Category Archives: Health

glands and gonads

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A new pediatrician for Noah. Thanks to the social-worky finagling of my social worker sister.

TANTINE!!

Noah’s sooooo awesome (his verdict) Tantine (auntie):

“Tantine’s like me, she really really likes food. Eating is one of the best things ever. Yeah.”

“I don’t know why dad, but I love it sooooo much at Tantine’s.”

“I have a great family, dad, really! Especially Tantine!”

Yup. Tantine is awesome.

Pediatricians are rare and generally have full patient lists. We got on this doctor’s list because my sister took advantage of a visit with her kid to do a “Tantine” … a mix of professional social work skills and personal charm to negotiate a good outcome for everybody.

This doctor is middle-aged which means he’s both old enough to be experienced and young enough to be Noah’s physician for the next ten years. He was trained by Noah’s first doctor in Montréal. Doctor Grandbois was one of  the grand old pediatricians of the city. A lovely man and wonderful teacher who created a whole generation of caring doctors. He died of cancer a few years ago, leaving hundreds of families and colleagues, bereft.

“Dad, dad, is this his house?”

“No, it’s a doctor’s office.”

“Sucks as an office.”

He’s used to modern industrial clinics.

“I like it. More human.”

“Hum.” He reserves judgment.

Our progress up a short flight of steps is impeded by a really old wooden barrier.

“Woah…what’s that?”

“A barrier to stop kids from falling down the stairs.”

“It’s so dumb, look I can open it with like no effort.”

“You’re nine…”

“Nine and a half.”

I control the sudden desire to whack him on the side of the head.

“Exactly. You’re not two years old.”

“Even when I was like one and a half, I coulda figured this one out, dad.”

I glance at my watch. 3 o’clock. Had to take him out of school for his first checkup with the new doctor. I guess this is the Noah that his teachers have to deal with in the last class. Brilliant, verbose, punctilious, supercilious, arrogant.

His teachers are saints.

I begin filling out the new patient form. I call Tantine because she’ll remember his weight and length at birth even though he’s my kid and we were six thousand kilometers apart.

“He was a real porker, remember?”

I remember all right. But not the details. I remember being shocked at the size of his testicles. He was all head and balls. Quite a destiny, I thought to myself.

“Dad, can I talk to Tantine?”

“No, Noah, not now.”

“Awwww-unh.”

“Do your homework reading.”

“Awww-unh.”

He rumbles and grumbles and hisses and pffff’s … just low enough that intervening would make more noise and loud enough that it annoys only me.

I try to remember everything I need to discuss with the doctor: chronic nasal congestion, chronic stomach cramps, his new ADHD diagnosis, his Mother’s schizophrenia…

“Dad, dad!”

“What?”

He leans in to whisper, but he’s loud.

“That girl she’s like, she’s an adult. I thought you told me this was like a doctor only for kids.”

His voice has that bitchy confrontational tone.

The girl looks up and smiles.

“She’s probably 17 or 18, still a kid.” Funny if it was 3 am she could be my prey, or I could be hers.

He chuckles.

“Boy, like that suckish barrier really looks dumb now.”

I look down at his 133cm. He’s pleased with his wit… as he should be. I ruffle his hair.

“I love you, dad.”

“I love you too, kid.”

Ahhhhhh!

Nobody..not mother, not father, nor syblings, nor lovers, have told me they loved me with such frequency and sincerity as my boy.

The visit with the doctor is wonderful. He speaks directly to Noah, asking him questions about his health, his age, his school, everything. Big boy answers with poise and accuracy. I only need to intervene to specify a certain date.

I like this man talking to my little man.

Then the actual physical examination. He palpates Noah’s glands and then his gonads.

He asked permission before he did.

How funny. The female pediatrician we had as a stopgap never checked his nether realm.

“Perfect health. The postnasal leakage is gone. Smart as a whip, thin and in great shape. You’re doing great Noah.”

“Thanks.”

We set up a follow up for the ADHD  in six weeks.To analyze possible medication.

As we walk to the bus stop, I’m serene. A guy taking care of a guy being raised by a guy.

A ballsy proposition.

“Dad, can I call Tantine to tell her about something?”

Ballsy guys and strong women. Perfect.

“Sure, when we get home.”

“Yaaaayyyyy. I love you dad.”

“I love you, Noah.”

 

 

 

 

morning

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I cast my eyes down. Out of shame. Out of cowardice. I pretend not to see. As most do.

I have a morning without child. Noah spent the previous day and night at my sister’s. He’s ikely being treated to a full and glorious dose of family love, surrounded by his beloved cousins, aunt and uncle.Last night he called me at bedtime.

