105. How You Carry On

“Well, that was a real … bummer.”

This might be the most understated thing I’ve ever said in my life.

Mom just got back after taking Aunt Alice home. I’m sitting in the same place on the couch as I was when she left.

“Have you started packing?”

“No.”

I still don’t really believe I’m going to be leaving this place. It still feels like a nice dream, a fantasy that looks great and sounds great but definitely won’t happen.

“You have a week left,” Mom says as she goes into the kitchen.

One might interpret that statement in a lot of ways.

One week left, buddy. Breathe in life, because in seven days it’s going to be choked away from you.

Mom and Dad decided that we would move back to Illinois the day after Memorial Day. For a while I was hoping Dad was going to come down and spend the last week with us, but he still has some classes remaining. Plus he has a commitment at his church. Some kind of charity work.

“Any last words from Aunt Alice?”

Mom shakes her head. I know she’s probably thinking she could use a good drink right about now. She’s probably thinking that, because I’m thinking it. Anything to try and forget about the conversation we just had.

“I’m sorry you had to hear all of that,” Mom says, sitting next to me and letting out a sigh.

“I’m just sorry that it happened.”

Mom pats me on the leg and stares at the television in a far-off, distant way. “Such a crazy world.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry for ever bringing you here, Chris.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“I know, but I’ll say it again and keep saying it. This place—this is a wicked place. They just need to come in and bulldoze it over.”

“How about after we leave?”

She laughs. “Yeah. Okay.”

I turn down the volume on the program I wasn’t really watching anyway. “Remember that first time we visited Aunt Alice? When we got in the car and couldn’t stop laughing?”

Mom nods.

“Now I feel—well, like totally bad.”

“I feel sorry for her,” Mom says. “And for my mother.”

“At least we know why Aunt Alice is—that way.” I say this not trying to be mean, just stating the obvious.

“Everybody carries hurt in their heart. Some more than others. But all of us carry some. Part of growing older is realizing this. But, Chris—it’s what we do with it that counts. It’s how we move on in life with it. I don’t believe it ever goes away, not fully. Even if we try and give it over to God. There are scars and remainders of pain that will always be there. But how you carry on—that’s what defines your life.”

“Wow.”

Mom looks surprised by my comment. “What?”

“That was pretty powerful.”

“There were a lot of good things that came out of going to rehab. It’s one thing to stop drinking. It’s another thing to start living.”

“Yeah.”

What I want to say is Yeah, Mom, and way to go and I’m proud of you.

What I want to tell her is Yeah, Mom, you’re finally living again and I love you for being brave enough to do it.

But I just say “Yeah,” which seems okay for Mom. She adds one last thing.

“Don’t wait until you’re forty to start really, truly living.” She glances at me. “Nah—I don’t have to worry about that happening with you.”