Learning to Cry

by Christopher C. Payne

  Cheryl was a little harder on her than even I was. We lectured her on the importance of learning versus getting by doing the minimum. How in high school the things she learned now would provide a foundation if she studied hard, but that never really sank in. We tried numerous approaches, but it was like throwing a ball up against the wall. No matter how hard you threw it, the ball just comes bouncing back, over and over again. It is monotonous, but as a parent you have to keep making an effort, even if your child does not.

  Cassandra, as our third addition, was an interesting blend of the two older versions. She was smart for her age, maybe even brilliant at times, but also a little too smart for her own good. I am not sure if this came naturally or was the side effect of her near disaster as a toddler.

  When an au-pair calls you at work and says the words, “Cassandra has a hole in her head” you should listen. I learned a lesson in that experience.

  I was sitting in my office one day, the absentee mother was out and about on one of her various trips out of town, and our au-pair at the time called me and said matter-of-factly, “Duncan, Cassandra fell by the fireplace and now has a hole in her head.”

  I said, “A hole in her head, interesting. How big is the hole? Is she still coherent? Can she walk? Is it an emergency?”

  You might be surprised by my lack of anxiety at the news that my daughter had a hole in her head, but by now we were getting used to the foreign nanny process.

  While most foreign nannies come to the United States speaking English, there is always a level of translation that can make life interesting. Sometimes a hole in the head can mean only a scratch. You are just not sure what to expect when reality collides with translated verbiage. We agreed the nanny would take her to the local clinic, and if I was needed she would call me back. Again, you can reprimand me now. Not the best decision, but it was the decision that was made. I never claimed to be perfect. Sometimes those motherly skills would have been helpful, but sadly they were in the Denver airport at the time.

  By the time I made it home the evaluation had been completed. Cassandra had returned with her medical synopsis. She had a Band-Aid on her head, and the doctor had decided she would be fine. She did not need stitches, no lasting damage was anticipated, and her cognitive skills seemed normal. She received a clean bill of health at the clinic and was sent home no worse for wear. I entered the house, bounced up the stairs picked her up and gave her a big hug. I sat her down and removed the drugstore Band-Aid and gasped.

  Holy shit, she had a hole in her head. I mean, the gash was huge. Not huge in width, but I swear it felt like I could see her skull. It was extremely deep. I was, then, perplexed why she didn’t get stitches. I couldn’t believe I didn’t meet them at the clinic. With Cassandra being our third child, maybe by now I was a little too cavalier in dealing with disasters. It is one thing not to panic, but it is a completely different thing to place your child in danger. Our clinic on the coast doesn’t have the best reputation. After looking at it in more detail and paired with the doctor’s decision, we decided to wait until morning and see how it healed up during the night. I would spend the evening attempting to control my panic.

  The next day the skin had closed quite a bit so we didn’t go back and get the stitches, but I am still not sure that it wasn’t warranted. I promised myself that, if in the future, anyone ever told me that somebody had a hole in his or her head, I would damn well pay attention. It was a far cry from when Melissa was a baby, and we seemed to rush her off to the doctor at the slightest sniffle or cough. Perspectives change so drastically by the time you get to that third kid.

  When Melissa was little, possibly around 11 months old, she got her first cold accompanied by a fever. No matter what we tried, we couldn’t get her fever to break. She was lethargic, almost non-responsive, and wouldn’t eat for several hours. We were in a panic. We had talked with the doctor several times already and finally were told to take her to the emergency room. The doctor also suggested we give her Pedialyte. It might help her if she truly were dehydrated.

  Pedialite, for all of you non-parents out there, is like Gatorade for infants. When a child is sick and needs nutrients in a liquid form, this is the saving grace of high impact drinks. The kid should be able to leap tall buildings after drinking just a few tiny sips. The interesting thing, is this one tiny fact, our Pedialyte bottle was pink. I can’t figure out what marketing guru decided to offer this liquid in the color pink, but I can guarantee it wasn’t a parent. It just couldn’t have been. Why would you subject yourself to this?

  We filled up a bottle, and interestingly enough Melissa took to it very well. She sucked it down rather quickly, and we decided we should fill it up again and see if she would take a go at some more. She looked a little more lucid, so the ingredients must have been working. I was still holding her in my arms trying to comfort her. It is so sad when a baby is sick. You can’t explain anything to them. They have no idea what is going on. You can only hold them and comfort them, without them ever understanding what was wrong.

  I tended to have much better abilities keeping Melissa calm when she was a baby. Again, Cheryl attributed this to her absence during those first few weeks. I can’t really say what the reason was, but I did love holding her no matter what propelled me to be the one getting to do so. As I was cradling her in my arms and her mother was filling a new bottle with our electrolyte nourishment, Melissa started coughing. She was so congested that she must have gotten something caught in her throat. I was holding her up trying to help her when she spewed forth a pink stream of regurgitated Pedialyte, all down the front of my shirt, my arms, my pants. It went everywhere.