“Dad, dad, I have this awesome haircut. Yeah, Melina gave it to me and uh, I love it. I’m just too sexy, now.”

I can count on the fingers of one hand the mornings that I have been without my boy over the last year. Not surprisingly I woke in the middle of the night, convinced I heard him cough. Took me a few revolutions of the windmills in my brain before I recalled I was alone.

Not surprisingly, I was up earlier than I needed to. Unable to sleep anymore. Over the last long while, sleep has eluded me in new ways. I wake in the middle of the night lost and abandoned. It used to be panic, sweat, anxiety, revolt. Feelings of someone who was still alive.

Lately, there has been no revolt.

So I made my self presentable, on the sliding scale of one who cares no more, and  headed to my usual café to work. I found a suitable playlist that I pumped into my ears. I cracked open the text I need to rewrite and proceeded to stare out of the plate glass window.

Perhaps a word would emerge, leading to another.

Instead, I see a homeless man that I know. He’s beautiful, young, with eyes like pools of liquid crystal.

Noah and I met him as he was wrapping a dandelion flower with a wire twist from the garbage.

“For my girlfriend,” he told us when Noah stopped to watch him. “We’ve lived together a year, today.”

As we leave, Noah pulls me down to his height and whispers loudly.

“Dad, dad, how uhm, does he keep the flower alive? I mean they like don’t even have a house and like a bed and all that. They sure don’t have a vase.”

“A plastic cup from a café and water from a fountain and presto, instant love and romance.”

“Dad, did you see the, uhm, the color in his eyes? Wow, huhn?”

“Yeah, wow!”

That was three years ago. Ever since then, we cross him every few days as he paces up and down the commercial street of our neighborhood. Sometimes he seems okay…clean, sane, happy. Sometimes he looks like hell…distracted, ill, tormented.

But he is always a sweet soul. And he always greets us with pleasure. Not just because he needs our money. We clearly care for him. And he cares for us. Especially Noah.

This morning when I’m without my child… this morning when I’m holding off the pull of the abyss… this morning when no sacred sentiment of revolt raises me to the challenge of staying alive…

This morning, I see him coming towards my café. He’s a block and a half away, but his unstable steps and stumbling stops indicate that this is a bad day.

I don’t have the strength of humanity. Of compassion. There, but for the grace of circumstance, go I.

He stops a few doors away and leans on a wall. He wipes his forearm across his face and blinks. His sacred, blue-white eyes are contaminated, puffy, almost closed by infection and crusts of dried yellow pus. He starts walking again. If he turns his head just a little he will see me. And I will share his sadness and the horror of his wasted eyes.

He crosses the widow behind which I’m hiding in plain view. I lower my eyes to not see his.

Luckily, my son is not here to witness my cowardice. My shame.

 

Thalia & Melpomene

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“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH…..NNNNOOOOOOOO”.

I leap off the futon and bound into Noah’s room. Bambi’s father couldn’t have done better.

He’s sitting up in bed, contorting his body as if prey to a horrible burning pain.

“Noah, what is it?”

“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH…..NNNNNOOOOOOO.”

A wail that ends in bubbling, irrepressible sobbing. His eyes are ex-orbited, he points at the wall across the room. I look. No shadows, nothing moving.

I sit by him, try to hold him. He leans his head for a moment, then rears back again.

“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH…..NNNNNOOOOOOO.”

His forehead is hot and sweaty. But the fever is not high enough to explain what’s going on. His limbs and chest are cool.

“Does it hurt, Noah? Where does it hurt?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know, I don’t, oooohhh nooooo!”

He buries himself in my body only to push away hard a moment later.

“Oooohhh nooooooo….”.

I glance at the clock. 10h30 p.m. Still two hours before I can give him a dose of tylenol.

“Does your body hurt, your legs?” Often a sign of high fever.

He shakes his head. At least he seems to be responding more. I resolve in my mind that tomorrow, early, I will get on the phone and attempt to schedule an appointment to see his pediatrician. Always a challenge since there are too few kid’s doctors and too many kids.

Damn fornication!

“Here, Noah, drink a few sips of cool water. It’ll help.”

He shakes his head so hard I fear he’ll dislocate something.

“Come on just a sip.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO……”

I’m beginning to suspect he has mucus accumulated in his throat. It probably choked him during his sleep, and woke him violently.

“Swallow hard, then.”

He does so. His eyes widen.He jumps out of bed and goes running madly off in all directions. I chase him.

“Noah, where are you going? Noah!”

He stops in the living room and looks around frenetically. I kneel, surround him with my arms. Tense little body. Odd. He smells like vanilla cake. I realize I forgot to eat supper. Why was that? I can’t remember. I know I bought sushi. He wolfed them down in a flash. Then what? I guess I wasn’t hungry. Or I was lazy.

