations. I have yet to find the words to adequately describe parental gratitude and delight.

And Ryan is special. He has been congenial (and extroverted) since before he could speak. He is musically gifted. His natural brightness is only obfuscated by his extraordinary procrastinating abilities, which I hope is transient. But these things are not why I say he is special.

These past three years I have observed him deal with sadness and trials that I never had to bear, especially as a kid. I refer to both the declining health and abilities of his dad and to the tragic death of his 2-year-old cousin Sarah.

In our church, when a boy turns 12 he receives the priesthood in a simple ordination ceremony at church. Although by no means required, the boy traditionally wears a new suit for the occasion. Grandparents attend the ordination if they can. It isn’t a huge deal, like a bar mitzvah, but it is special. In the summer of 2005 Ryan’s big day was approaching. He had a new suit from JC Penney and a new pair of shoes. He would look so grown up on Sunday, the day after his birthday.

None of us foresaw that he would be first wearing that suit on his birthday, Saturday, at Sarah’s funeral. I’ll never forget the sight of those new shoes covered with big tear drops as we both carried her coffin. He didn’t say a word. He understood that the birthday and priesthood celebrations would be muted. He never questioned this or complained about it. I think he grew up a lot that week.

With respect to my illness that began in 2006, I’ve witnessed a level of compassion in him that is well beyond his years. Most of the time, he is just good old Ryan, belligerent, self-focused, displaying characteristics typical of his age and gender. But if you watch him very closely, especially when he’s with me, you may see an undercurrent of concern. Little things like how he takes great care when parking in the garage to leave me enough room to get out comfortably, then he waits in the garage for me. On those days when I’m a little wobbly, without being asked he’ll walk very close to me and offer assistance. He notices. He always keeps an eye out for me. A good example of this can be found in my post called Steady on my other blog back in April (before I started this blog.) If you haven’t read it and would like to, click here. Ryan periodically asks me how I’m feeling; he really wants to know. He even reassures me on days when I’m down. I hate that he feels this burden but I love it too, and am completely humbled by it.

One Saturday afternoon just the two of us were home and I needed to take a quick shower. While showering I inadvertently kicked over a couple of shampoo bottles. (It had nothing to do with MS; it was more because the MRS. buys too much at Bed, Bath and Beyond.) Within seconds I heard Ryan’s voice through the door, “Are you OK Dad?” I asked him later what had prompted this query and he said he had heard something and just wanted to be sure I hadn’t fallen.

The thing is, the sound wasn't that loud. Who listens to their dad showering, just to be sure he's OK? What other boy would do that? It’s like having my own guardian angel in the unlikely personage of a teenaged boy.

Good Friends

A small, insignificant parental disappointment of mine is that not one of my children like jam or jelly of any flavor. I don’t know the difference between jelly, jam, preserves or marmalade, but I love it all, especially raspberry, blackberry, peach or strawberry.

A more serious parental lamentation is that adolescence seems to have robbed me of friendships with my children that flourished when they were younger, especially with my son. We shared so many little inside jokes and either one could make the other giggle with only the slightest provocation. One day eight years ago, we were seated in adjacent chairs getting our hair cut and I made a gesture to get him. He giggled and giggled, and kept telling me to stop, with his slight but endearing lisp.

I understand that children mature, and that relationships change, they have to, but that doesn’t mean I like it. Also, although I don’t like to admit it, I believe that part of the alienation results from some of the symptoms of my illness. Energy levels and patience have both declined precipitously and I am not as light-hearted and fun as I once was. I am trying to address these issues.

This morning I enjoyed a brief respite. I was taking Ryan to driving school, and because we were running a few minutes late, neither of us had eaten breakfast. I offered to buy him a donut at the shop that is next to the driving school. Because we were already late, he declined. I offered to get it for him and bring it to him. He declined the offer, explaining that they would be leaving in the training car as soon as we arrived.

