Without acknowledging the old woman, the doctor went on, “Brian may never be able to do what normal children—or adults—are able to do.” He paused again. “We believe it may have been caused by the Neo Mulsoy formula. The low chloride concentration in his urine is substantial proof that the sodium deficiency within the soy formula has been the primary cause of Brian’s medical problems.”
While the doctor tried to explain further, Joan wailed, “Oh God, what did I do to my boy?”
“You didn’t do anything,” Doctor Alexander and Mama vowed in unison.
The doctor backed off, allowing the old lady to take over. She grabbed her daughter’s panicked face. “This wasn’t you,” Mama promised. “You did nothing wrong!” She shook her head. “And this is only one opinion. There are other doctors…more tests.”
While Joan wept sorrowfully, Frank rested his hand on his wife’s leg and stared helplessly at the doctor. “But Doctor Carvalho prescribed the formula to Brian,” he muttered in a wounded voice, as if it would make some difference.
“There’s no way he could have known at that time that it would have caused your son harm,” the man replied.
“You say he’ll never walk?” Joan cried.
“Sorry, but I really don’t believe he will,” the doctor answered, sadly.
“Or talk?” Joan gasped, trying to breathe.
The man slowly shook his head. “I have to believe that the damage to your son’s frontal lobe will prohibit any real speech.”
As Joan struggled to continue her panicked line of questioning, Mama shook her gray, curly head. “That’s crap!” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The young doctor turned his attention to her. “I realize that this is…”
“You’re wrong!” Mama insisted, taking a step toward him.
“Excuse me?” he asked. “I know this isn’t easy to hear, but…” The man shot her a kind smile, but Mama wasn’t swayed. “I’m so sorry, but Brian is now mentally disabled,” he concluded.
“No. I don’t think you understand,” Mama replied, staring straight into his sapphire eyes. “Our boy is going to walk. He’s going to talk. He’s going to ride a bike, swim, and learn to do everything that any other kid can do. It might take a little more doing, but I guarantee it!”
Although it was the slightest movement, the doctor shook his head at her foolish hope. “Believe me, I wish that were true, but…”
“Wishing won’t have anything to do with it. No, this’ll take faith and determination, and the love and support of our entire family.”
Unable to do more, Doctor Alexander turned back to Joan and Frank. “I’m here for whatever you need.”
“For what?” Frank barked, his shock turning to rage. “It was a doctor who ruined my son’s life!” By this point, Joan was nearly rolled into the fetal position, her body paralyzed from the devastating news.
Doctor Alexander nodded compassionately and, handing Frank a piece of paper, concluded, “This is a different soy-based formula that you folks can start Brian on, as well as an additional chloride supplement. We’ll talk about solid foods and other alternatives during his next visit.” Patting Joan’s shoulder, he said, “I’m so sorry” and stepped out of the room.
Mama watched the back of him disappear down the long hall and nodded herself into the slightest smirk. In that one moment, she realized her life’s mission had just begun.
While Joan sobbed and convulsed, Frank held his head in his hands, trying to process it all. Mama grabbed her dejected daughter’s face again and forced Joan to look into her eyes. She spoke sternly. “Joan, you listen to me right now. That doctor’s wrong! Brian’s going to write his own story. He’s going to sing his own song and no one’s going to sing it for him. It’s his life and it’s between him and God…not some fool doctor who’s had so much schooling that he’s forgotten the power of faith.”
Joan shook her head. “But, Ma…” she sobbed. “You heard him. Brian’s brain has been damaged.” The final word made her wail out in pain.
“Your Nana said that she had such a difficult time bringing me into the world that she nearly died. And the horse doctor who assisted in the birth told her that I just wouldn’t be right.”
Frank looked up from his spell and began to quietly weep.
Mama nodded again. “Yep,” she said, with burning determination. “Brian’s going to be as right as rain. I guarantee it. Only God knows how…but that’s enough.”
