What a party we are having on Facebook today to celebrate the release of Press Pause Moments! As promised (and as a special thank you to my wonderful supporters) here is a sample essay from the book: CherieTiffany's contribution titled, George, Fred and Austin.
PEOPLE ALWAYS SAY "God never gives you more than you can handle." Sometimes I think God has overestimated my ability.
My childhood memories are combinations of two worlds. One of growing up with a loving, hip, 1960s mom, resplendent in her lime green, yellow and orange mini skirt; glamorous, long false eyelashes; a flippy-ended wig; and the requisite go-go boots. She would head out to the community theater opening night or a local game of bridge, and would regale us the next morning with stories of her prior night's adventure. The second world was one where Mom was not at home to tell us stories in the morning. She was in the hosiptal during much of my life. I was told that it all started with her stubbing her toe one summer day. At 10, it was enough for me to feel alone.
I remember the "trying to disguise the concern" telephone calls she would make to my Grandma, saying "Mom, I need you to come down and watch the kids; they're putting me back in the hospital." My Grandma never hesitated. I think somewhere in her closet she must have had a suitcase all packed and ready to go for the three-hour car ride to our house, because three hours later, sure enough, there would be Grandma standing at our door, beat-up old suitcase in one hand, and in the other a container of chocolate chip cookies pulled from the deep freeze on her way out of the garage.
The infection that started in my mom's toe took hold of her foot and leg as a mountain stream flowing down the mountain changes the landscape. Only in her foot and leg the erosion went upstream. The surgeries began in a futile attempt to stem the flow from invading her entire leg. Off came her big toe, two more, half her foot.
Surgeons labored to save a leg that found itself shortened six inches below mom's knee. That's when George came to live with us...her first artificial leg. A few years later when the other foot and leg fell prey to the same curse, refusing to repeat the slow agony of "bit by bit," my mother told her doctors, "Just go ahead and lop the thing off."...Welcome home 'Fred.'
I'm not exactly sure whose idea it was to name the legs; my brother, sister or me. I actually think it was Mom's idea to make us not fear our world so much. George and Fred were her 'helpers.' I do remember it would make us smile when my mom would start to stumble during her day-in-and-day-out stilt walking routine, and she would brusquely slap the offender with ther cane and say, "Damn it, George, I'm walking here." What I remember most was the fact that I saw my mother cry only once, and not until I was 16.
George and Fred had been relegated to being door stops. My beautiful mom, now engorged with rancid bodily fluid, could no longer wear them. Off to the doctor we went. Kidney failure required Mom to now attempt an experimental treatment where a catheter would be surgically implanted into her stomach. The idea of flushing her own kidneys three times a day with a bag of saline solution was too much for her. She was long ago weary of these never-ending diabetic complications.
We drove home via the Tasty Freeze as a treat for me playing chauffeur and nurse. When we pulled into the driveway it happened. I turned off the car and looked at my powerhouse of a mother. The tears were streaming down both of her cheeks.
"I just can't do it. I can't take anymore. I'm so tired."
There was nothing else to do so I simply held her hand and hugged her. Just as fast as the waterworks started, she wiped the offending tears away. "Well. That's that. There is no choice. We better get inside and call Grandma."
The life lesson I learned that day would be repeated by me years later in my own car.
I knew there were issues with my son Austin from the moment I brought him home, but before this day, I never "got it." God was about to lay another minefield in my path to navigate. Maybe he figured I had practiced this drill already by caring for my sick mother for all of those years, and it was time for round two.
There was screaming from every corner of the playground, kids pushing each other on the swings, boys running around ramming into each other and knocking each other into the grass. Recess monitors were looking as if they'd like to be anywhere except out on this playground.
The chaos actually humored me. Then I saw my seven-year-old Austin. He was walking, all alone, on the sidewalk, back and forth, back and forth he went. His hands were up near his face, and his lips were moving as he opened and closed his hands. His hands were imaginary puppets, and he was in his own little world, oblivious to the noise and the playground altogether. My son was talking to himself and to his hands.
At that very moment I knew my child wasn't "normal."
What I knew of my precious child, his heart, and his thoughts, became different, and I saw for the first time a world my only son had been living in, the one I had not been ready to embrace. My life came to a crashing, thudding stop on the frozen Iowa earth of that playground.
It all flooded into my brain in flashbacks, so vivid, one after another coming in waves and more waves, unnoticed in a mother's denial. The chewed up clothes, the terror at hearing the hair dryer, the hiding under a bench and my neighbor laughing and saying, "It's so cute when Austin walks back from the bus stop, talking to nobody." It was now that I cried, and for my child.
Turning on the radio, Mom was with me momentarily. The song was Kenny Loggins singing, "Forever." It was the same song I was listening to at age 23, as a New York Nanny, when I got the call from my Aunt Joan saying, "You need to come home now Cherie. Your mother had a stroke on the operating table this morning and it doesn't look good." The playground blurred, I was alone, and felt 16 again with Mom crying like a broken pillar beside me in another car, in another time.
Thinking of that day, I deliberately wiped away my tears and heard a voice that reminded me of my next step. "Well. That's that. There is no choice."
I marched into the school to find out what was wrong with my son. I was the grown up now, on my own. It was time for round two. Bring it on God.
Cherie Tiffany is nearing completion of her first memoir detailing her life and journey in raising her son with Asperger's Syndrome and Psychosis. This is her first published essay, an excerpt from the memoir, Aliber House/Austin T's Journey with Asperger's Syndrome. Cherie and Austin reside in Des Moines, Iowa, where they play never-ending games of Pokemon, hugs are freely given away, and they both watch the Wii Fit in the corner collecting dust. Contact Cherie at [email protected].
