Michael is different, no doubt about it. For one thing, he’s very tall. He towers over me at well over six feet, and I’m pretty tall myself. He’s also really smart, especially when it comes to math and anything involving computers, whereas I’m a self-professed “technotard.” And funny; he has a great sense of humor and laughs a lot. As big as he is, he has an even bigger heart. We never end a conversation without him telling me he loves me and what a great mom I am (I might quibble with the latter, which wasn’t always true, I fear–I was a single mom and really young when I had him, so yeah, mistakes were made.) He’s a wonderful, caring big brother to his sister Mary. And a real people person in general, which I was reminded of yesterday when we spent the day together sight-seeing in Jerome, AZ, not far from where he lives, in Prescott. There wasn’t a clerk of server with whom he didn’t strike up a conversation after introducing himself. He’s a constant reminder to a somewhat jaded New Yorker (me) that strangers can often surprise you in good ways if you’re friendly and open up to them. (Like the guy who directed me out of a tight parking spot yesterday. Thank you, kind sir, whoever you are.)
Michael, age 42, is also mentally ill. Years ago, in his late twenties after a psychotic break while in the Navy, he was diagnosed as schizo-affective. Since then it’s been a roller coaster ride, with all of us adjusting to the new reality. There have been moments of frustration and sadness, sure, and times when I asked God, “Why him?” Moments, too, of tragic hilarity, like when he asked a cop to arrest him for an unspecified crime he didn’t recall having committed (and hadn’t, in fact). And numerous occasions in which we had to extricate him from some financial crisis or other (people with schizo disorders don’t handle money well, which is why he now has a fiduciary to handle his SSDI checks). But overall I have to say I love who is. Not who he WAS, especially when he was an angry teenager involved in drugs. But who and what he is today. Part of that is his mental illness, which I’ve learned to embrace along with everything else about him. It’s a constant reminder to me to be more patient, and to open my heart and be more tolerant of those who are different. I also give daily thanks that he’s sober and stable due to his meds and the wonderful support system he’s assembled, with the help of my husband who has ties in the community.
Spending this weekend together was a gift. And my firstborn, who has been on this rollercoaster ride with me his entire life–starting with his difficult infancy and my divorce from his dad and subsequent remarriages–is the biggest gift of all. He’s proof miracles do exist; you just have to look for them when they’re not readily apparent.
