A Weekly Dose of Inner Peace from an Unlikely Source
by Bruce Overby
A Liberating Routine
Every Tuesday I drive to my mother’s house and load up my
special needs brother, Eric, who lives with her, and take him to a
local park to shoot baskets. After that we go out for coffee.
It seems like a simple routine, and perhaps it is for him. But for me, over the seven years we’ve been doing this, it’s become much more than that.
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| Eric and Bruce |
Welcome Aboard, Little Dude
Eric was born in 1967, the eighth of nine children. Our parents,
gradually discovering Eric’s handicap, which would limit his mental
capacity to that of a 5 year old for the rest of his life, must have
fretted greatly. Extra care would be needed, additional financial
pressures might arise, and they would have to manage it all in a
brood that was already large and demanding.
At the same time, I know they saw silver linings: Eric had no
physical deformity, and while his development would be slow, it would
be steady. And most importantly, we learned over time that his
condition was not progressive — it would not get worse. We had all
learned by example to help care for one another, so we generally
embraced Eric, provided the small bits of extra care he needed, and
watched over him with a slightly more protective eye than we had with
each other.
Brush with Tragedy
Fast forward to the fall of 2010, our mother suffered a ruptured artery in her
stomach that nearly took her life. Her stomach problem was the result
of analgesics she had been using to soothe orthopedic pain. In the
wake of the crisis we put our heads together to think about
relieving her daily burdens so the pain could be relieved without the
medicine. In particular, we considered the central burden of her
life, which was caring for Eric, who was now a 200 pound middle-aged
man with the limited abilities and consistent needs of an energetic
five year old.
We considered placing Eric in a care facility, but Mom was insistent: “I need Eric in my life,” she told us, flatly refusing anything that would take him away from her.
We all got a stark reminder that day of not only the strong connection our mother had built with Eric, but also the very simple fact that Eric is, in every sense, a person. He has special needs, yes, but he looks you in the eye and calls you by your name, values his family and his life, and not only mutters the names of his brothers and sisters incessantly, but drops whatever he’s doing at the sound of a sibling’s voice entering the house. And even more than that, he is a man who treasures, to the extent that he can, the person who has been the most constant presence in his life, his mother.
Not So Different from the Rest of Us
In the end, we decided each of us would do what we could to take Eric out so Mom could have at least a few extra hours of respite a few times a week. One brother has taken him for the occasional Saturday outing, lasting much of the day. Each of two sisters take him for an evening a week, providing him with dinner and activities in their homes, or a trip to Target or Home Depot. And I, of course, get him out on the basketball court.
On the court and off, I’ve discovered that as different as this lumbering, clumsy, sometimes silly man is from the rest of us, he is also very much the same. He is more vulnerable, certainly, unable to make rational decisions or move independently through a world that requires complex thinking and sophisticated words. But like any of us, he is curious. He cranes his head and leans in to feast his now failing eyes on any shining, pinging, or glowing thing he sees or hears. He’s also fickle sometimes, growing tired of the basketball court we typically use and asking for “a different park.” And at other times, he’s a creature of habit, ordering the same Javiva iced-coffee drink every week, without fail. And he even gets lazy sometimes, taking a day off from the special needs program he attends or taking a little more time than usual to get motivated for his outings. And who among us doesn’t get fickle about some things and habitual about others, or feel a little lazy every once in a while?
Freedom
But the real discovery I’ve made in these years of basketball with Eric has been one of complete release and freedom. Because in many ways, I’ve realized, Eric’s handicap has set him free. He is free from the burden of difficult choices and challenges to self-esteem, and the hours, days, sometimes weeks of consternation that come with them. And the price of that freedom is actually our gift as members of his family: It is the privilege of providing the support and care that grants him that freedom. Because who knows what kind of person Eric would be without the support system he has? Who knows what might befall a vulnerable innocent like him? The answer is, no one does, and no one ever will, because he does have two hard-working, sensitive, empathetic parents, a brilliant and compassionate stepmother, and eight solid and supportive siblings. (Eric easily matches sibling names to birth order. “Who’s No. 4?” “Bruce!” “Who’s No. 8?” “Eric!” And constantly reconfirms his schedule of visitors. “Cindy’s coming?” “Yep.” “Wednesday, five o’clock?” “Yep.”)
The weather is fine in Silicon Valley and my work is painless, but the distance between the problems I solve and the people I solve them for is so great that I am often left wondering, why? I meet, create, analyze, assess, measure and remeasure, judge and get judged, and after all that, the accomplishment I feel is fleeting, and the question lingers, what’s the point of it all? But for two hours every Tuesday I am delivered from all that. The amiable lummox who is my brother greets me and goes through the routine. Ball and wallet are zipped securely into the duffel bag. I brush his hair — my vanity, not his — and he tucks the brush into the bag for later. In the car, the toughest decisions to make are which Peet’s coffee shop to go to and whether or not we’ll look for “a different park.”
Out in the world Eric draws the occasional quizzical look or frown, but he also draws out astonishing levels of humanity. The clerk at the coffee shop simply smiles as Eric rounds the counter and sticks his big head right into the cash register. A boy, maybe 10 years old, shares a basket with us and soon takes it on himself to shag each of Eric’s misses, returning the ball to Eric carefully while balancing his own ball on his tiny hip. It is a time of human frailty and goodness, and of lightness buttressed by lifelong devotion. And this is where I am set free. Life steps down from ethereal complexity and becomes simple, essential, and palpable.
And the predictable result is that, on those rare occasions when some conflict gets in the way and I miss my time with Eric, it is a bad week. Sadness and a sense of yearning creep in during that long stretch of 13 days, but no matter. For now, at least, there is always the next Tuesday, which will come along and make everything right.
Bruce Overby is a prize-winning author and writer in the truest sense of the word. He spends his days as a technical writer and his off time as a fiction writer. His writing passions lie in the world of loss, addiction, family, relationships, and the human condition in a technology-driven world. You can read more from Bruce at www.bruceoverby.com. He also happens to be my beloved brother-in-law. I hope you all enjoyed his offering.
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This is such a beautiful example of a family who loves and accepts each other through good times and bad. I'd like to read more stories like this as they fuel the feeling of hope.
ReplyDeleteI totally agree!
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