The Rockin’ Chair
When my first son, Evan, was born, it amazed me how he and my father hit it off. Unlike my dad’s tough approach with me and my brothers, he was gentle with my son. And to Evan, the old man walked on water. The entire thing got me thinking about the responsibilities and expectations of a father versus a grandfather, and how the roles can be at such polar opposites.
In The Rockin’ Chair—arguably one of my favorite tear jerkers—I created Grampa John, a compassionate farmer in the spirit of my late grandfather. I then created Hank, his estranged son, whose memories are not as rose-colored as his father’s. The rest—bitter feelings and things said that shouldn’t have been said—play out in a sequence of scenes that most fathers and sons can relate to.
Grampa John decides that before he can join his wife, Alice, in eternal rest, he must tend to a few final chores and heal his family. One by one, he guides his grandchildren through their healing process with the strength of his wisdom and unconditional love. And then he gets to Hank. As the clock ticks fast, John wonders if there’s enough time to prove that love has always existed when it has been masked for an entire lifetime.
The Rockin’ Chair—like our attitudes, either good or bad—is a legacy to be passed down from one generation to the next.
This excerpt depicts one of the opening scenes when John must come to terms with losing his lifelong love to Alzheimer’s.
John sat undisturbed, rocking straight into the afternoon. Giving his eyes a rest, his weary mind danced between the past and present, fighting fiercely to avoid the unknowns of tomorrow. Each thought carried him closer to the same stinging realization: For all the memory Alice has lost, I’ve seemed to gain. He despised it. His dainty flower was withering away inside. For the most part, it was nothing that could be seen by the eye which only seemed to make it worse. She had become an apparition in the flesh, a ghost locked within the familiar frame that had once instilled security. Always the strong one; the solid foundation on which the entire McCarthy family was built, Alice was now becoming nothing more than a shadow of the past. The person closest to John was no longer a person he even vaguely knew and he pitied her for her sickness. The whole thing made his chest burn with anger and frustration. He closed his eyes even tighter.
Surrendering to some strange sense of peace, John finally decided that although he felt the pain, he could also remember the good—and that’s a better deal, by far. Starting as far back as his mind would go, he did what all fortunate souls do in the midst of their twilight hour. He recalled the days back when, and returned to a past time where he could play the narrator. He’d learned that the older someone got, sometimes memories could prove more vivid than the day they were experienced.
~~~
The first mental pictures he could muster were not of his own sagging diapers or warm bottles, but of a large man bent over a screeching calf, leaving behind his smoking brand. In a short time, he would know that man to be his father, a master in the art of hard labor and one who was anxious to pass down his skills.
The stubborn, old codger had come to rugged Montana from Dublin, Ireland. With nothing but a good wife and a trunk full of rags as clothes, he pursued a dream of owning his own land. For years, he worked as a ranch hand, sweating blood in fields he dreamed would someday be his own.
For John, there was some formal schooling, but most of life’s lessons were taught on the ranch right by his father’s side—and there was no better place.
By the time he was twelve, John wat
ched the old man’s eyes change from spirited to tired, but the look of determination never swayed. His pa worked hard, prayed harder and when the time was right, offered every penny he’d saved for a parcel of the land he had slaved over—along with the small, white farmhouse in which John had been raised. As part of the deal, there were two large barns with adjoining corrals, several coops, an outhouse and the old bunkhouse that sat across the creek bridge.
The house wasn’t much more than an old pile of shingles. It had a parlor, a pantry and a kitchen that John’s mother cherished. There were two small bedrooms upstairs, their ceilings pitched with the roof. And, there was a tiny mudroom that led to the porch which covered the entire front of the house. It was no castle, but to the McCarthy’s it was home.
Life rolled along as usual until the old man realized that he could not compete with the larger ranches in the area. They eventually traded in driving cattle and breaking broncs for milking cows.
When it seemed there was nothing more to life than dairy farming, John was saved by the bell; a church bell, of all things. The pastor, a man who loved to watch the pretty girls just as well as offer a heartfelt sermon, called for a square dance. All the girls in the county were going to be there. At sixteen years old, John wasn’t about to let the pastor at them all.
