Reunion

Yesterday, I had the most amazing experience: I had dinner with my previously estranged family. Two brothers, the wife of one of them, one nephew and his wife and daughter. Yup. My nephew is about to be a grandfather.

I’m not going to go back and look through the archives of my dead site to find the post where I wrote about them so horribly. Nor am I inclined to go back in this site’s archives to read more mean things I wrote.

I’ve only recently become aware that when I started this blog, I was a different man. In 2018, on Valentine’s Day, my son was found dead. Cause of death: fentanyl overdose. And my daughter was already gone, having drowned in 2012. I knew this call would come. Unlike my daughter’s death, which I never saw coming, I knew my son was doomed, and dreaded getting that one kind of phone call that every parent either does, or should, fear.

For days, I was numb. In shock. And when I finally got round to telling family, I took their lack of response (or the kind that I thought they should have) as uncaring and unsympathetic. I had brushed Death and been delivered by a higher power so many times that I can never count them all, yet both of my children were gone. And maybe I wasn’t the greatest father ever, but I was a dad. After years of blaming myself, I’ve come to realize that their deaths weren’t my fault.

Drugs, disease and loneliness; pain and a broken heart have more ability to steal life than any parent has to save it. I’m sorry for that. The saying that no parent should have to outlive their children is used so much that, until you’ve been there, you cannot know how true it is.

By the fall of 2018, one of our family get-togethers was upon me. I got texts and flipped out. What could I say to such people I loved but imagined didn’t care for what I was going through? And I wrote back some nasty stuff, and told them that they would never see me again.

Then, much later, it came time for me to get exactly how evil I had been. I don’t feel that I was selfish, just….evil. when your heart is broken, what can you do?

After my son was gone, I went crazy.

Then I went to Hell.

Having turned my back on family without giving them the chance to see me in person, to hold me in their arms and cry with me, I had one person left who worked hard to keep me grounded until my sanity came trickling back into my brain. She put up with so much for so long that those phone calls, by my estimate, did more than save my last threads of sanity; they saved my life.

And, perhaps, my soul.

We’ve never met. But she has saved me before. Part of me really wants to believe that she’s an angel.

So the time came for my brother to come to town after COVID-19 had kept him grounded. He said he was going to call my other brother; that made me nervous but hell. It was time. I had to mend at least part of the fence.

But then he added others to the list.

***

Lemme tell you about PTSD and one of its never-discussed symptoms. IBSD, or irritable bowel syndrome with the prevalent and humiliating sudden diarrhea that sometimes, under stress, cannot be held back.

That’s right: you’re not alone. It was hours to go before he would pick me up, but before I could dose myself with Imodium and clonazepam, disaster struck. No warning given. I almost made it to the toilet but hey, don’t be grossed out. I call it “shit happens”. I know, “Shut the fuck up, Mikey,” but it is a part of life for many people and these things should be freely discussed. Especially with doctors. PTSD is an incurable mental illness and this wasn’t my first miss. I’ve had it since childhood. And look: there’s no way to stop every symptom. Not with medication and not with therapy. I just watch what I eat and drink, and before going into a stressful situation, take the above-mentioned drugs.

After showering, it was time.

My big brother and I embraced, years of missing each other keenly felt. I almost cried.

I held that back. I hate crying.

We window-shopped at the mall to kill time, and I’m telling you true, that was good medicine after years of avoiding crowds and people. The smell of new clothes and fresh leather awoke in me a love of people I had never appreciated before. One woman tending a display in a store, a black woman with the most gorgeous hair, caught my eye; I complimented her on it and she gave a startled but pleasant “Thank you!” and that is not something I have been known to do. I’m a different man, and complimenting beautiful women comes naturally now; not in a condescending or solicitous manner but in genuine sincerity. And they know it. My day was made for the second time.

Dinner was awkward for me. I apologized for the things I had said, but I was assured that it had all been understood as soon as I had said it. I was always family and that was it. My nephew knows me, sees me as few others have, and when it was time to part company and we embraced, he whispered, “We’re Smiths. We know how this works. Don’t sweat the small things and take care of yourself. We’ll always understand, and I love you, and I’ve really missed you.”

That’s family. His wife is funny, wise and the picture of beauty and loyalty. His daughter will be due to deliver quite soon, so she suffers things I can’t imagine, and both brothers are plain hilarious, my sister-in-law witty and funny like everyone else. I think my best moment was when my brother was struggling to cut loose a potato skin and I whipped out a switch blade and offered to help. Illegal weapons always light up a party.

Well, that’s it. No names, no pictures; I defend the right to their privacy. I just couldn’t wait to tell you that I’ve actually healed, if just a little, or, at least, changed into a better man than I remember being. And I have my family back. And I’m grateful to God for them, and anxious to see them again, along with a few who weren’t there. Forgiveness from others is magical; Forgiveness of oneself only possible for me because of God. But it, like love, is powerful and sweet.