I discovered Francis’s reaction was typical.
I was catching up with my brother, Tray, on the phone one day and asked what my sister-in-law, Jacq, was up to these days. Tray replied, “Well, I guess she’s going to have some surgery done. …”
Concerned, I interjected, “Surgery? What kind of surgery?”
After an uncomfortable pause, my brother responded, “You know, lady surgery.’”
Ahhh. ’Nuff said.
I borrowed my brother’s phrase when I had to explain why I’d be laid up for the next couple weeks, simply saying, “I’m having lady surgery.” The women I spoke with usually said, “Oh,” tilted their heads sympathetically to the side, then offered to cook something for me. Men universally cringed and looked for the nearest escape. Either way, no further details were necessary or desired.
I never imagined I’d ever be one of those middle-aged women who would need lady surgery. In my twenties and thirties, I thought I was invincible.
I was proud that my five-foot-four-inch frame gave birth to nine-pound babies without drugs—stupid, I know. I figured I was “hearty stock” and could handle childbirth, heavy lifting, gutter cleaning, power washing, and lawn mowing with no repercussions.
I knew women who had to cross their legs if they laughed too hard. When the aerobics instructor at our local YMCA demanded jumping jacks, the forty-something women in the class ran to the restroom after three or four jumps. In my early forties, I started to understand their behavior, and soon, I was fighting them for an empty stall.
At first I brushed off these incidents as minor inconveniences. But a year or two down the road, I noticed the same embarrassing phenomenon happening in other situations.
I used to really enjoy a good sneeze. That tickly feeling in your nose, the slow inhale as you surrender to the natural forces of your own body, and then the spontaneous blast that leaves you feeling cleansed.
However, sneezing in my mid-forties was a whole other ball game. The tickly sensation was followed by an “uh oh,” as I scrambled to clench my legs together in a defensive posture. Inevitably, the sneeze could not be stopped, and I would be left to deal with the consequences.
Lovely.
During my forties, hearty laughter, coughing, and other normal body movements became risky business. I had to think about my actions like never before. Mowing the lawn? Sure, why not. Moving the couch? Hmm, maybe. Jumping on the trampoline with the kids? Definitely not.
When I began assessing my daily activities in terms of whether or not they might cause my internal organs to drop out onto the floor, I knew it was definitely time to get a medical professional involved.
My doctor allayed my fears by clearly explaining the surgical procedure with both words and rubber gloves. That talented man could take an ordinary surgical glove, and with a few twists and turns, form it into any one of the assorted female reproductive organs in order to explain my condition. It was truly amazing. I started to wonder if he worked at kids’ birthday parties on weekends.
So on that ill-fated Super Bowl Sunday, with my doctor and every other red-blooded American looking forward to gobbling gallons of queso dip, I was having an entirely different kind of party getting ready for the next day’s surgery. Unfortunately, the bowl that had my attention was located in my powder room.
But it was okay, I was ready for the show. I was at the line of scrimmage, I was prepared for the blitz, and I would go into overtime if necessary. I only hoped I’d make the conversion from wide receiver to tight end without too many stitches.
SEASON 4 EPISODE 4
HOW TO SUCCEED IN PARENTING BY REALLY TRYING
A couple of hours after a developmental pediatrician diagnosed three-year-old Hayden with autism spectrum disorder, we were frantically grabbing every book on the subject in the library, determined to prove the doctor wrong.
One memorable passage in an outdated book painted a grim picture of the “typical” scenario: “Parents receive the diagnosis and are determined to get their child all appropriate treatments. They are encouraged when their child makes progress with aggressive interventions. But as the child grows, the gap between him and his peers widens. As an adolescent, he wants friends, but is confused by nonverbal cues, facial expressions and gestures. Unable to develop peer relationships, he seeks the comfort of his daily routine—watching the same television shows every day and pacing around the perimeter of his back yard. The parents realize their son’s delays are insurmountable and accept that he will never lead a normal life.”
We put that book back on the shelf. It was the only time in our marriage I would ever see Francis cry.
This prognosis was too painful to consider, so while Hayden was young, we did whatever we could. The next eight years were a blur of home therapies, speech therapies, occupational therapies, physical therapies, gluten-free and casein-free diets, prescription vitamins, sensory integration regimens, IEP meetings, monitored peer play dates, doctor appointments, and mountains of insurance claim forms.
Fortunately, in the third grade, Hayden’s doctor told us that, while he should continue to work through lingering social delays and sensory issues, he no longer fit the diagnostic criteria for autism or any other developmental disorder. We were ecstatic about Hayden’s progress, but kept our lifestyle of combating autistic symptoms in place. Just in case.
In high school, Hayden earned varsity letters in football, became a gifted musician, took multiple Advanced Placement courses, and became an Eagle Scout.
But we still worried.
There were days when we saw autism creeping around like a phantom, threatening Hayden’s future. A faraway look in his eye. The sound of him muttering to himself in the shower. His stubborn aversion to certain textures in food and clothing. Social awkwardness. His tendency to avoid interaction.
We tried to put it out of our minds and hope the ghosts of his past were simply personality traits that wouldn’t stop him from forming meaningful relationships in life.
