by Mark Patterson
We stopped at one child, and that ranks, hands down, as the biggest regret of my life. I fervently hope that his mother suffers none of the torturous, self-inflicted guilt that faithfully visits me, usually late at night, when personal demons-the ones that know your deepest shame- strut forth, because to her eternal credit, Janice begged and pleaded with me for us to create for him a companion bound by blood. A fellow victim of our bungled parenting, one to compromise with on pizza toppings, one who would conspiratorially invoke the same snide nicknames for the same teachers shared only a semester apart (“Picky Joe,” my 9th grade English instructor, an otherwise decorous professional who practiced the unfortunate habit of manually excavating both nostrils, springs to mind.), a genetically empathic fellow inmate to reflexively squeeze his clammy fingers on the tallest rides at Kennywood. Shane desperately needed an adorable Cindy to complement his Greg, or a hapless Bobby would have done, or better yet, maybe even a Marcia..Marcia..Marcia. I could have lectured them in the den.
Owing, however, to my obstinate careerism and selfish rationalization that less (kids) meant more (for the only child), there would be no Brady Bunch spats about the anchovies, no shared sibling-memories made on the Steel Phantom, and nary an authority figure referred to by anything but stilted title and surname. And even worse-no, unbearably worse-there would be no friends. The closest thing to that came right after our only child got his driver’s license and an unexpected invitation to a party in Wellsville. Apprehensive but happy, our “Little Bear” combed his red shock of hair , donned a dress shirt, slapped on too much cologne, and set forth. Less than one hour later, he was back in his bedroom, lying listlessly and devoid of expression amidst the stuffed animals and childhood artifacts that served with loyal distinction for him in place of a quite indifferent world. “When I got there, somebody met me in the driveway and told me there was only enough food for 11, and I would have made 12,” he explained. ” So, I just came home.” Stoic as usual, he kept that snazzy blue shirt on all day, perhaps imagining himself present and welcome at his first social outing-Shane Patterson, the life of the party. I’m not sure. I am sure I retreated to MY safe haven and sobbed for an hour.
By default, as his mom worked long, grueling hours as an RN at Weirton med (Before dedication to job again looms the boogeyman in this cathartic, self-indulgent saga, let’s get real: Janice lives and BREATHES for Bear, and Bill Gates would blink at our grocery bill.), I became best (and only) friend. I can recite every syllable from Willy Wonka (The creepy Gene Wilder iteration undoubtedly murdered those obnoxious “golden ticket” kids.), know every song from The Lion King, and Nosferatu, the seminal and silent vampire flick legendary for the haunting lead performance of mysterious German actor Max Schreck, stopped scaring me after about a 50th force-fed viewing.
The Asperger’s brain finds comfort in repetition, and fright fests were Shane’s cup of tea (Stiffly formal and oddly cultured, he also favors a good cup of Earl Grey, the hard stuff that tastes like dishwater to me.), but the real monsters found expression in crippling anxiety, an inexpressible sense of dread that did its worst during the pandemic. I shudder now in recounting the time when, housebound and deprived of work-outlet, he hyperventilated and wailed that his healthy heart was attacking. “Please don’t lose me, dad, don’t let me go. Talk to me and keep me here.” It is not our son’s heart that still bears the painful scars of that episode.
That 20- minute drive to the emergency room-there was, of course, no coronary occlusion-would mercifully prove the low point. Bravely, our beloved son gradually pushed the tormentors in his mind back, if not into outright checkmate, at least onto their side of the board. Defining himself as a “Perennialist” (one who sees universal truths and deities garbed in different religions), Shane credits faith for making his life bearable, if never that proverbial “walk in the park” (My own prayers that some other kid might befriend Shane, or even notice him, during our countless visits to local playgrounds went, in WHATEVER deity’s infinite wisdom, uniformly unanswered.). A closet determinist- I THINK I believe mainly in domino effects set in motion by the Big Bang-, I more credit the Clonazepam (an effective med prescribed for panic attacks) for finally kicking in to qualm Bear’s anxiety and grant blessed (no religious inference) relief.
I’d love to report that our mildly-autistic 30-year-old now enjoys some thriving social life and has developed the job skills to assure security after his mom, 62, but graced with genetic longevity, and myself, six years her senior and ridden with a fast, irregular heart, shoot through to whatever comes (or doesn’t) next. But actual life doesn’t unfold like a Hallmark movie. Bear still spends too much time in his bedroom, immersed in religious studies that, to me, more invoke the image of a crutch than a cross, but that he swears (presumably on a Christian bible, but maybe while grasping a Tanakh-the Jewish version, or even a Bhagavad Gita-the mouthful denoting Hindu words to worship by) will reveal the path and purpose my man so palpably yearns for.
Through all this, has emerged an impeccably polite and decent gentleman who sends a generous part of his unemployment check to charities, attempted to volunteer at a local food center, and seeks to serve others with more profound and personal sacrifice.
That desire has now compelled Shane to uproot from his cocooned existence here in our New Manchester home- the dwelling he shares with his mom and I, and that we just built as the one pillar of his uncertain future. He might never have friends, we reasoned, or gratifying employment, or even full peace of mind-but he WILL, by God, have three bedrooms, a finished basement, two-car garage, and a pretty cool (if I may say so) pergola complete with boutique firepit. The noble purpose that now calls him transcends such well-meaning materialism.
My brother- in -law suffers from Alzheimer’s, mid-stage, and in his 85th Autumn, advancing steadily. Not surprisingly, Bill has become a cloying, verbally abusive handful for my older sister, Brenda, and that confines her to their otherwise comfortable San Francisco home. Voluntarily, Shane flew out last Saturday taking indefinite leave of us to help look after him.
Since his dad does not hug, and that apple came down just a conceded putt from the tree, at the terminal gate, Bear instead extended an over-sized paw that almost crushed mine. Psychology holds that the strongest of human relationships exists between father and son. I felt that truth in a vice grip shouting what mere words had not even whispered. I watched for a long time until my offspring had disappeared down a long hallway that might lead to a new life. Is it a good thing that Shane never looked back?
And now it is me, in a world-class twist of irony, suffering my own company, while Shane’s mother works, in that same three-bedroom dwelling (complete with pergola and firepit) that we feared would house a lonely single occupant after WE were gone. I think I’ll pull up a certain (sinister) chocolatier tonight.