It was a perfect night, as John recalled, a warm spring night filled with the smell of honeysuckle and the song of crickets. Duded up in clothes that didn’t need mending, he showed up stained with an hour’s walk of sweat.
From the door, he could see that the barn had been cleaned up pretty good. There weren’t many older folks there, except the boys in the band and the pastor who, of course, was smiling from ear-to-ear. After taking a belt from the half-empty mason jar being passed around, John matted down his mop of blond hair and went in. In no time, the moonshine was kicking in, giving him the courage to ask the hand of the prettiest girl.
He searched the crowd and eyed her sitting in the corner. For a second, the sight stole his breath away. She’s beautiful in her peach polka dot dress, he thought. A closer look made his mouth go dry. She had high cheekbones, jet-black hair and eyes as black as coal, with equal amounts of the devil and heaven shining through. He couldn’t remember asking, but at some point they were on the floor—twirling, laughing and dancing in each other’s eyes. Through the clamor of dueling banjos, he learned that her name was Alice; the daughter of a drunken French trapper who’d left her and her mother as outcasts in their Sioux tribe.
Under a magical moon—and after tripping over the roots of a weeping willow tree—a beautiful courtship began on that very night.
John and Alice waited for the end of the autumn harvest before exchanging vows in the same white church that had witnessed their every stolen kiss. With chores that needed finishing, John showed up late, his suit disheveled from the frantic trip. As he ran for the altar, he vowed, I’ll never enter the Lord’s house again without wearin’ my best. And he never did. His young bride, however, was waiting patiently and never once complained about his tardiness. She smelled of lilac and beamed with love. The ring—a last-minute gift from John’s mother’s own hand—fit her finger perfectly. The sullen pastor, who was forced to witness another beauty get away, made the nuptials quick. Their kiss, in fact, lasted twice as long as the ceremony. But it didn’t matter. They were finally hitched and John had taken the hand of the woman he not only loved, but also needed. Even at seventeen years old, he knew the difference.
After a brief honeymoon in the barn, they went right back to work—and they worked hard all week. As a reward, each Friday night they kicked up their heels down at the Grange Hall and wore out the linoleum floor with the Texas two-step, or the Tennessee waltz—with John preferring the latter. God, how I loved dancin’ with Alice. She giggled like a child in his arms, while her body moved with his like water over rock. When they got home, they’d slip out of their proper dress, while the dancing continued horizontally under the sheets—both of them completely comfortable and unashamed of each other’s moves. They became such good dance partners, in fact, that Alice awoke one morning with a surprise announcement. “John McCarthy, you’re gonna be a pa.”
Those nine months whipped by and before he knew it, John was sitting in a hospital waiting room feeling like a cowboy at the opera. What a terrible place, he thought. The strong scent of alcohol and other sanitary smells were worse than sitting in a dung-infested chicken coop. He waited and waited. Hours dragged on until old Doc Duff came out, his white smock stained crimson red. Panting, the geezer announced, “Congratulations, John. You have a boy.” John’s eyes welled up.
John cringed, as he vividly recalled the medicine man’s news. “But it wasn’t an easy delivery. In fact, if you didn’t have such a strong wife, she wouldn’t be with us right now…that, I can assure you.” The doctor went on to explain how the baby had wreaked such havoc on Alice’s insides that there was no choice but to perform a full hysterectomy. “Your boy came into the world kickin’ and screamin’, makin’ sure that he’d be the last to exit his mother’s womb,” Doc Duff said, adding, “Born with the devil in him, I tell ya!”
But when John saw his son Hank for the first time, he saw nothing but an angel. There was no greater gift than for a man to have a son carry on his name. John instantly fell in love. No matter how much kicking, screaming or havoc this boy was sure to cause, Hank was his son and John was going to love him—without conditions. In the McCarthy family, love was a given, while respect and everything else had to be earned.