“Do you need to pee?”

Hes shakes his head against my chest.

“Come on, I’ll walk you back to bed. Then I’ll get cold compresses, okay?”

He follows docilely. I sit him on his bed.

“Here, have a sip.”

This time he does. And then drops himself heavily on the pillow. He has a little sob. I kiss him on the forehead, rub his back gently.

“I’ll go get some cold compresses. I’ll be right back.”

He nods. The first nod of the episode.

Progress.

I run cold water in a bowl, drop in a washcloth and rush back to his room. He’s lying on his side, his face twisted into a mask of sorrow.

Damn those tragic Greeks. They probably contaminated my Italian ancestors. This is their fault.

I sit on his bed, wring the washcloth and place it carefully on his forehead. His eyes flutter and close for a moment, before reopening. I move the cool cloth to the nape of his neck. His face relaxes.

He yawns a small yawn. Then, as I move the cloth to the crown of his head, he yawns again. This time it grows and grows into a total, jaw-cracking chasm.

“Aaaaaaaaahhhh….”. He emits a sigh and closes his eyes. The cat thumps onto his bed and sneaks in for a sniff. The tip of her nose touches his. He giggles, eyes closed.

I kiss his head, his cheeks. His face has now set into a smile.

The other side of those Greeks coursing through our blood. The smiling mask.

Thalia and Melpomene. Comedy and Tragedy. Raising a kid.

His breathing is now easy and regular. As easy as it can be, considering his nose is plugged and his throat is encumbered. The cat pushes up against his back and goes to sleep. I’m grateful for the relay. I tiptoe out of the room.

I step out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette. All day was spent in feeding, watering and resting him, hoping to get past the low fever and congestion. But, this episode freaked me. Tomorrow, pediatrician.

Now, force yourself to bed. The night will probably be a multi-episode adventure.

****

7 a.m. Tuesday.

I wake to the sounds of Noah rinsing the porcelain throne with a night-time’s accumulation. I roll out of bed and step into the hallway just as he’s charging out of bed.

“Hey, dad, you’re up already?”

I grab him and feel his forehead. Cool as a spring brook.

“Dad, I slept all night like a dead man. I feel great.”

True. I realize that we both slept a full night. Still…

“I think we should see the doctor.”

That was my plan, last night.

“Why? I feel great. Really.”

“But, last night, you really freaked out. Remember?”

“Euhhh…No!?!”

“You don’t remember waking and yelling and running crazy?”

“Not at all.” He’s sincere.

He smiles. Total rabbit-toothed glory.

Thalia and Melpomene. Comedy and Tragedy. Raising a kid.

 

 

 

 

bounce,bounce…

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…bust

“Shabba-da-doo-ba-daddoo…shabba-da-doo-ba-daddoo…shabba-da-doo-ba-daddoo…”

Buck naked Noah runs for fresh underwear while scatting a new tune reminiscent of  a funky 70′s hit.

He’s clear-eyed and bushy tailed.

Day before yesterday we were in total distress. He went from heavy fever to heavier fever, from bad headache to worse headache and topped it all with his nighttime delirious battles against death, insanity and other assorted delights.

Yesterday, his fever broke and his eyes cleared. His day home from school was filled with my watchful attention… food, warmth, care. By bedtime he was comfortably tired. He slept all night until he fell out of bed at 4h30 a.m. We giggled. I picked him up and tucked him in. He slipped easily back into sleep.

So, this morning it’s “shabba-da-doo-ba-daddoo…”.

“Boy, am I glad you’re feeling good.”

“i don’t feel good dad.”

I double-take, literally.

“What?”

He looks very serious.

“No, I don’t feel good.”

A pause. Dramatic effect.

“I feel Grrrrrreeeeaaaaaaaattttt!”

I throw him a look.

“Gotcha, dad, oh yeah, I gotcha dad, oh yeah…shabba-da-doo-ba-daddoo…”

He adds a few ‘super-cool’ moves as he belts the song at increasing volume.

Despite the neighbours, I have absolutely no desire to quiet him.

Funny, the morning he fell sick, his hair was standing on end…every one of his numerous cowlicks pointed in different directions. I remember noticing it. I sent him to school but was not surprised when they called me two hours later because he was running a fever.

Today his cowlicks are cooperating with each other and sweep together in a harmonious circular pattern, a shabba-da-doo-ba-daddoo…Doo.

Maybe his cowlicks are like the swallows that fly low before a storm…nature’s early warning signals. Gotta remember that next time I see his hair screaming.

