In the Fik of it

The smell of the Michigan shoreline in its late autumnal dress still holds strong in my memory.   The sun was setting far off to the south more than west these days and it seemed to put additional stress on the already slanted clouds that were quickly heading away from the chilled northwest wind.    My boots were covered with the damp shoreline sand and that same damp shoreline spirit seemed to be hanging on me like a wet cotton sheet. I’d been struggling with school for some time.   At 19 years old, the questions seemed to far outpace the answers and in my usual manner, I chose escape and avoidance to deal with them.   I was by fate allowed to enroll in an honors curriculum at the university I was attending and found it confusing.   If the professors thought you were smart, you’d do well in coursework without even having to think.   First choice in class assignments, great leeway in grading, cream-of-the-crop professors.   Grade point was p...

We drove along the snow-covered road happily singing the last three verses from the musical The Sound of Music :   “That will bring us back to doe, doe, doe, doe - a deer,    a female deer”. For some reason she’d scream out only the “doe, doe, doe” portion with an intensity that would send slobber flying and laughter ringing in my little Volkswagen.   I’d laugh with her as we headed down the dark road towards home, enjoying the bliss that she’d found in mimicking my words.   Then, as quickly as it started, the laughter stopped.   She took her ever-present, deflated ball and began to tap it against her mouth in a quiet, rhythmic cadence that signaled an introspective moment.   I’ve learned to take advantage of those sudden shifts in mood, to use them for what I call “free-floating”.   It’s a chance for me to let my guard down and think about my own world with all the selfishness I care to muster. We drove along for a number of mile...

Again, I notice that it’s 2:30 in the morning.   No one is awake but me, likely no one is in tears but me, at least in this house.   Again, awake as the accusation rolls though my mind – the horrific mental image of my wife and I being thought of as abusive monsters. Given all her bruises, marks and cuts – we figured it was only a matter of time before someone again questioned the source of this entire trauma.   I recalled the first time we were called into question.   In the emergency room for her first massive seizure, the ambulance delivered her, the physicians examined her, and the staff questioned us.   It seemed so bizarre that we would have to explain to trained medical staff what “Mongolian Spot” was.   The bruises they were examining were typical congenital pigmentation found on most Asian children; so much for diversity. Bethany’s life has for many years been one of self-abuse and anyone who has ever spent time with her knows the physic...