The Last Visit
I always think it will be different. I hope. But it never is. All I can do is prepare, and then dig my heels in to get through it. Protecting myself by removing any kind of emotion from the visit has become almost automatic but not something you ever get used to. It is not who I am and feels stiff, unnatural. Yet safe and comfortable in an alarmingly too familiar way. After all, he’s 24 and I’m his mother.
I get ready for his visit by reviewing the boundaries I’ve set up and making empty promises to myself about maintaining them. Like a sleepwalker I go through the motions remaining as numb as possible. Thinking how sad it is to feel the need to lock up valuables, change the garage codes, and replace the new white quilt with an old worn out comforter is just too painful.
Before I know it, he arrives. Like a tornado he blows into the house, his cone of destruction immediately creating chaos. The air feels heavier and I’m almost dizzy trying to maintain a semblance of order. He arrives in mid-sentence, his own nerves palpable. Once so close, the sadness at our mutual discomfort blows through me. His words don’t make sense. He rambles about non-sensical topics without taking a breath until I am trapped in his turmoil. I breathe and try to remain calm and observe. Deep in his illness he personifies his chaos by wearing dirty clothes that don’t fit and carrying all his belongings as if in a shelter. He moves continuously leaving a trail of clothing in his path. As his tales spin faster I am reminded of the mental illness that has robbed him. I feel the familiar pit in my stomach and the pain I work so hard to keep at bay is once again front and center. My eyes fill as I think back to the little girl who used to stroke my cheek when she thought I fell asleep in her bed reading one more chapter of June B. Jones. And I hope. Maybe it will be different this time.
We sit down to take out boxes of thai food now cold on the table. He opens his and without a thank you begins shoveling food into his mouth. I can smell him from my seat but I bite my tongue. Instead, I paste on a smile and listen to his tales trying to make a connection I still yearn for. I listen to Howie and the twins asking polite questions, feeling the crunch of the familiar eggshells beneath our feet. Before long I feel the tendrils of exhaustion and my hope that this time would be different quietly shifts to hopes the visit will pass quickly and without incident……….
