There has been something in the back of my mind for a long while that I have generally resisted giving voice to, because to state the thing outright, to give it form, will mean that I must respond in practice. In short, I must acknowledge a reality that I prefer to ignore.
Here's the thing. Since coming here to Bali in 2010, I have always made a point of trying to maintain a relationship with my children back in America--my natural son and my stepchildren. I tried to do this through social media, through personal emails, and by phone. Every Christmas, I have called my son to wish him a happy holiday, chat, and so on. And yet what I must admit is that no one has made a point of contacting me in the same spirit. No one calls or writes to wish me Merry Christmas. No one asks after my health. No one has ever said "How are you doing with your MS?" No one has asked whether I would come and visit. No one has expressed a desire to visit me.
In short, I have been talking to myself.
When I think back on my relationship with my own parents, this absence of interest from my children seems downright unworldly. I always checked in with my parents. When they became ill, I was concerned, and contacted them all the more often. Although my relationship with my father was often difficult, I was there when he became ill, to sit with him, to talk, to encourage. I was there in the hospital room when he died. I held his hand as he died. I took care of my mother full time during the last year of her life. And, again, I was there at the bedside when she died.
To me, this is normal. This is what people do. They remember the care they were given, the efforts of their parents, the emotional and monetary expenditures made on their behalf, the love that gave them life in the first place. And so I am quite astounded to have become so wholly invisible.
So, I'm thinking, in any case, that to avoid the simple reality has become a self-destructive pretense. Why any longer write the note that is not answered, or perhaps inspires but a one or two word reply? Why make that call on Christmas? It is meaningless.
.
I try to reconstruct the pieces of the past in my mind. How it was when my son's mother left, and he was only 4, and how all we had then was each other. How I devoted myself to becoming both father and mother, and also friend. He was everything, and we were always together. For years, I sought temporary work only, so that I could be at home with him as much as possible. I remember how I rode my daughter on my back, and stroked her hair, and interrupted my work to pick her up at school because she didn't like taking the bus. Playing baseball with my stepson. And being his taxi driver. And playing video games that I didn't understand. Everything. Everything.
And now nothing.
I don't mean to sound weak or bitter. I merely mean to be honest with myself. It is what it is, as the popular saying goes. And I no longer see the point in insisting that it isn't.
Here's the thing. Since coming here to Bali in 2010, I have always made a point of trying to maintain a relationship with my children back in America--my natural son and my stepchildren. I tried to do this through social media, through personal emails, and by phone. Every Christmas, I have called my son to wish him a happy holiday, chat, and so on. And yet what I must admit is that no one has made a point of contacting me in the same spirit. No one calls or writes to wish me Merry Christmas. No one asks after my health. No one has ever said "How are you doing with your MS?" No one has asked whether I would come and visit. No one has expressed a desire to visit me.
In short, I have been talking to myself.
When I think back on my relationship with my own parents, this absence of interest from my children seems downright unworldly. I always checked in with my parents. When they became ill, I was concerned, and contacted them all the more often. Although my relationship with my father was often difficult, I was there when he became ill, to sit with him, to talk, to encourage. I was there in the hospital room when he died. I held his hand as he died. I took care of my mother full time during the last year of her life. And, again, I was there at the bedside when she died.
To me, this is normal. This is what people do. They remember the care they were given, the efforts of their parents, the emotional and monetary expenditures made on their behalf, the love that gave them life in the first place. And so I am quite astounded to have become so wholly invisible.
So, I'm thinking, in any case, that to avoid the simple reality has become a self-destructive pretense. Why any longer write the note that is not answered, or perhaps inspires but a one or two word reply? Why make that call on Christmas? It is meaningless.
.
I try to reconstruct the pieces of the past in my mind. How it was when my son's mother left, and he was only 4, and how all we had then was each other. How I devoted myself to becoming both father and mother, and also friend. He was everything, and we were always together. For years, I sought temporary work only, so that I could be at home with him as much as possible. I remember how I rode my daughter on my back, and stroked her hair, and interrupted my work to pick her up at school because she didn't like taking the bus. Playing baseball with my stepson. And being his taxi driver. And playing video games that I didn't understand. Everything. Everything.
And now nothing.
I don't mean to sound weak or bitter. I merely mean to be honest with myself. It is what it is, as the popular saying goes. And I no longer see the point in insisting that it isn't.
No comments:
Post a Comment