One night, Alice took the baby from John’s lap to tuck him into bed. “I’ll be in soon,” John told her before removing a jackknife from his pocket. It was almost an hour before he had carved the name HANK deep into the chair’s seat. Satisfied with his workmanship, he sneaked off to the boy’s room to kiss Hank’s cheek. “I love you, son,” he whispered.
Without fail—each night, and so as not to be heard—he vowed his love to his son. But like his father before him, words felt like weakness and John didn’t want Hank to grow up soft.
~~~
As John wiped a forgotten teardrop from his eyes, a gentle hand rested upon his shoulder, bringing him back to a time that was less kind. Gazing up, he caught Elle’s smile peeking out from behind the storm door.
“Supper’s on, Pa, and I won’t take no for an answer. You’ve been sitting in this chair for hours. I think you could both use a break.” She smiled.
“I’ll be right along,” he promised, with a smile. The wind slammed the door shut behind her. John yawned and looked down at Three Speed. The dog hadn’t lasted the entire trip down memory lane; its eyelids were twitching to the mercy of its own dreams.
With a deep breath, John decided right then, Anyone who pities the elderly is a damned fool! After only one afternoon of daydreaming, it was obvious that—if anything—it should be the opposite. The elderly should be envied, he decided. John and Alice didn’t have the opportunities or possibilities that younger folks had for the future, but they had something much more precious. They had realities of the past, which nothing or no one could ever take away. Even Alice…though she can’t recall a minute of it, that ol’ girl’s loves are still loved, her dreams realized, deeds done, sufferings endured and meanings of life fulfilled, John thought. Disease or no disease, her life’s like money in the bank.
From where John sat, the future was foggier than ever, but the past was as clear as the memories that proved it. There was no question about who he and Alice were, and how their lives had turned out. Smiling a proud smile, he stood. Every muscle and bone in his tired body snapped, crackled or popped—waking Three Speed from his dreams.
John stretched out and walked toward the rail, with the mutt shadowing him. They stood together, watching a watercolor sky grow faint of light; the great orange ball disappearing, sending off colors of pink, purple and red.
It really is a beautiful place that Pa chose as home, John thought. Everything was so vast and glorious. Turnin
g back toward the house, he asked Three Speed to step aside. “Even though you played hooky from work today,” he whispered, “I’ll still see if I can’t fetch you somethin’ from my plate.”
Everything from the tongue to the tail started wagging. John patted the mutt on the head and headed for the washroom. Dirt or no dirt, he thought, a man cleans up for supper.
~~~
Alice was already propped at the table when John took his respected seat at the head of it. Hunched in her own chair, she noticed John with indifference. She was too distracted, her fingers fumbling for her long, gray locks of hair. Twirling long strands into curls, she’d stop momentarily, play with her place setting, and then go back to her hair. John took notice of the tiny wrinkles in the corners of her mouth; permanent tattoos of a life of happiness when her smile would dance across her beautiful, little face. From there, he worked up to those dark eyes that always shined with life, only to find an empty, stoic glare. Alice’s entire face was set like granite and the sight of it made him feel like he was sucking air through a straw.
Elle put the last of the meal on the table, offered a brief prayer of thanks and asked Alice, “Do you want some salad?”
Before she could even process the question and muster a reply, Elle answered with action and dished some out.
John watched as Alice concentrated on the slow, awkward path that her fork took from the plate to her mouth. Before long, she was wearing more food than tasting it. When she had finally abandoned the futile task, without so much as a thought Elle slid her chair over and began spoon-feeding her mother-in-law. John looked on in horror, his eyes locked on his wife’s blotchy, paper skinned hands. He remembered how she had once been, hovering over the kitchen table like an orchestra conductor, a dozen steps ahead of any guest that sat. The things those hands could once do, he thought. They never rested. Now, they were gnarled and twisted—like curled-up maple leaves—incapable of working so-much-as a spoon. To think she has no idea what those hands were ever used for, or all the people they touched. His stomach kicked up something that left the slow burn of whiskey in his throat. Time can be so unfair, he thought.
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