Another Surprise
This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com
The other week I had a two-hour coffee with my friend Perris Deppa. It was wonderful to have the opportunity to connect with her without any interruptions. Perris recently published a children’s book, “Winter, You Wonder.” I was fascinated to learn that Perris wrote a second narrative exclusively for the illustrator, Raquel Martin. This ensured that Martin had enough detail such that she could make sure Perris’s vision of her book came to life on the page.
In addition to talking about her awesome new release, Perris and I also chatted about some of my recent posts. I was curious to hear how she perceived my parents based on the fact that they were making some decisions without me. She paused before saying, “We all withhold information from our kids.” She went on to add that it was clear that my mom was going to fight tooth and nail to keep me alive.
“Oh, good,” I said. It’s my hope that my readers view my parents empathetically. I can’t imagine what it was like to be in their place making these grueling decisions.
In the excerpt below, it’s the month before my seventh-grade year. My parents convey another decision that has been made for me. I’m mad as all get out, just as any 12-year-old would be in this situation. And now that I’m a parent, I empathize with the untenable situation they were in.
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This excerpt is from Chapter 10: “Another Surprise.” Note that I’ve been discharged from the hospital, with the stipulation that I continue the nightly NG feedings. In this scene, my night nurse is just leaving after getting me connected to the feeding tube.
Later that evening, after my night nurse has left, my mom comes to my room and says my prayers.
“Dear God,” she says. “Please continue to watch over Megan. Give her strength and courage. Guide her along this rocky path and lead her to a place of healing. In Your name we pray. Amen.”
I listen to my mom saying this prayer and wonder how she continues to trust in God when I no longer do. Just having this thought makes me worry though. If God thinks I no longer believe in Him, will He no longer bother with me? Will He not help me get better? God! I panic. I take back that thought! I do believe in you. I do!
When my mom finishes her prayer, she gives me a kiss on the cheek, and then tells me she’ll be right back with my dad. Why is she getting dad? They usually say good night to me separately. What’s going on?
As I wait for the two of them, I begin to feel nervous. I glance around my room for signs of hope, for reasons why I shouldn’t be worried. I look at the blossoming tulips on my bedspread – and I look at the brightly colored flowers on my walls. See? Whatever they have to say, it’s gotta be good. But the last thing I see before my parents walk into my room is the ghostly green light from my clock that’s casting a creepy image on my desk. Oh no. Find something nice to look, find something pretty.
In desperation, I try to find something else, hoping – no, praying – that as long as I’m looking at something that doesn’t make me worry when my parents are talking then whatever it is that they’re going to say won’t be that bad.
Because of this belief, the second my parents walk into the room, I look away from them, scanning, scanning for something good. My feeding tube gets caught up in my bed covers as I move my head back and forth, and as I’m untangling it my eyes catch sight of the pouch of formula that’s perched at the top of the IV pole. With the light in the hallway turned off, the pouch now looks like a bat that’s hanging upside down from the metal bar. I hate bats, I hate them.
“John?” my mom says.
Get the image of the bat out of your head! Get it out! I shout to myself.
“John?” my mom says again.
After an awkward silence, I finally look over at my parents, resigned. They’re going to say the same thing regardless of what I’m looking at. What a stupid superstition.
My mom is standing next to me, with her hands folded across her chest and her head tilted toward my dad. It’s clear from her body language that they’ve got something rehearsed to say and that my dad is supposed to start. But he just stands there.
My mom lets out a heavy sigh and then says, “Meg, we’ve got some news to share with you.”
I turn away, knowing that they’re going to share something that will make me upset. But before I turn completely around, I see my mom elbow my dad. She’s not going to let him off the hook.
“Honey,” my dad says and then pauses. “Honey, we’ve decided that Groves Academy is the best school for you this fall.”
My heart sinks. Not this, not this. Please, not this. Groves is a school for “different” kids, kids with learning difficulties and behavior problems. My parents have mentioned this school as a possibility before, but I thought I had made my preference more than clear, that I didn’t want to go there. My vision turns blurry as tears collect in my eyes. I have no control. Over anything.
“Honey, it’s a school that should be able to meet you right where you are.” My mom places her hand on the small of my back. “And help you rebuild.”
“I agree, hon,” my dad says, “And it’s not forever.”
Tears stream down my face. I want to cry hard, really hard, but the feeding tube prevents me from doing so. Instead, I make it clear that I want them to leave by keeping my back to them.
“Honey.” My dad takes my hand in his. “Before you fall asleep, I’d like to share something with you.” My dad takes a deep breath. “I know life is tough right now. I know it is. And what you’re going through right now is tougher than anything I had to deal with when I was younger. But I wanted you to know that…that when I was younger, I had a time when I struggled in school.”
I don’t mean for this to grab my attention, but it does. My dad struggled? In school? My dad who’s at the top of his game at The Bank? I turn around, just the tiniest bit.
“I did,” he says, nodding his head. “My parents had me start kindergarten when I was four. And, well, I just wasn’t ready. So I struggled and struggled until, finally, one of my teachers convinced my parents that I should repeat seventh grade.”
“Blake?” I ask. I knew my dad had attended Blake, a private school, for some of his schooling, but I never knew why, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard that he needed to repeat a grade.
“Yeah,” my dad says. “I guess I wanted to let you know that you’re going to get through this. Things are going to get better.”
My mom leans over to give me a kiss. “I believe that, too, Meg. I really do.”
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I’m reminded how Dan and I shield our own kids from things. 2020 was a year of social unrest, and Dan and I talked about how to convey these events to our kids in a developmentally appropriate way.
Don’t get me wrong, we wanted our young kids to know about how George Floyd was murdered. In fact, we had several conversations about this. We also provided some context for our kids so that they could gain perspective on the nationwide protests that ensued after Floyd’s death.
While we were pretty candid about Floyd’s murder, we chose to present just a portion of the national dialogue.
This indeed was a choice – but it also was a privilege.
We’re in a suburb 25 minutes away from Minneapolis, so we didn’t see the protests and looting like those living in Minneapolis and other cities did. Also, because our kids are white, we didn’t have to instill fear in our kids, and say, this could be you.
We did bring food and supplies to the residents in Floyd’s neighborhood. That said, we dropped off our donations during the middle of the day when there weren’t protests happening.
I want my kids to eventually understand the inherent inequities that are woven into our society, and I also want to present things so that they’re not fearful.
This is a very different example of what withholding information can look like than what I included in this excerpt and the post the other week. Yet it also is a reminder of how we, as parents, shape our children’s view of the world.
It’s sometimes hard to figure out how much we should reveal and how much we should control our kids’ access to social media. To complicate things, what works for one family may not for another. Once again, that’s where it’s wise to lean in with curiosity to understand why others approach things differently than you. Ultimately, I believe we all want what is best for our kids.
*It’s come to my attention that my Archive page didn’t have any of the links to my previous posts! Thanks to the support staff at WordPress, I’ve figured out how to rectify this.:)