Letting playful Dave out for just a moment, I asked, “Can I get one for you anyway, but just eat it myself?” He didn’t miss a beat and replied, “Sure. I’ll have a jelly-filled.”

Angel Lost

Four years ago (and a couple of ward splits), I was called as ward clerk over finances. Even with my professional background in finance, there was a lot to learn. Fortunately the ward clerk, Steve, who trained me, was as knowledgeable as he was patient. He and his wife Nita had two children roughly the ages of my youngest, and they were approximately my age, give or take a year or two.

A hallmark of this family was how kind they were, especially Nita. So soft-spoken, never saying anything unkind or even flippant. I think she was the compassionate service leader in the Relief Society, but maybe not. She wore compassion like a cloak. Last month she gave the benediction at stake conference when Elder Nelson was there and I thought, “I’m glad they chose her; she is charity and purity embodied.”

Because I was in the lobby, I could not see her. Kara told me that if I had seen her, I would have seen that she was not well, ravaged by cancer. Yesterday, in an oft-repeated reminder that mortality is not deferred by virtue, Nita died. I’m sure there is at least one more ministering angel in heaven today.

Sadder but Wiser

One of my favorite MS medications has the unfortunate side effect of making it difficult to fall asleep. Because of this I routinely take a prescription-strength sleeping pill every night. Sometimes I manage on a half. Anyway, Monday I felt I needed a whole pill for various reasons. (Maybe part of this was because the Angels were eliminated that night and I didn’t want to lay awake thinking about the botched squeeze play and happy Red Sox.)

I thought I’d give the pill a head start, so I took it before going upstairs to tell Kara good night. While with Kara, I remembered a few things I needed to discuss with her. Five minutes tops. When I got up to leave the room, she noticed that I was really off-balance. She knows that means sleeping pill and chastised me for taking it before coming upstairs. I just laughed it off. OK, I’m a little dizzy but I’ll hold the hand rail going down the stairs, I would be fine. It wouldn’t be that bad.

And it wasn’t. I made it down just fine and despite a few harmless wall brushes, I made it to my bedroom just fine. I could tell that I was slightly more impaired than I usually am but I’m getting used to it, and pretty adept at compensating moves.

I turned off our bedroom light, and turned to make the final two or three steps to my bed. The combination of the turn and the darkness (which really plays with my balance) resulted in me helplessly crashing down into a free-standing full-length mirror. There was no broken glass or broken flesh, but wow, did it hurt. I hit my head pretty hard and I somehow broke the leg off the mirror. Two days later and I still have no visible bruises or anything, just a sore ear and neck.

It wasn’t pretty (though no one saw it, including me) and it wasn’t funny at the time, but it was educational. It was so preventable. I will be more careful about when I take the sleep help and be more cautious in the dark. As I went to sleep I considered that as bad as I felt at least I didn't miss the bunt on a suicide squeeze in the last inning of an elimination game with the score tied!

(My handiwork)

Goals not Forgotten

Although I have not reported lately on progress towards my two simple (but seemingly impossible goals), they are not forgotten. I have been walking almost every day, but not running again yet. My fall was 20 days ago and I am 100% healed, but I think I’ll invest in some protective gear before trotting again. I think I was just too anxious to make progress too quickly.

Regarding my solo vocal performance, progress is even slower. Monday I went to speech therapy again. She is encouraging. She says that my vocal strength is greatly improved. The problem continues to be that I involuntarily strain when trying to talk, which stifles the voice.

While there, she has me do a lot of drills. For one series, I hold my larynx down and focus on not straining any muscle in my neck or throat. Then I mimic certain sighs, hums, and short phrases. In one, I’m supposed to get a good hum going, forward in the mouth, and then say some “M” alliteration like “Molly made muffins” in a low monotone voice. I have to close my eyes and really concentrate. Take a deep diaphragmatic breath. Start hum. Voice forward. Don’t strain. Vibration on the lips, out of the throat. Good breath support. Don’t strain. Relax. Chin up. Don’t force it. Then Allison says, “You strained and cut off the words. Try again.”

