Shoot Me

I knew lifting Erik was slowly taking a toll on my poor back. Last week I felt a strange pain begin in my right buttock/hip, as if I had pulled something. Now it seems I have worsening sciatic nerve pain that occasionally doubles me over. It feels like a hornet is constantly stinging me in the ass. From what I have read, 90% of the time, watchful waiting is the best cure for this type of pain. I want to crawl to a chiropractor/magician/physician/witch doctor/mechanic/funeral director and beg for mercy, but I want to give it at least a week. What sucks is that I am afraid of losing ground in terms of my fitness goals. Luckily, being this dedicated for almost an entire year, writing nearly everything I eat down and setting aside 30 to 60 minutes a day to sweat like a pig, means my chances of returning to flabiness are greatly reduced. Thirty-five pounds ago, I was just so horribly miserable and don't want to go there again. Ever. I was hiding. Plus, I was finally feeling fabulous before this occurred. I climbed up on the treadmill today, and I did okay with that. Aerobics are not an option for me at the moment. The trouble is that the treadmill is harder to cram into my day, as Erik can't be present when I am on it. Last night I was in so much pain that my eyes watered. Today is slightly better. Either that, or I'm getting used to it. I saw a lady gyrating on an Aleve commercial today, and I felt like hucking a tennis shoe through the television screen.

I watched my friend with ALS hold Erik today. His disease is progressing very rapidly. His right lung is beginning to deteriorate, and he is in agony from periodic muscle spasms. I watched him endure one today, and his shirt became soaked in sweat, although he tried to put on a very brave face for me. After it was over, Erik giggled in his arms, and everything seemed perfect again. Death is a funny thing when you know it is coming. It puts strain on relationships in such an odd way. You would think the petty stuff would evaporate, but the little things suddenly seem unbearable, like coarse grit in the bottom of your shoe. It just feels different than I expected it would. My only hope is that when he goes, we won't hate each other. I guess I expected things to be perfect before we said goodbye, and that isn't very realistic after all. I should know that nothing is perfect. Ever. Even knowing this, I seem to always shoot for perfect. That's just how I am, even in my imperfect little world. Go figure.

Breaking the Law of Averages

He came toddling out of his bathroom, deftly maneuvering around the toys strewn over the shiny floor in a way that would have made his therapists proud. In his strong hands was his little green and blue plastic stool. He rounded the kitchen island to where I worked and put the little step in front of my heavy, pistachio-colored mixer. Amazed at what he had just accomplished for the very first time on his own, I nudged the step with my toe a couple inches to where he could best see me work. He confidently planted his brace-sturdy foot and stepped up, grabbing the counter firmly and craning his neck to see over the rim of the shiny bowl. Almost. Not quite tall enough yet.

I read the article again today. My brain finally absorbed that one sentence. The one that stated that what is written on my child's chromosomes means his lifespan would be, on average, 50 years. From all I know now, this was not a surprise to me. However, seeing this in print written by a stranger made me inexplicably angry, which was a complete surprise to me. I suppose I had never dared ask anyone, even the geneticist, that particular question before because I didn't want to hear it. Now I had the answer, and I didn't want the damn thing.

I coaxed the sticky honey from the measuring cup with a rubber scraper, making a ridiculous show of it for his benefit, like Tom Cruise mixing drinks for the beach bunnies in that old movie. I found myself humming "Kokomo." I held the measuring cup high in the air and let the honey drip down like a thick, gold ribbon into the bowl. Up and down. Up and down. He laughed and said, "S'mixer!"

It's not like he has serious health problems yet. His upcoming echocardiogram will hopefully soothe my blooming fears. Hopefully. I hate not knowing exactly what missing an essential component in his body will mean as he ages. Looking at the big picture, I can see that we are the lucky ones. There are some beautiful kids with this who are very ill. I should be on my knees thanking God we have it so good! This kid could very well live to be one very friendly, old fellow.

I pushed the stubborn switch on the mixer to the right and watched the cage-like attachment whirl to life. The motor's growl made him jump at first. After that, he was very calm and interested. I stooped to pick him up in my arms and held him so he could watch the separate ingredients swirl into a thin, sweet mixture. After they were adequately combined, I put him back on his step and tipped my plastic bowl to sprinkle the dry ingredients into the sweet batter to thicken it.

Besides, even if he was "average," which he doesn't seem to be, that's half a century. If his kidneys or cardiovascular system did magically fail at that milestone, I'll be 84 years old. I might not even make it that long. Maybe we will both go at the same time, and I would never need to live a day without him. Living without him would be like living without my heart.

I unlocked the bowl from the body of the mixer and turned to spoon the batter into the mini muffin cups that glistened with nonstick spray under the kitchen lights. Erik traveled with me with his step to watch this and actually obeyed my instructions not to plunge his thick fingers into the batter for once. He just watched quietly and let me think.

God, I hope I never have to bury my son.

I opened the oven behind us, reminded him that it was very hot, and slid the wide baking pan full of cups of batter into the heat. The door shut with a clunk, and I pushed the button on the console to illuminate the oven's innards so he could watch the muffin tops grow dull and swell. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw his baby swing gyrating in the wind and rain as if it held a hyperactive ghost, and the little yellow straps that used to go around his tiny body hung limply. No more baby.

I'm almost 40 myself.

I returned the containers of dry ingredients to the baking cupboard above the oven and pushed a damp sponge across the counter tops, smudging tiny drifts of flour dust into drying, annoying swirls. I washed the sponge and began scrubbing again until they vanished. He lost interest in my new chore without any spinning equipment and disappeared, off to find another rainy day adventure.

Fifty's simply not good enough.

I slowly filled my lungs with the warm air of the kitchen and the undeniably cheerful scent of grated lemon peel. I flipped the lights off and followed him around the corner into the unknown.