Losing One More Time

I heard an author on NPR today discussing his book about his second son's health crisis, after having lost the first to drugs and suicide. He commented, as did his host, about feeling like lightning was NOT supposed to hit the same place twice and, despite all odds, it did, forcing him and his wife through a second agonizing and difficult journey. While intrigued, I couldn't help but feel, “only twice?” That's not bad; I'm on my fourth—or is it 5th-- agonizing slow loss of a family member, who's still here, but gone all the same.

A phone call yesterday from a long lost friend, whose daughter is about the same age as Janai, has me thinking about her and my granddaughter Janelle. The rumor mill has Janai back in Malden, living with her old boyfriend. Brian, and his family, while pregnant again by another guy. Her Facebook page says we hate her, but I fully expect her to call the next time she's in a crisis and wants rescuing again. Twice we (my granddaughter Erin, daughter in law Carol, and I) brought her to the Cape when the verbal, physical and emotional abuse was more than she could take, and both times she ran wild almost immediately making decisions based on her own impulses, not what was best for her infant, Janelle. She behaved in some of the same ways that got her placed in residential school four years ago, and made it impossible for Erin to continue to offer help, too.

She left , claiming I didn't help her, but what really happened is that I gave her the help she needed and not what she wanted....she wanted someone to take care of her and let her have her old life back, despite having a child. When we got her services and supports, lined up multiple resources and she was placed in a shelter for young moms, she only felt trapped having to be with Janelle, 24/7. So, instead of making a plan, she abandoned her daughter to social services, claiming that that was the only way to take care of her...Janelle is in foster care, now, nearly 200 miles away, and legally I have no rights unless I offer to parent her myself, something I just can't do.

Janai's actions continue to be attributable to her mental health problems. The research I've done on bi-polar girls says that it's a really difficult disease to treat successfully and then only if the person wants to defeat it and struggles mightily with both medication and therapy. Janai will do neither. Sexual acting out is very common and the complication of reactive attachment disorder means that since puberty, my bubbly happy little bundle of energy has been slipping away from me. Janai flits from relationship to relationship, and everyone is her “best friend” or the “love of her life.” She truly believes it in the moment, which is so sad. She doesn't stick around long enough to overcome obstacles and build her own confidence and esteem; she runs away, emotionally or geographically. And always she tells the people around her what she thinks they want to hear—her truth remains hidden, even to her.

The constant drama of mental illness takes a toll on the entire family. Everyone else seems angry with Janai, except me. I'm the one who seems to take it all in, and get up each day without a lot of emotional baggage. That's probably because I'm getting to be a pro at this after losing --in one way or another--Andy (adoption disruption), Kayla (autism), Mark (Multiple Sclerosis) and more recently Aunt Adele (dementia). Janai is sick, and I can't control the future for her.

When I do cry, it's for Janelle, who's now 9 months old, and hasn't seen any of her family down here since February. I made the mistake of getting attached to her while I was driving Janai around to services and babysitting a time or two. Infants are so precious and innocent and it was a joy to be around Janelle and try to engage her attention with words and music and colors. I only hope that the social workers, who certainly chose their profession from noble instincts, will do justice by Janelle in their choice and supervision of her placement. Maybe I can convince them to let me visit or receive photos and letters as the years progress.

Empty Houses, Lush Gardens

Long Beach Road in Centerville is labeled as a dead end, but it always brings my contemplative side to life.

The road veers off the main drag to Craigville Beach in Centerville and runs down the barrier beach, for a mile or so. It passes the very private Beach Club and dozens of beach mansions on the ocean side with more modest but still pricey summer homes on the river side. The Yawkey family (of the Red Sox) used to own a summer home down here that one of my teacher friends looked after. The availablity of deep water dockage makes the cluster of homes even more exclusive. Walking here, I always notice

that though large and lovely in design, most of the houses are styled to fit in a New England village—peaks, cedar shingles, and weathered wood fencing and only the number

and style of windows showing their mostly 20th century construction.

Yesterday almost all the homes were empty though there was a buzz of activity all along the road....landscapers galore orchestrating the lush gardens and lawns so that the owners can exclaim over them during the upcoming holiday weekend. Violet-blue hydrangeas, pink and red roses, and golden day lilies were in abundance everywhere I glanced. In one front yard, masons worked deliberately to dry set thick rectangular stones for a new semi-circular driveway. The far end was too muddy to work after last night's downpour, but their rubber mallets pounded the rosy colored cobbles into place, one at a time, into the drier sand and dirt. They looked and sounded happy to be working on such a hot day, down where the ocean breeze kept everything cool and pleasant.

I've always

wondered about the logic of owning a house (especially a large one on avulnerable coastal dune) in which a family lives for a month or two each year. Sometimes less. Seems that was a problem for some folks this year, t

oo....six or eight of the homes are for sale, more than usual for a given year. I have a friend who, when he sees big homes like these, always enters into an internal conversation where he wonders what he did wrong in

his life that he doesn't own property like this, as if these stately houses denote success. As if their very existence calls his own value into question. Funny that. I always wonder about the people inside—what makes them cry, what makes them happy, and what they had to sacrifice to end up here. What choices did they make over the years. And why did the house on the end have wood stacked for a year outdoors, warping in the weather, during recent renovations? And why have I never seen anyone on the private tennis courts? Lots of mysteries behind these beautiful facades.

But the best part of Long beach Road comes toward the end. Here the town long ago bought parcels for parking (about 8 cars in each of two small lots) with big “Town Way to Water” signs pointing to the public access. There's a narrow walkway across a manicured lawn in one spot and then the real treasure—at the very end of the road boardwalks lead to another mile or more of untouched barrier beach curving its way into the distance, accessible only by foot.

More about that special hideaway in a different post.

Motley Crew Intro

The people in my life are truely a motley crew. My own doing, as I choose them all at one time or another. Long ago and far away, I thought it just seemed logical to adopt my childrem. Naive, perhaps. Hopeful certainly. Liberal to the bone in my belief that when I wanted to add kids to the mix, I should find kids who needed parents.

Neither Mark nor I cared much back then about whether our children were genetically ours or not. I do understand those for whom that is a huge issue, it just wasn't for us. But I never expected to get what I got.

All three have had serious issues, and none have given me the "normal" family I dreamed of having. I've dealt with all sorts of disabilities over the years, physical, and mental. Andy arrived at age 11 and the adoption distrupted at 16, when he went back out to foster care. At 45 now, he and his family are actually the ones I most enjoy spending time with (more stories to come later). Kayla was supposed to be our normal, healthy infant and she was diganosed ASD (autistic) at 3 (mucho long saga) and is now 21 and ready to tranisition from school to adult services. Lastly Janai came at 2, with minor learning issues, and at 19 is on her own, stuggling with mental health and behavior issues, and as I write this, no one is sure if she's in Holyoke or Malden, and she's not answering her phone. Her daughter, my grandbaby was taken into state custody when she was 7 mos old and I haven't seen her since.

A friend I used to work with, and excellent listener to my frequent tales of woe and distress, often said, "Susan, you should write a book....no one would believe it all!"

My frequent response was, who'd want to read it, if it's all sad?"

But over the years I guess I've learned a lot about life and human nature and what is and is not possible. I'm a firm believer that things do happen for a reason, even if I can't always see it in the midst of the drama. And most days I don't think of my life as sadder than others. But there are days when I ask, "Why me?"

Perhaps writing about it all, including what makes me smile, here in this blog will help fit the jigsaw together. Perhaps someone will want to read it... I guess that's what blogs are for.