  For the record I would like you and everyone else who reads this to know that Pedialyte has a completely different feel, smell, and look to it when it comes back out. The only thing that does not fluctuate is its pinkish color. Not only is it pink, but it will dye anything it touches pink. Inside or outside the stomach, there is nothing like pink vomit that I have encountered before that night or after. I just don’t get why the hell they offer the stuff in pink. Granted it does what it is supposed to do, but pink? Can’t it be some form of clear liquid? If I wanted to douse myself with Pepto Bismol, I would just buy a bunch and jump in the shower.

  It was everything I could do not to follow suit, as I gagged and held my breath. We washed Melissa off the best we could, I changed clothes and sponged off my body and hair. Then, smelling like the inside of a toilet, we made our way to the hospital. Melissa’s fever had still not broken, and we were out of time on taking chances. It had been hovering around 103 degrees for a few hours now, and that was just too high for us to tolerate. We pulled up into the parking lot, checked in at the desk, and by now it was around 1 a.m.

  I’ve always wondered why these things always happen in the middle of the night. Has there ever been a baby that gets sick during the day? Do babies have some kind of internal clock built into their system where they say to themselves, “Damn, self, it is now midnight, so if I want to get sick I have the green-light.”

  The three of us sat down in the waiting room, and, immediately, Melissa got down and crawled around. She had just recently started exploring and had figured out she could be mobile. She was curious about the new surroundings and seemed to be in the mood to play. If we hadn’t known she was sick, we would have never been able to guess it. Actually, as the minutes ticked by she seemed fine.

  By the time the doctor saw us she was in perfect health. She had a slight fever but nothing to be concerned with, and she was moving around like she owned the place. We, both in unison, swore to the doctor that we were not making this up. The baby had been sick. The doctor just smiled and asked if this was our first child. We both nodded our heads, and he just kept right on smiling. That would have made me a little angry if I hadn’t been so tired and relieved that she was okay.

  It kills me how parents have so many similar stories. You could probably talk to any parent and they would have something along the
same lines. Kids are all so much alike, yet in the end, they are all different. My current girlfriend and I have this saying that we joke about all the time -- “It is exactly the same, yet different.” How true is that? Things can be so much alike, yet everyone has their own unique qualities.

  I have to say that until recently I felt lucky with my daughters’ health. None of them were hurt too badly. We never had any broken bones. Nobody ever spent the night in a hospital. Melissa had her tonsils out, but that was the extent of our trials with a doctor. Maybe if we would have had more experience I would be better prepared to face the current situation. I feel like I should have known, probably deep down I always did know, that something like this would occur, but……

  Is a parent ever ready for a child to suffer? Does a parent ever know how to handle seeing his daughter deal with things a little girl should never have to face? No matter how old my children get, they will always be my little girls. I will always remember them, sitting on my lap or bouncing on my knee. I just wish……

  I am crying again. I guess I have to stop at some point, but I don’t know how. I don’t really know what to do. I feel helpless again. I keep going in circles, and my life always ends up right back here. I have to force myself to breath. I know it is important for me to hold it together so I will, as always, do my best.

  I love my little girls.

  I love them more than I ever could explain.

  I just don’t understand.

  I just can’t understand.

  Washington, D.C.

  Father

  Melissa was now in 8th grade. I began to feel that every time she passed her classes for a semester it would be cause for a celebration. I had always assumed that all three girls would attend college. They would go to high school, do as well as they could, and we would find a college, after doing some fun-filled road trips. It would be exciting, picking out the best one. Isn’t that what they always do in the movies? With Melissa, I was now starting to have doubts. Kids just don’t get it at that age. In today’s society, college is like a high school diploma was several years ago. Without a minimum four-year degree you will be extremely limited in what you can do in life.

  The middle school had a program through the history class that offered a trip to Washington, D.C., to all 8th graders. It was the biggest trip the school offered. I was surprised how few kids signed up for the trip until I saw the cost. I was, then, surprised how anyone could afford it. Unless they were staying at the Waldorf, which wasn’t even in Washington, D.C., I was unsure where all the money was going. I think we could have flown our entire family out there for the same price. Still we paid the bill, and Melissa kept her grades at the minimum level required to make the trip. It was good for her to have the incentive, even if she always strived for the lowest rung on the ladder.

  Melissa

  Melissa boarded the plane with her friends, and they were all jubilant to be heading off on their own. While she had made several trips with her family, she was still wide-eyed at the prospect of being by herself with only teachers and classmates accompanying her. This was Melissa’s first trip without her parents, and it was a big one. The agenda was tight, and she had to get up early, but she was erupting with anticipation. None of her good friends were on the trip, but there were a few secondary girls that would be fine to hang out with. She was disappointed with who was in her room. She hadn’t gotten any of her first choices, but she wasn’t going to let that dampen her spirits.

  They arrived early in the morning and immediately hit the bus to start seeing some sights. Melissa had been to Washington, D.C., once before, when she was younger, but had no recollection of the trip. She had seen pictures of the family vacation, one of which hung in the hall of her house with her holding a U.S. flag in front of the Capitol building. The funny part about the picture was she held the flag upside down. Now that was a memory worth holding on to. She had felt like such a dork at the time.