Then after one she said, “There! That was good.”

I croaked, “Yeah, if I were reciting a dirge, blindfolded.” I thought the comment was clever but she reprimanded me. She said that thought processes like that are counter-productive. She’s right; I am impatient and I can’t seem to help poking fun at the baby steps I am making. (I did swallow my “robot reporting on cooking class” comment.)

That’s the thing: you cannot hurry this. If you try, it actually impedes progress. It just seems so silly to make such an inordinate effort for such paltry results. I have earned a master’s degree, learned a foreign language, and have lived with teenagers since 2004, but saying the nonsense phrase correctly, without straining, is harder than them all. Combined. I am trying to “re-wire” signals that worked fine for 40 years, and I don’t really know how it is done.

I’m having a hard time thinking of an analogy. Maybe it is like trying to stand up without using your leg muscles. No hands either. I only know one way. I’ll just have to trust her and take it one tiny step at a time. I guess that is the only way to reach either of my goals.

The Lullaby Bank

When I was 17, as I drove to work I often listened to the “My Turn of Earth” cassette. I know, geek check. My favorite was Angel Lullaby and I would sing along. I really wanted to improve my singing abilities. I was fair to above average, but seriously, my voice was not memorable, even after a few voice lessons and hundreds of hours practicing. It was serviceable, I could sing on pitch, and I could sing various choir parts. I sang solos and duets at church, wedding receptions, and at a debutante dinner in 1986. (I think that was more for my eligible bachelor status than for my crooning abilities.) At BYU I had a lot of fun singing in a roommate quartet, and we sounded pretty good. I was always better as part of a group than as a soloist.

In 1991 my daughter was born and I became a soloist again with nightly performances and a captive audience. And I could sing Angel Lullaby too! My focus quickly changed from “getting good” to soothing and calming. This practice continued in various forms and for other babies for the next 15 years. It was awesome. I used the bedtime songs to teach patriotism, Spanish, reverence, and tradition with an underpinning of love for music and song.

When the oldest two were 7 and 5, I tried to teach them to harmonize. This was difficult. I explained the concept, had them sing a familiar melody, and I would softly sing a harmony. It didn’t work. They always would immediately follow me. One night, after dozens of failed attempts, they got it. I told them to really focus on each other and they stayed on melody while I sang the tenor line to Silent Night. It was so awesome. We all were thrilled. Amanda even suggested we form a group. We could be the Dad, Ryan, and Amanda Group, or DRAG for short! Maybe not.

As they matured, the older ones opted out of bedtime songs BUT the love of song remained. The eldest loved to sing, and she was OK, but, like her music mentor, her talent was pedestrian during her “tween” years. The boy showed real talent at a young age, which was gratifying, but never the goal. 3^rd born sang on key, but was somewhat reserved, especially compared to her “stage presence” brother. I could tell at a young age that the baby had a good ear too, and she loved to hear herself sing. I did too, but I was unsure if she sounded as good to people that weren’t her doting father.

In 2006 as my voice failed I mourned the lost ability to sing to my young girls. As I’ve mentioned on this blog, we have found alternatives, such as humming or them singing to me. It is nice, but not the same. I really miss it.

Yesterday my kids sang together at church and I was forcefully reminded that although I am presently unable to “make deposits into the lullaby bank,” the years of deposits made are not gone. In fact, they are paying rich dividends beyond what I could have imagined. My deposits were joined by contributions from their mother, various music teachers, and choir leaders. Over the past few years, Amanda’s voice took on a beautiful, rich tone and her abilities have kept pace. Ryan’s skills have survived the adolescent voice change and showmanship tempering. Erika took voice lessons for a while, and her voice is amazing, but she still holds back. Recently I enjoyed an Erika concert when she thought she was alone at home. Natalie? She’s been surrounded by music her entire life and she is a natural.

