On Being Twenty-One

On June 12, 1993, in the dark, early morning hours my son arrived.  He was a larger than average baby and very alert.  He was also mad as hell.  His little face scrunched up, he bellowed his displeasure to the world as he lie on the air bed that they put all babies in so they can put goop in their eyes and perform incomprehensible tests.  I reached out a hand and touched his belly.

"It's all right, Alex, Daddy's here."

His head whipped around and he stopped yelling and started grousing at me.  He had recognized my voice and was comforted by my touch.  I just kept rubbing his tummy and talking quietly to him until they were ready to swaddle him and give him to his mother.  I was a father, not yet a Dad.  This small person was going to help me figure it out.


As with all my children, I have flash memories of him growing up.

Before he was born, I was talking with my wife and noticed this foot shape showing in her belly.  He was stretching.  It was causing her considerable discomfort, so I put my hand gently on the foot and pushed a little bit.  He started kicking enough that my wife was bouncing around on the couch yelling "Stop touching the foot!  Stop touching the foot!"

He's two and we're Trick or Treating in our development.  He's dressed as a farmer and doesn't quite understand what's going on.  He's walking ahead of me with his straw hat on and one hand raised at shoulder height in an "I don't get it" gesture.  He's talking to himself.  I'm walking behind him grinning my fool head off.

He's two and a half and is in the hospital.  We had gone to Thanksgiving at my parents' house in Maine.  We didn't know he was allergic to cats until he couldn't breathe.  We took him to the emergency room twice that night, the second time, we stayed until he was admitted.  The doctor is trying to show us that 93% blood oxygenation is just fine on him.  Newsflash, asshole, he should be at 97%  he's 2.  They get a pediatric pulmonologist who admits him immediately. 

They need to put in an IV and he's not cooperating.  I have to hold him down so they can.  I'm stroking his face and whispering to him.  He looks at the needle going in and passes out.  I spend the night in the hospital room with him.  For the next two nights.  His mother hates hospitals, but eventually, I need to go get a shower.  So she comes into the hospital room.  I head to my parents and have a shower, some turkey stew and a cry.  I come back and he's hopping mad.  He's crying at the top of his lungs.  I ask him, "Alex, where's your mom?"  He says the first words I can recall him ever saying "I don't know!"

I calm him down and tell him I'll be right back.  Go to the nurses station to discover that his mother has been taken to the emergency room in labor.  False labor, but still.  I say to her "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take."  She smiles and tells me that I have to take it because I'm the strong one.

On the way back to New Jersey, we have to stop every 4 hours to give him a nebulizer treatment.  There was nowhere at this one rest stop in Connecticut where I could plug in the nebulizer.  I asked the guy at the candy counter there if I could.  He smiled and said "Sure, I have kids too." 

He's five and we're at an ATM getting some money to go to the movies.  Alex is standing next to me and says at the top of his voice:  "How much money did you get out, Dad?"

He's six and I've brought home a laptop computer from work.  We sit at it for 3 days, playing video games together.

He's seven and is being praised as one of the brightest children that his teachers have ever seen.

He's 9 and we're having a birthday party that involves super soakers.  No one, even his grandparents, escape dry.  He's made only one request for music, which I'm in charge of:  Souza's "Stars and Stripes Forever."

He's 13 and showing me a painting he's done for art class.  Along with his very talented writing he's on a bright course.

He's 14 and standing stoically while his mother and I tell them we are getting divorced.  I notice his eyes are glistening but he's refusing to cry.

He's 16 and I'm looking at him while we talk about his bouts with Depression.  I tell him how much I love him and that I am afraid he will do something drastic.  He assures me he will not.  I hold him to that.

He's 18 and just graduated from  high school.  I cannot find him in the crowd, he finds me.  His hand claps me on the shoulder and I spin around and catch him in a titanic bear hug.  Lifting this young man who is a good 4 inches taller than I am up and squeezing him.

He's 19 and in his sophomore year at college.   He's been having problems with Depression.  Bad ones.  I drive up to his college and wait for him.  He comes around the corner and I'm reminded of myself.  He's not happy, I can see that.  He's incredibly down.  I'm worried, but I try not to let it show.

Over the next three hours, we talk about things.  We buy him snacks.  We buy him stuff he needs.  He takes a shower while I wait.  We go to dinner at a local Ruby Tuesdays and continue to talk.  I think it will work out.

On June 12, he turned 21.  He ended up leaving college.  The Depression, that flaccid, suffocating bitch, almost killed him.  He's been home, getting his head together.  He's much happier.  He smiles, he jokes, he's 21 so he knows everything.  Just like I did.

He was the first gift of Grace.  I have two others, but he was the first.  Although this post seems to be very down, it's very true.  I look at my boy as a blessing.  A bright spark in my universe.  He will find his way, hell, I did.  His grandfather did too.  I have no doubts.

I love you, Alex.  I always will.

Dad.