Randy showed up. I was shocked at his appearance. He is so
old and crippled. I have not seen him since the day he came for some of Kim’s
ashes to put in their favorite places. I could not feel comfortable although
his story is touching. Kim’s death caused him to assess his life and led him to
therapy. He realized that his lack of a moral compass caused his behavior. He blamed
me for years for not being the mother he needed.
Solo Flight
It is the sixth anniversary of Kim’s death. I’ve been
thinking about him a lot and wanted to write a few memories of our lives
together. Although he was only fifteen minutes younger than his brother, he
maintained the younger brother place. Kim was a sweet baby, laughing early,
smiling a lot, eager to grow up. When he was about five years old he liked to
make exaggerated faces, voices, and movements. He didn’t do it for attention
but rather for enjoyment. I wondered if
we had a budding actor. In high school he acted in a couple of plays and did a
good job. He sang in the choir. One Christmas program, I was a little late and
had to sit way up almost to the top of the bleachers. At the close of the
concert the teacher asked for anyone in the audience to join in singing the
Halleluiah chorus from Handel’s Messiah. Kim gestured to me and I shook my head
no. Just as the conductor raised his hands, Kim said stop, I want to get my
mother. He raced up the steps, grabbed me and down we went all the while
everyone waited. We sang. He was a teaser.
Kim would come in the kitchen while I was cooking. Look at the meal in
preparation and say Do you think that’s enough Mom? He would get me every time
as I quickly assessed the meal. After high school he and his brother joined the
conservation corp and fought forest fires. Later he settled near Scotia with
his wife. I lost track for a few years. He worked in a publishing company and
was severely injured when one of the huge rolls of paper fell and hit him
across his lower back. He had at least three unsuccessful surgeries and started
a downhill period in his life. He leaned on pain medication and that may have
triggered his bi-polar episodes. The last ten years of his life, he lived alone
in Brookings in an apartment above the harbor in trees and wildlife. He came to visit and I would take him to
lunch and check his pantry. He didn’t want me to call him. I’ll call you he
said, always at 8 PM. I don’t know if his death was accidental or intentional.
I know he was manic the day before and I know he hated dependence on his
medications. When I went to his apartment, the floor was littered with pills as
though he had given up and thrown them around. His life was simple: computer,
books, movies, music, living in pain, suffering with mental illness, he never
complained or blamed. My son was my hero.
My phone hasn’t dinged at 8 for a year now but it was common in the
first years after his death.
He had a flying ap for his computer and loved flying at
night over towns and over the ocean. My first thought after his death was now
he can fly without a plane.