During the winter of his senior year in high school, Hayden landed the role of J.B. Biggley in the school’s production of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. We didn’t know anything about the musical, and as usual, Hayden was not forthcoming with any details.
He arrived home late from nightly practices, grunted his usual brief greeting, and retreated to his room. He seemed intent on keeping his involvement a secret, and although we worried if he was okay, we did our best to respect his privacy.
We arrived on the night of the first show, without a clue about what was in store.
As we bought our tickets and found our seats, several parents accosted us, gasping, “Your son is the one playing J.B. Biggley?! He is amazing! He steals the show!” Knowing Hayden’s lack of interpersonal skills, we thought they might be mistaking his personality for character acting. However, when he made his appearance on stage, we understood what everyone was talking about.
Simply put, Hayden blew everyone away.
We were shocked when Hayden took the stage and portrayed J.B. Biggley with expert character acting, complete with hilarious facial expressions and a bold stage acting voice. Although Hayden had always had advanced music skills, we didn’t know that he also had a perfectly pitched singing voice, and apparently neither did his classmates who cheered and hooted when Hayden belted out “Grand Old Ivy.” Those of us who knew Hayden nearly fell out of our seats when he performed a little soft shoe with Biggley’s love interest, Hedy, then crooned “Love from a Heart of Gold” to her with perfect tenor’s vibrato. Despite his heavy linebacker frame, Hayden danced so gracefully, twirling Hedy before kneeling before her and setting her gently on his knee.
How had he hidden all this talent from us for so long?
At the curtain call, the actors took their turns bowing to the audience. When Hayden stepped up and bent at the waist, the crowd jumped to its feet, giving him the loudest standing ovation. No one knows he was once diagnosed with autism, I thought, my eyes brimm
ing with tears.
Sitting back in our seats in total disbelief, it was as if all our years of hard work had come to fruition. Like comprehending the vastness of the infinite cosmos, my mind was boggled by the magnitude of Hayden’s potential and the promise of his happy future.
SEASON 4 EPISODE 5
THE AVOCADO AND GOLDEN RULE
Facing Lilly’s fall semester parent-teacher conference, I found myself feeling guilty … again.
“Hello, Mrs. Molinari,” the teachers would always start, shuffling through files to find records pertaining to my child. “I’m sure you’ve been keeping up with [Hayden’s/Anna’s/Lilly’s] grades on the online parent portal and know that [he/she] turned several assignments in late this term.”
Every time, I’d stare like a deer in the headlights. Oh shoot! I forgot to check that online portal thingy again … where the heck did I write down the username and password? I’d respond, “Yes, of course, I check the parent portal frequently, and I am very concerned. Obviously, if I had been informed of these assignments, I would have certainly made sure that [Hayden/Anna/Lilly] had turned them in on time.”
“But Mrs. Molinari,” the teachers would inevitably retort while I braced myself to be exposed as a fraud, “All the assignments are listed in advance on our class website and teachers’ blogs … You know that, right?”
“Well, certainly!” I’d lie, desperately scanning my brain for some kind of excuse for my parental neglect. But inevitably, like some kind of over-aged juvenile delinquent who’d been cornered, I’d cower to the teacher’s authority and take the blame.
I’d admit not checking the parent portal as often as I should. I’d concede never reading the teachers’ blogs. I’d divulge I didn’t know the class website address. I’d confess to never joining the parents’ Facebook group, using the class hashtag, or following the school updates on Instagram.
I’d acknowledge I hadn’t figured out how to open the progress reports on Google Drive, and I’d reveal I was totally clueless about the “cloud” thingamabob that everyone keeps talking about.
I’d plead for forgiveness and promise that from here on out, I’d be good.
I’d sulk out of parent-teacher conferences and combat my shame with self-pity, pointing out that our parents never had to worry about checking online grade portals and teacher blogs.
In the seventies, our parents came home from an honest day’s work in their gabardine slacks, had a satisfying dinner of Swiss steak and canned peas, then retired to the den to relax with a vodka gimlet and a riveting episode of Gunsmoke.
After cleaning tables and washing dishes, we kids were expected to finish our homework with minimal supervision. If our book bags contained graded papers or report cards, we were expected to hand-deliver these items to our parents. There was no need for them to snuff out their cigarettes or get up from their avocado and gold lounge furniture, much less remember complicated website addresses and passwords. All they had to do was glance down at the papers in their polyester-draped laps during the Chiffon margarine commercials.
If the grades were bad, we got a lecture and were not allowed to go out and play. If the grades were good, our parents put the papers on our refrigerators with magnets.
Back in those days, parenting seemed straightforward: set clear expectations for kids, praise their accomplishments, and let the school do its job. I found myself, once again, longing for a simpler time. Clearly, roles had changed. Teachers created and assigned work, not only for students but also for parents, who were now expected to research, monitor, and enforce the details of assignments and grade progress.
I couldn’t be sure which parental role was better for our kids, but I couldn’t help wishing I’d been born a generation ago.