“Dad, I like brushed my teeth, I’m dressed, I put my library books in my bag, I fed the cat and fed my fish. I’m ready to go.”

I’m not.

“Noah, we’re fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.”

“Really? Wow, amazing.” He bounces away trailing an even louder, hip-hop version of shabba-da-doo-ba-daddoo…”.

Kids bounce back with remarkable speed. I crash and burn.

“Dad, are you soon ready? I’m all pumped and it’s sunny and like my friend and me we still have to play the finals of our tournament. We’re still tied, imagine!”

He and his buddy play shootout hockey with a block of ice as they wait for the school bus.

“Soon, Noah, soon.” I’m wrecked, wracked and wussy. And I look like hell. I should shave but I know my face is going to hurt. I try to decide between looking like hell or feeling like hell.

“Dad?”

Noah comes into the bathroom, he’s got coat and gloves and boots and toque and has his schoolbag on his back.

“Dad, you’re still mostly naked !!”

Yes, I’m still in my ratty bathrobe…the kind that only married people wear because hey they’re married and have the illusion that it doesn’t matter anymore.

Or the kind that a single guy wears because hey he is alone and it really doesn’t matter.

“Noah, geez, I still have ten minutes.”

How quickly I become Noah and how quickly Noah becomes me.

“I don’t want to miss the finals, dad.”

Focus. Forget shaving. I’ll cut myself and then I’ll be really nasty.

I pull out yesterday’s clothes and slip them on. No need to reflect on what to wear. I pull together laptop, pen, glasses, notepads…the tools of my trade. Don’t forget anything, I …

“Dad, it’s late.”

He interrupts my methodical inventory. That’s how I’ll forget something critical. I look at the clock…I still have time.

“Damn, Noah, you’re really busting my balls.” It came out quick and strong.

He gives me a look. Shakes his head. Walks away.

Yeah, yeah…two bad words in one sentence.

Shame on me.

Now where is that f…. cellphone. Yeah, a third F…ing bad word.

“Noah, did you see my phone.”

“I don’t know. It’s wherever you put it last.”

Oh, now he’s parroting one of my favorite lines whenever he’s looking for something he’s misplaced…which is all the time.

Bounce, bounce, bust…. the necessary cruelty of healthy children.

And then they become teenagers…which apparently is worse.

Yay!

 

 

 

 

 

sun and sentiment…

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…and crazy stories

“I don’t have the words…!!”

He sobs and throws himself at me, full-bodied, his arms grasping. He’s racked by sorrow and fear. He pushes me away. His eyes widen dramatically.

“Oh my god, I’m so afraid.”

“What is it, Noah? I’m here.”

“I can’t say,” whispering loudly.

He buries his head in the pillows of his bed and sobs. I rub his back.

I’m at a loss. It’s 11 at night. The Acetaminophen has brought his fever down but suddenly he’s delirious. No idea whether it’s the drugs or the underlying condition.

My work day ended at 11 this morning,

“Meeester Barichello?”  The caller ID shows Bancroft School. The voice has a pleasant West-Indian lilt that in no way reassures me.

“Yes !?!” Instant images of death, destruction, horror, mangled limbs, crying babies, nuclear explosions rifle through my mind like a madman’s flip chart.

“Noah Barichello’s dad?”

“Yes !?!” Are they unaware of the sick suspense they put parents through or is it a perverse pleasure that makes up for poor pay?

“Your child is…uhm.”

“Yeeesss?” I’m about to scream at her…”what the f… is wrong?”

“He is crying and has high fever.” Relief! He’s only sick!

When I arrive at his school (at the speed of light) he’s sobbing, his head is splitting and hot enough to cook an egg.

“I’m so sorry dad, I’m so sorry.” His first concern is ruining my day. Damn, I feel cheap for all the times I complain about getting my life sucked out of me.

The whole day at home, he alternates between bad headaches, high fever, stomach cramps.

By the time he goes to bed he’s actually doing alright.

“Dad, I feel fine now. Do you think i can go to school tomorrow because it’s like storytelling day and I prepared my poem to tell in front of everybody, so yeah…”

And here we are.

Unfortunately, an hour after falling asleep he woke in a mad tirade against someone, unseen, but clearly terrifying.

Now, he rears off of his pillows and stares ahead. He lifts a hand as if to fend off an attack.

“No, no, nooooo…. .”

Classic horror film stuff. If it wasn’t so scary, it would be funny.

“Noah, Noah, what’s going on? Noah!”

“No… I’m going to die. I’m a giant and they are going to kill me. I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not a giant, you’ re a 9 year old boy, who weighs 59 pounds. A boy that I can pick up and carry. You’re no giant.”

I pick him up in one fell swoop and carry him. He goes limp and washes my shoulder in tears.

