November 26, 2012
At-the-end-of-my-last-essay I suggested that this attempt would be about oxytocin – and while I know that I have to write about this soon, (as oxytocin could save the entire institution of marriage), something more personal and profound occurred the other day that I wanted to explore with You (my regular readers).
One of the steps in getting one’s home refinanced (or sold) is to have it appraised. I’m not sure what these appraisers are all about – as-I’ve-seen-more-than-one-of-them simply do a drive by; or check comparable listings in one’s area simply to throw an arbitrary home value at you (often coming in much lower than what the home is worth). But I have since learned, that in the current economic climate and housing market appraisers must do “real” appraisals. So it was with some trepidation that I allowed John into my home – because now that I am essentially on fixed income – I was hoping to get the lowest mortgage rate possible for our Refi.
John seemed to have a pretty good sense of humor on-the-phone (I can’t discuss the particulars for fear I would give his last name away) and very early in his home survey, he picked up that I am a member of Trojan Nation; and though he is a Bruin fan – we had a non-emotional discussion of our two sports teams – which led us to discovering that we were both Matadors (Cal State University Northridge): where he graduated from and I still teach.
This, in turn, led to a discussion about the current state of California education which we both bemoaned, complaining of our corrupt politicians and the flawed lottery system. But everyone who knows me; knows that any discussion on Californian education will also cover the disintegration of the American nuclear family and the lack of supervision in homes unoccupied by a sober adult for-four-hours-a-day or more! And this is when I told John about why I wanted Son Tyler out-of-US, and, in another country where you can’t couch surf until you overdose.
It was then that John told me that he had lost his middle daughter to a heroin overdose. When I asked him how recently – he replied: “Three months ago.” To which I responded with a flood of tears.
It’s the moment anyone who is a parent dreads – that moment where you understand that you will have to bury your child – and the insurmountable guilt sets in…just like anyone associated with a suicide — you torture yourself trying to figure out if you had “done enough”; or, was there something else you could have done…was there something else you might have thought of?
Having worked with more-than-one mother, father, spouse or child affected by a suicide – I have found that the only way we can live on is: by acknowledging that we did all we could do; and, if we thought we might have done something other than what we did – we explore the reasons why we didn’t intervene…because we can only do what we know how to do…
John hoped with me that my South African solution for Tyler was going to work — while saying that he had tried to positively intervene with his daughter with everything he knew.
I couldn’t ameliorate his pain – but I think he understood (as did I) that we shared a bond of sorrow and confusion, and, I believe, his hope for my son was genuine.
And when John left, I could have cared fucking less if I got the Refi or not, cuz…
Every fool knows
A dog needs a home
A shelter, from pigs on the wing (FLOYD, ‘Animals’)