  The sights were fun and she joked with two other girls, but spent most of her time with Vanessa. Vanessa was a little on the wild side, more so even than Melissa who, at this point, had not done much of anything to actually earn her “wild side” designation. That was soon to change. They arrived at the hotel late that evening, had dinner at 8:30, and were supposed to be in their rooms asleep by 10. Vanessa had been telling her all day that she had a surprise, and Melissa couldn’t wait to find out what it was. Since they were not in the same room together, Vanessa came over around 9:15 and let her in on the secret.

  She had a joint. Actually, she had three of them but for that specific night one should be enough. Finally, Melissa was going to try pot. She had made several attempts, all of which had been thwarted somehow or another. This one was now a sure thing. They snuck out the back door into a small alleyway and lit it up. Oddly for quite a while nothing seemed to happen. They coughed a lot, seemed like they would hack up a lung, but there was no feeling of euphoria. Melissa figured she really didn’t know what to expect. Maybe this was it, and there was nothing to it.

  They were joking and laughing and having a good time when she finally realized the jokes they were laughing at were not even that funny. That must be the trick. You just felt better. She was getting very hungry at this point but couldn’t stop laughing. She felt like she could conquer the world. Nothing seemed to really matter anymore. Who cares if they got caught or were sent home. She could stay outside doing this forever.

  Somebody from the hotel must have heard them and started yelling, asking them what they were doing. They were startled at first and, then, ran inside. Both headed off to their rooms, but on the way they gathered some candy bars from the hotel lobby store. My God, they were both starving. Melissa crawled into bed and slept more soundly than she had in years. It felt intoxicating to dream of faraway lands and what life would be like once she was an adult. She was tired of being a child.

  Father

  While Melissa was in Washington things between Cheryl and me were disintegrating. We had been getting into more and more fights over the last few months, and once the previous summer, I had even moved out for a few weeks. I ended up coming back, we saw a marriage counselor, which was worthless, and eventually fell back into our old pattern. Ironically, the marriage counselor told us the same thing I had been telling Ms. Controlling for years. If Cheryl would stop talking so much and listen a little more, we might stand a better chance at surviving.

  The counselor even suggested we get a timer and use that going forward when we got into an argument. This would allow us both, a minute or two to convey our thoughts without screaming over top of each other. The timer lasted about a week. The woman I lived with was very articulate and could not get her speeches finished with such restrictions, so the timer idea didn’t work well at all. Not that I was perfect in the demise of our marriage. It takes two to argue, and I participated in almost every argument we had. There were a few where I abstained, sitting quietly just listening to her yell. That only occurred when I was very angry.

  Finally we sat down and had the talk. We had exploded a few hours before, and I was finished. This was not a healthy environment for the kids, and it couldn’t continue. Our talk went about as well as could be expected. We both agreed that our marriage was over, but we would try and remain in the house for economic reasons. For the record, people, that does not work. We lasted about two days, with her making every attempt possible at reconciliation. I had checked out at that point. We had crossed the line, and for me there was no going back.

  She had a business dinner to go to one evening, and on this occasion I had chosen not to attend. I wanted to begin distancing ourselves publicly so when we finally did split up, it wouldn’t be a shock to anyone. While Cheryl was driving home we were exchanging texts, and she finally told me I needed to leave the house. I needed to get out immediately, and we would figure things out tomorrow. She just couldn’t take it with me being there and not showing her any affection.

  I packed up my bags, the t
wo little kids were now sleeping, grabbed as many things as I could stuff into the back of my SUV and left. She came home and told everyone the next day that I was on a business trip. We decided to wait until Melissa arrived home from her trip and tell the children all together on a night when we were prepared. It was going to be difficult to say the least. I was not sure that the kids would be completely surprised, but as with everything when reality hits, even when it is something expected, it can still throw you for a loop.

  My friend Martin had some apartments, and within a few days I was moved in. I had a pile of clothes and nothing else. No furniture, no dishes, no glasses, no shampoo, nothing. It was a small one-bedroom apartment in the lower level of a townhouse. It was dark and a little stuffy. My dog, which had been kicked out of the house with me, was there, and we shared sleeping quarters on the floor. It took me a while to recover, but new beginnings are all about fresh starts. You just had to keep things in perspective.

  Melissa arrived home from Washington, D.C., to a house of women. She didn’t think a lot about my not being there to greet her, but I later found out how sad she was that I could not share in her stories. At the time she left out the part about smoking pot, but shared that with me later when the two of us had one of our private conversations. She shared a lot with me. I would counsel her the best I could, caution her about the path she was choosing, but those talks were not about her getting punished. The talks were a time where she could share her feelings with no retribution.

  She couldn’t have those kinds of talks with Cheryl. Her mother was excellent with science projects, helping organize events, English papers, hauling the kids down to the local gymnastics class or setting up play dates. She couldn’t discuss topics of a delicate nature without her feelings taking over and her anger being displayed. As Melissa got older I would often say that Cheryl and I could help guide her down the right path, we could tell her about the consequences, but in the end we could no longer control her. If teenagers want to drink, they will drink. If they want to do drugs, they will figure out a way.