“Ok? Noah? Noah?”

“Yes, dad.”

He’s out of the bad film, back into his own life.

I slip him into his bed and lie down beside him. He slowly falls asleep. So do I.

I wake an hour later. He’s snoring. I touch his forehead. Almost cool.

I crawl out without waking him. The cat jumps in to replace me as soon as I leave the room.

I go to bed, hoping for sleep … succeed in doing nothing better than listening to his every breath and sigh. The drugs will be out of his system in an hour and I fully expect a spike in the fever. I spend the hour calming everything my imagination generates, None of it is good.

Like clockwork, an hour later, he pops up in bed and howls. I don’t run, I fly.

He’s burning up, but not enough to cook anything. Progress. He’s grabbing his head, in pain.

I hate it when it’s his head. Scares me way more than pain in any other part of the body.

“I’m going crazy, dad. I’m crazy. My head is so full. I’m going crazy, I’ll never be normal again. Dad, dad, it hurts.”

This time he knows me, knows himself.

“Headache, fever does that to everybody, Noah. You’re not crazy you’re sick. Vince gets the same.”

The name of his adored cousin is like a talisman.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah… you’ll be ok.”

He nods, in pain.

No choice but to bring down the fever. Despite my doubts I dose him with acetaminophen. It’ll take three quarters of an hour before it kicks in, so I cold compress his forehead, massage his head and shoulders. An hour later he finally  falls asleep.

6 a.m.

He wakes me from an exhausted slumber.

“Dad, I’m hungry.”

I touch his forehead. Warm but not hot.

“Dad, do I go to school today?”

“How do you feel.”

“All tired and my legs are weak.”

“No chances to take, kid. Today you’ll stay with me so that you’ll be in shape for the rest of the week.”

“Sorry dad”

“It’s ok, kid. I’m sorry you had to suffer.”

“Look dad, it’s super sunny. Do you want to go to the café, so you can write? I’ll bring my stuff to draw.”

He’s right it’s a bright one today.

 

 

 

 

 

sex and…

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…sleep and …

Crackers!

No, I’m not finally admitting my insanity.

“Dad, these are great!” He stares at them. “Where have you been all my life?”

He munches through the unsalted soda cracker in his hand, quick-bite rabbit style. Crumbs go flying everywhere. The cat saunters in and nonchalantly snorts up what’s on the floor.

Crackers are cat crack.

It’s 3h30 a.m. and Noah has woken with the stomach burns that have be colonizing our nights for the last month. Every night the only solution has seemed to be taking him into my bed. Within an half hour he snores and I lie awake.

For years no one has slept in my bed. Before that, only women with whom I’d exhausted my body. When we tossed and turned and bumped into each other in the night it would generally lead to further enjoyable exhaustion. Making out, half asleep but fully naked is the best non-Olympic sport.

Noah is cute when he sleeps with me. I rub his little head, give him a kiss on the cheek. He rolls into me and shoves his feet into my belly. Hardly conducive to my rest. But if he stays in his bed his stomach doesn’t let him go back to sleep.

Stress? Fear? Fragile stomach? All three. And his pediatrician has no solution other than subjecting him to a battery of tests that will take weeks to schedule, execute and then react to…. if they are conclusive. And stomach stuff is  rarely conclusive.

The stomach is the lint filter of everything we live through.

So yesterday, we decided on a plan to defeat the wake, burn, go to my bed cycle. In addition to various homeopathic and natural remedies, I put a plate of soda crackers by his bed. The plan: if he wakes, munch on crackers, relax and wait for the pain to subside.

Soda and dry stuff apparently suck up the acid…according to mothers, grandmothers and Mr. Christie.

3h30. I wake to the sounds of Noah whining and “ooouuuffffinnnngg”. I  go to him. He sits up and bites into a cracker. His eyes widen.

“Wow, these are good.” His first crackers. Yes, he is an underprivileged child.

The cat snorts cracker dust and then joins us in Noah’s bed. She comes within an inch of his face. Noah kisses the kitty on the head. The two ball up together.

“Is it easing?”

“A little.” He yawns. Time to make my exit.

“Let’s see if we can go to sleep…”

“…each in our own bed, huhn, dad?”

“That’s the plan. Buona Notte, Sogni d’oro.”

I slip back into my own bed. “Noah,  if you can’t stand it and you show up here with your pillow under your arm, I’ll make room for you in my bed. You’ll be the judge, ok?”

“O.k. dad.”

I hear him whine a little, grumble a little, moan a little, talk to the cat a little.

A loud shrill bell…insistent, annoying. What the hell is it? My cellphone vibrates itself off my night-table onto the ground.