Sunday they sang an inspiring arrangement of I Need Thee Every Hour at church. I can’t rightly take credit but my heart swelled with gratitude and pride. To borrow a line from Dad (that he spoke of my brother) If fatherly pride is a sin, then I stand in need of repentance.

Limit Learning

Today I helped fill our ward’s Bishop’s Storehouse assignment. I wasn’t sure what we’d be doing, and whether or not it would be something I could do, but I knew I was available. Besides, what would be the harm if I got there and they needed us to read fine print while doing jumping jacks and singing? I could just excuse myself, right?

Fortunately, we just filled orders and re-stocked shelves. The Church welfare program is so awesome in the storehouse endeavor. Reading the order form took some effort but it wasn’t too bad. My first order was a whopper and it took me about 30 minutes, partly just finding the right product. Everyone else was working more quickly, but I reminded myself that it wasn’t a race.

When I began filling my second order, I noticed my familiar foe of fatigue setting in. I wasn’t sleepy, but my coordination and balance started eroding. This was not taxing work, but I guess it raised my body temperature enough that my feet stopped responding correctly. Great. I was in no particular hurry, but I did not want to create a spectacle. I found a chair at the front of the store and started taking little breaks, pretending to be studying the order form. Well, part of it wasn’t pretend because my eyesight worsened too.

This order was even bigger than the first one so the cart started getting really heavy. This was a blessing in that it provided a more sturdy support for leaning! When I get “exertion fatigue” I have a hard time even standing upright. I start slowly falling forward. It is so weird.

OK, I knew this wasn’t a race but I was taking really long time. But I needed a little break. I sat down for a few minutes but it is hard to loaf in such a productive environment. My cart only lacked toothpaste, raisins, strawberry jam and 18 rolls of TP. C’mon dude! Stand up and just grab the jam and the raisins, then come back and sit for a minute. I know, chronic illness, blah, blah, blah. But it is 25 feet away and you are 43, not 93 for crying out loud. Well, I did it, jam and raisins were safely in the cart but I barely made it back to my gerontology chair.

OK, the non-food items are on the last aisle, I encouraged myself. I could do this! Just don’t make a scene; it isn’t fair to everyone else.

I rested but I was berating myself pretty good. I realized that I didn’t need to be a hero; I could just ask someone else to finish my list, oh but wait, I can’t talk. Well, barely. Just do it, you wimp! It is toothpaste and toilet paper, not the gosh dang Crusades. Get up and finish the order! I used my laden cart as a walker and got the toothpaste but while loading the TP my legs staged a little coup d’etat. (They don’t care if I’m almost done; they were.) I slumped over my cart heavily and then somehow found the strength to grab the last two rolls. I set them on top of the burgeoning pile. Then one roll fell off. Big problem. Gravity was only one-way for me at the moment. Fortunately my friend Michelle was standing nearby and noticed the errant roll and picked it up for me. I think she also noticed that I was laboring to stay upright and she accompanied me the few steps to the cart drop-off place.

Now I just had to return the clipboard up front, but without my “walker.” If I could only get back I could sit down and cool off. 20 minutes and I would be fine. It was at this point that I did the most difficult thing I had to do all day. Michelle asked if I needed her to help me walk back. Everything inside my head screamed “No!” but better sense prevailed and I sheepishly said “Yeah, I think I do.” She held me up as we began our 80 foot sojourn. I can get so pathetic! Half way there my friend Tim jumped in to help. So much for not creating a scene.

It’s not wounded pride; it’s just that if I had been a bit more careful I could have done it. When will I learn?

The senior missionaries offered to get me water or a banana. It was not a matter of blood sugar or hydration. I was not faint. I just had to rest for a spell. I did, and after lunch I had relatively little trouble with the meat orders or re-stocking shelves. But I know everyone kept an eye on me.

I enjoyed myself, and am glad I went, but I am acutely aware that my scant production did not outweigh the burden of concern that I levied on the party, and for that I am sorry.