There were months, as we were trying to find out what was going on with his seizures, where Dad was heavily medicated. He would have a seizure and doctors would freak out and double his seizure meds. Anyone who has ever taken a seizure medication can assure you that they are, most often, not without side effects. At some points he was taking 3 different medicines 4 times a day. When they were first altering all of these - he could "check out" for days (and sometimes longer) at a time. There would be almost no sign of Jim in those days.
Sometimes he would open his eyes. Other times he would sleep for days on end. During those days, my mother never gave up on him.
Say something, I'm giving up on you.
I'll be the one, if you want me to.
Anywhere I would have followed you.
Say something, I'm giving up on you.
I can only imagine the frustrations she felt, as his spouse. As a child there were days I wanted to throw my hands up and walk out - not give up, but just walk away and take a breather. It was like talking to a brick wall. Not a sound back. But we didn't. Mainly because my mom was a great influence. And she would have (and did) follow him anywhere he went. For his whole journey. During these times of silence, she would still talk to him. Hold his hand. Whisper to him how she was there. And beg him to talk. There were days that he would at least open his eyes. But sometimes, nothing. And there's a certain sense of helplessness that goes along with that.
And I am feeling so small.
It was over my head
I know nothing at all.
We did know nothing. Nothing about his prognosis. Nothing about why he wouldn't speak to anyone. Nothing about why he was unresponsive. Doctors would shake him, people would yell at him, they would dress him, give him meds, feed him through a tube - without him batting an eye. He was sustaining his own life. No machines, no breathing assistance. He just wasn't THERE.
Say something, I'm giving up on you.
I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you.
One time he had been close to months since he had really spoken to us. And it was really starting to feel like we should be apologizing for not being able to get him to really talk to us. My mother had been begging the doctors to reevaluate what was going on. She had been talking to people about how his medications were too much. She never gave up on him. And she wouldn't have. But I always wonder when other people would have. When other families would have done what we always chased away - throwing your hands up and saying "I'm giving up on you." Luckily we didn't. Because this was over a year ago. And he had a lot of life left in him. In fact, after months, this happened.
Mom: Seriously, Jimmy, just saying something. Anything.
Me: You can even tell us how much you hate us. Or that I'm your favorite. I'm okay with that.
Mom: I go home every day and pray to baby Jesus that you'll just open your mouth and say something to us.
There was silence, of course. And then, as Mom and I were sitting on the other side of the room, Dad spoke to us. Very softly. But very clearly.
Dad: Jesus came to me.
At this point, we both jumped up to listen to him. I'm not sure what we were expecting. But he had been so absent from us for what felt like so long, we figured that he was going to say something profound.
Mom: And what did he say?
Dad: He said to stop calling him baby Jesus.
A minor let down, as I was expecting him to tell me Jesus gave him a quick tour of Heaven and that it looks something akin to Willy Wonka's factory. But a win in my book.
We didn't give up on him, thankfully. But I still call him baby Jesus ... and sometimes teenage Jesus. Just for fun.
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