7 a.m. It’s my alarm.

I get out of bed and sneak a peek into Noah’s room. He’s sound asleep, mouth open, hands under his head. The cat is up against his belly. She looks up at me.

We nod to each other, like Joe Friday in Dragnet.

We made it through the night! Now that’s intestinal fortitude! I’m going to have to tell Noah I’m proud of him.

Oh, and stock up on soda crackers..

 

A aaaaa D dddd….

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…now a H hhhh and D dddd

Multi colored cheerleaders shaking pompoms and breasts and coifs of all shapes and sizes….

“Give me an A…..” An unseen crowd roars ‘AAAAAAAAAAAA’

“Give me a D…” A roar as a lusty Latina in paillettes jumps impossibly high.

A  naked contortionist flies above, creating ephemeral arabesques with a hanging red fabric.

“Give me a….”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh”. The scene evaporates like an old TV image shutting down into a circle of fading light.

Noah is silhouetted in the frame of my bedroom door.

“Dad…aaahhh.”

“Your stomach again?”

“I’m sorry dad … I’m ruining your sleep again…aaahhh.”

“Not your fault.”

I pull back the covers and he sidles in beside me. My hand goes out and automatically starts the blending motions  across his belly.

The oneiric mists still cloud my mind. My eyes close even as my hand works its gastric incantation.

“Give me a H…”

This time it’s the flying beauty in the red ribbons. But her mouth does not move. As she stretches into painfully beautiful designs, her eyes plead with me.

“What does it spell?” The Latina jumps like a jack. The crowd roars.

“A…D…H….D!!!! Yeaaaaahhhhh!!”

The red fabric slips by my eyes, her smell, a mixture of sweat and sex and lavender flash me back to the big top dressing rooms, empty but for her and me.

The shape of her body is familiar. I remember making love to her… when I was working with the Circus.

My senses explode.

“Mr. Barichello, he either has an attention deficit or some form of auditory cognitive disorder. Something like that… we gotta do more tests. But he’s so smart…don’t worry.”

What the hell is Noah’s shrink doing talking to me while I am naked with a circus contortionist.

When she took me aside Tuesday evening, I anticipated what she would say. Watching Noah, I feel how he thinks and what he can’t sort through without great effort.

I’ve spent a lifetime wondering why every kind of form is impossible for me to fill out…why no amount of storage bins and filing cabinets solves my inability to sort and classify and put away.

The contortionist has somehow transformed into her long red ribbon. It  wraps me, tightens, slips across my body with a silky burn. I feel alive, a wonderfully sentient being, powerful…

…and sad.

“Dad, dad….”

I turn to the sound and wake. My hand hasn’t stopped caring for Noah’s belly.

“….it’s magic, like, your bed is magic…my stomach is way better.”

“Nice…close your eyes and sleep.”

I haven’t the strength to get him back to his room and his bed.

“Thanks dad, I’m sorry I don’t let you sleep.”

“It’s fine, kid….I’m just glad the pain is gone.”

The pain of never quite connecting with any structure, the pain of never quite belonging. The suffering of being Noah and working working working and it is somehow never quite enough.

No, I’m not worried. Now, I know.

Being me has also been a joy…. spinning stories in my head that take paths that are uniquely mine. I think in poems… ideas and images and senses that mix with no filing cabinets to interfere.

A jumbled living mess that is quite beautiful. And that I sometimes succeeded in putting on paper, on film….to share.

Noah is me and me is Noah. With a difference….my promise to him that he will be happy.

He will exult in the joy of being an original mind sensing patterns of beauty and meaning, without the pain of wondering why he’s so “not able” to do simple things others accomplish effortlessly.

His breathing is regular…sleep has spread across my bed and I’m succumbing to its warm embrace.

Red ribbons float just above me … I reach for the cloth. It’s silk.

Yes. I remember it was silk. Cool, shivery, sense-bending silk.

 

 

 

whack me…

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…hard

Friday 3:45 pm. I get a call from Noah. He’s at daycare and wants to know if I can come and get him early. His stomach “really” hurts.

“Sure, Noah, I’ll come as quickly as I can.”

“Thanks, dad, excuse me for like interrupting your work.”

“Don’t worry, kid, it’s not your fault.”

And I wasn’t getting anything done anyways.

His stomach has been tender and sensitive all week. The reasons are obvious. His school screwed up and there were no hot lunches all week. I made the best sandwiches I could, with veggies and fruit on the side, but…

“Yeah, because you said to me that, even if my stomach hurt today, it’s like, hmmm, you couldn’t do anything about it anyways, so that I shouldn’t call you.”