I admitted I was lousy at managing my kids’ school assignments, but I thought, if only it were the 1970s, I would have been the perfect mother. I would have been quite comfortable wearing a Dacron sweater-vest and gauchos. I would have had fun whipping up zippy casseroles using Spanish olives, cottage cheese, and frankfurters. I would have really enjoyed a simple evening watching BJ and the Bear on a console television. Minus the cigarettes, that is.
SEASON 4 EPISODE 6
POMP AND UNUSUAL CIRCUMSTANCES
By the time the head of the school got to the graduates whose names started with an “M,” my feet were bloody stumps. I thought I’d be fine in two-inch sling backs, but an hour into the ceremony, my toe knuckles were raw, and the pointed heels sunk into the grass under the enormous tent.
I got up from our reserved row of seats to get a better vantage point to take photographs. Our motley crew of relatives—Anna, Lilly, aunts, grandmothers, an uncle, a cousin, and Francis, who had already spilled coffee on his tie—had all come to see Hayden receive his high school diploma. We looked the same as the other families seated around us, but somehow I felt like our family was different.
This school was Hayden’s third high school in four years. Our navy family was required to move after his ninth-grade year at an American high school on an army post in Germany, to an inner-city public school in Florida, and finally to Rhode Island where Hayden finished his senior year at Portsmouth Abbey, a local boarding school. We were surprised when he was accepted to the school as a day student, and we were elated when the school offered us enough financial aid to make it affordable on our tight military budget.
At the Abbey’s preseason football camp, Hayden made his debut as the new senior. He was quirky, husky, and lacked the personal hygiene skills necessary to keep up with the school’s strict dress code. A sort of “nutty professor” type.
In past schools, our unusual son was received with mixed reviews. In Germany, the students saw him as smart and uniquely funny—someone everyone wanted to know. In Florida, he was perceived as odd, and over two years he didn’t develop any close friendships. When he started at the Abbey, I wondered if the predominantly wealthy, preppy boarding school students would look beyond the surface to appreciate Hayden’s distinctive sense of humor and extraordinary intellect.
Throughout the year, we had mixed clues to Hayden’s reputation at the Abbey. The football coach smiled widely when speaking about him; however, the English teacher grimaced when describing the “odd British accent of questionable origin” Hayden employed when reciting poetry. The students and faculty reported that he “stole the show” in the winter musical; however, of the four boys that Hayden invited to our house for his April birthday party, only one showed up.
The head of school called the next graduate: “Ellen Mangino.”
Several students stood to cheer on their graduating friend. As I wobbled on painful shoes up the rows with my camera, my mind raced with random thoughts. These students have had four years to bond. Hayden wasn’t here long enough to be understood.
“Sean McDonald.” More applause as I inched closer to the stage.
Has our military lifestyle robbed our son of the opportunity to form close relationships with his peers? Does he think that it’s his fault?
“Julian Miller.” I raised the camera to my eyes with shaking hands and waited for Hayden’s name to be called.
“Hayden Clark Molinari.” I snapped the shutter repeatedly, catching glimpses through the viewfinder of my son making his way through the crowd of navy-jacketed students to the smiling headmaster. In a fog of emotion, I could not coordinate the still images I saw with my eyes with what I distinctly heard with my ears.
I took the camera away for a moment and realized, They are giving him a standing ovation.
Students and teachers leapt to their feet to cheer for an unusual boy who had been with them for nine short months. Through the din of applause and shouts, I managed to take a dozen more photographs before bursting into tears.
Minutes later, the students spilled out of the tent, milling around in a sort of preppy mosh pit in the bright sunlight. Fighting the celebratory crowd, we found Hayden amongst the jovial graduates, slapping each other’s backs.
> He smiled broadly as I kissed his prickly cheek, silently reminding him, You will always be loved.
SEASON 4 EPISODE 7
LIFE, HOT FLASHING BEFORE MY EYES
On the morning of my forty-eighth birthday, I had my very first hot flash.
The uncanny coincidence of this occurrence made it seem psychosomatic. However, I could not deny the unsettling reality of the sweat mustache that had formed while I was eating my scrambled eggs. I tried to pass the event off as a fluke, but while going about my day, I started thinking, You know, I’m getting kind of old. Really old.
I had always been content with the progression of my life as a wife and mother of three; generally gratified to have found a calling to serve my family, rather than having my own career and choosing where I’d like to live. I said many times, “As long as the kids are happy, I’m happy.”
But suddenly, life was passing before my eyes as if death were imminent. I thought about my education and quickly decided I’d wasted it. I thought about my early work experiences as a young attorney before navy life, and I summarily concluded my brain had atrophied from lack of use and must now be the size of a tangerine. I thought about my homemaking skills, swiftly determining I was mediocre at best.
After decades of gleaning my own identity from the contentment of my family members, it was suddenly all about me.
There was something about this particular birthday that had me wallowing in panicked self-loathing. Perhaps it was the hair that seemed to be clinging damply to the back of my perspiring neck. Or maybe it was the lack of bladder control. Did I detect a throbbing bunion? Was I sprouting age spots?
As the day progressed, I relentlessly berated, harangued, nit-picked, criticized, and condemned myself until I could feel my spider veins bulge.
The Meat and Potatoes of Life Page 12