I did say that. Yes, it sounds cruel. And now I feel guilty. Especially since I’m sitting at home, staring out the window, surrounded by unwashed dishes and clothes and unpaid bills, and trying to find the ideas to advance “my creation”, and getting nowhere.  So why exactly am I defending my time from my son’s needs?

“It’s OK, Noah, you did the right thing. I’m finished working anyways.”

“I’m sorry dad, but its hurting real bad.”

“I’m on my way.”

By the time I walk to his school and we take the bus home, he’s feeling better. And hungry. Of course.

I have a date. I don’t want to cancel.

Feed him and risk re-igniting the fire in his belly? Don’t feed him and risk re-igniting the fire in his belly?

I make some white rice and a broth and dry toast. By the time the babysitter arrives, he’s doing fine. Tender stomach, but no pain.

I run away before something happens.

Now, to be adult, charming, seductive, good-looking. Don’t talk too much about being a parent. I’ve noticed that talking about kids, cuts down on the possibility of sex.

And I like sex.

During supper, I get a text message from the sitter…Noah’s stomach is acting up. Nothing I can do. I don’t call back. But it screws with my desire to get screwed.

A second text message, the pain is worse, when I’m at the lady’s house. Throws me off.

I eventually walk back home in the snow at 1 am.

Unlaid.

The sitter looks stressed out. Noah wakes as soon as she leaves. His belly really, really, really hurts.

Fennel tea, rub the belly counterclockwise, hold him. He literally contorts in pain. I touch here and there to ascertain that his innards aren’t twisted. No appendicitis, no blockage, no liver problem.

It’s the good old acid reflux that we’ve been defeating with daily treatment for the last two months. I thought we had it licked.

&?%$@#**!&@ school that can’t get its ?$%@%?%# act together for hot lunches,

Then they send you reams of papers about nutrition, food %##$@#&@? groups, proper goddamn eating.

*%%##$%#? youuuuu!!!!

The intense pain lasts all night, Friday. He finally falls asleep in my bed around 4 am. He sleeps, I don’t. He moves like a turbine while snoring.

The next day we’re supposed to spend a day with his cousin. Its her birthday. Noah is in worse pain, all day, all evening, all night. At 2 am. I decide to go to the emergency room.

“Dad, I don’t want to…we’ll like spend all night and get what…? I’ll try to sleep OK?”

Listen. Your kid is smart.

“OK, I’ll go make some more fennel water.”

“OK, dad. Sorry dad.”

Shoot me!

I’m back in his room, three minutes later. He’s sound asleep. I rush to my bed in the hopes of doing the same.

I wake at 6 am. Noah is standing beside my bed. His belly is sore but its not pain. He wants to go to the Pokemon tournament…it’s a special Citywide event, once a year.

Maybe distraction is good.

All day, we’re careful….bananas, rice, baked potato…all small quantities. By bed time, it hurts, but he falls asleep quickly and doesn’t wake until this morning 7 am.

No pain. He goes to school. The hot lunch program is back on.

“Dad, if it hurts, can I call you?”

I’m unshaven, exhausted, fighting panic and depression.

“Sure, if it’s not tolerable, and you can’t concentrate.”

I keep trying to balance work and kid.

But, I must admit, it is getting harder to convince myself that staring out a window, dreaming in the hopes of discovering the next script or play is really more important.

“I’ll call you only if I reaaallly can’t stand it dad, I promise.”

If he makes the effort to help me, maybe I should, too.

 

popcorn…

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…psychology

“Can we like be there at the time it opens?”

“We need to be at school at 8h15, Noah, which means we set off on foot at 7h30.”

“But why can’t we be there at 7h30?”

“I don’t feel like getting up at 6 unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Awwww.”

That was last night.

This morning he was up at 5:39 and fully dressed at 5:45.

I know why he wants to get to school at the crack of dawn. Today is an activity. The whole school is going to a movie and then a buffet. The whole school includes Keegan, Noah’s grade six crush. He’s told his teacher, his buddies and me that he’s going to sit beside her in the movie and put his arm around her.

“And imagine, dad, I just can’t hold myself I’m so excited. Keegan and me will be eating at the same table.”

“How do you know you’ll be sitting at the same table?”

There’ s going to be 200 kids.

“I googled the restaurant dad. I saw that they’re all big tables. Big like, you see our apartment? Yeah big like that. And I asked Miss Matula and she told me that all the seniors are going to eat at the senior table. And I’m a senior. Oh yeah, oh yeah, so sweet.”

He drops on a knee with the tackiest Julio Iglesias channeling expression he can manage and pumps his heart in double-fisted passion before reaching out to the object of his affection. He breaks into song.

“Oh, you’re so beautiful/you just think of us as friends/but I think we’re more/ You’re so beautiful, so beautiful… “.

One of his classic compositions. He’s been practicing it for a while.

“Wow, Noah. Very nice.”

“But don’t worry, dad, I won’t do it like that today. Keegan would freak.”

She’s 12, he’s 9, she’s twice his height… a tragically impossible love story.

“And make sure you ask her permission if you want to sit beside her and …”

“I know, I know and especially if I want to put like my arm around her. Dad, how much does popcorn cost?”

“Depends on the size. At the movies they have giganormous popcorn bags.

“Haha, dad, not the giganormous one, but you know the normal one. This way if I’m the only one who has popcorn, because you know it’s not included in the activity, yeah maybe she’ll want to sit beside me.”

“But if she says ‘no’…”

“I know dad, if she says no, it means no and I can’t insist.”

“If you love her you’ve got to respect her.”

“I know. Today is just the best. There’s only one suckish thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Those tests tonight with that lady.”

Tonight, we go to a pedo-psychiatrist for a bunch of tests to determine whether he has some form of attention deficit or symptoms of his Mother’s schizophrenia. His lack of focus and discipline at school may be early symptoms that I can help palliate. Or just proof  of an artistic personality and his dad’s “out of the box” lifestyle.

“Told you, Noah. Don’t worry, it’ll be more fun than last night’s visit to the dentist.”

“Geez, I hope so. But dad, is there something wrong with my head?”

“You draw like Da Vinci, sing like Pavarotti, reason like Einstein. Nothing wrong with you. You’re brilliant and kind. That’s your head. We’re going there tonight to help you use it. Sometimes at school you waste your talent in useless anger and fights.”

“That’s true, dad. Can we go now, dad, it’s already 7.”

“Here, Noah, five bucks to buy popcorn.”

“Oh yeah, great, dad. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

 

wonder…

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…and worry

‘Yo man, peace to the world, man, Peace in my heart, yo man…”

Noah’s new song is a rap hymn to the best in humanity.

“Yo man, peace for me is peace for you…yo, make love not war, man…”

Channeling Lennon and Lil Wayne. He’s doing a moon walk and watching himself in the mirror.

I have the privilege of a 6 a.m.private VIP concert.

“Look dad.”

He does a few ‘yo, man’ moves, ending in a dramatic pose, one arm pointing straight to the sky. His head drops in a solemn moment of. Now he’s John Travolta in ‘fever’.

Solemn silence broken only by a rapid sonorous expulsion of gas.

He holds the pose, unflustered.

“Sweet song, huh dad?.”

“Fart included?”

“Noooo….fart not included. It’s just that I had to poo and I had to dance because I was like you know, inventing the song, live, in my head so if I went for a poo, I would like, eh, have forgotten, you know.”

He runs off to the bathroom. I hear a new music, of grunts and groans and gaseous leaks.

“Sooo? Did you like it dad?”

“Loved it.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

I really did.

“Oh, yeaaaahhhhh!”

Plop. Fizz. Grunt. Groan. His production continues.

This week is going to be tough. For the first time, Noah is going to be tested by a Pedo-psychiatrist.

His lack of discipline and focus at school feels different than a regular  8 3/4 year old finding his way.

Since his Mother went AWOL with Borderline Personality Syndrome and/or Schizophrenia, I have had my ear to Noah’s heart… like an Indian tracker listening for the coming herd with his ear to the ground.

He is a singer, a drawer, a performer, a grimace factory.

Like me, minus the song. I sound like a toad in love when I sing.

So, he may just be an exuberant delightfully expressive personality, making discipline and outside structure a challenge.

Or not.

His Mother’s illness is a hereditary possibility, not a necessary destiny.

But I need to be vigilant. So Friday, we go for a battery of tests. Hopefully revealing nothing but normal development

Noah would not have existed if I had not fallen in love with a mad woman.

What a loss to the world that would have been.

So, whatever happens Friday, I will celebrate my boy and his original mind.

“Dad?”

I look up. He’s at the bathroom door, toilet paper trailing from his butt crack.

“Look.”

He farts very loudly. The paper floats a little ‘on the breeze’.

“Gross, Noah.”

“Hahahaahaaaa.” He disappears into the bathroom, picks up his rap song.

“Yo man….fart for peace, ha….did you hear that dad? A like, Fart Rap. Hahahaha…Dad?”

Dad is listening. Dad is watching.

“Wipe you butt, otherwise it’ll be your friends rapping, ‘Yo man, smelly man, oh yeah smelly man….’ ”

A loud flush.

“Wow, you really caaannn’t sing, dad. You’re so bad.”

No. I can’t sing. But it’s a love song.