The AGomes Project

A report was recently published by British plastic surgeon Dr. Julian De Silva asserting that adult children in their thirties begin to transition into the inherent traits and behaviors of their parents. I want to believe this is nonsense. But, my mother lives with me and is a constant reminder that whenever it occurs (painfully and gradually for many) the moment arrives when you realize that you couldn’t stop mimicking your mother or father if you tried. The realization of this phenomenon can be pleasant if you like your parents. But, for those whose parents are abusive either physically or emotionally, or who are simply rigid unyielding and unkind, seeing them in yourself can truly hurt. It happens.

My mother is an alcoholic. I have seen her succumb to her addictive passions – removing her panties while dancing on a table, scolding my brother and I for “letting” the dog shit on the floor in our house and making us pick up the weeks-old dried feces while she watched. She brought me to her card-table gambling outings and left me with other children where I saw first-hand a young, teenage girl willingly masturbate to the point of climax while we watched and learned. One time, my father showed up unannounced, knocked my mother off a chair and made her leave. Thankfully, I either was not present or don’t remember this incident which she divulged to me after decades of her own sobriety.

It didn’t take too long before I vowed that I would never let alcoholism be one of the behaviors I shared with my mom.

When I tell people that my mother lives with me the response is predictable. Their eyes react first, followed by words full of sympathy.

“God bless you.”

“How’s that working?”

“Why?”

One person said, “If my mother lived with me, I’d end up killing myself or her.”

It feels good to buck the American tradition of giving your elderly family members over to strangers for care. Though as I struggle with my own health, complicated by Multiple Sclerosis, the idea still brews in my mind. It’s simply not easy to watch a semblance of your future self presently. When I was prescribed a monthly drug infusion protocol for MS, I didn’t want it. Twelve times a year is too often for me to be reminded of my impending demise. Observing other persons in various stages of the disease was a semblance of my future self I refused to bear. Some things are better left to imagination.

Banana Bay is beautiful. The water is shallow and safe, turquoise and crystal clear. The restaurant serves appetizing choices; spending 4 hours is effortless. You just sit, wade and marvel at the majesty humanity cannot create.

There are children playing and I long for my grandchildren.

The evening brings a home-cooked meal followed by Black Jack with friends, and I am with my love – such happiness! I’m winning. Have I finally matured to the point where feeling this simple joy is not balanced by guilt? It seems so, until . . .

The deal is changing – time for a bathroom break and a cigarette.  I take a drag and in an instant am overcome with dizziness. I fold my arms on the table and lower my head to rest on them.

Someone speaks to me, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, just felt dizzy all of a sudden.” I cannot focus and feel darkness rising. ” Need to lie down,” I say.

“Go over to the recliner.” Someone is helping me up. In three steps I collapse into a sit.

“Can you here me?” It’s my love.

“Yes, I can hear you.” When I open my eyes, there he is – my husband. I’m so glad he is here.  He’s kneeling, leaning in to see my face.

“You scared me. It looked like you were having a seizure,” he says.

I gag and my mouth fills with vomit; I am motioning for something to puke into. There’s a small trash can nearby and luckily there is a plastic bag in it. The release comes from deep within and is followed by another retch, and another from the toes, then another projects with force. When I think I’m done, I am not and completely empty my stomach until nothing from the day is left, no curried chicken salad, no gummy bears, no potato chips, none of the small bites of snapper filet with lemon butter sauce which I had eaten just prior to that cigarette.

Finally, I get to lie down though I have to move to do it. It didn’t last long before I said, “I’m going home.” Which in this case meant down the hall to my apartment/condo.  My lover was with me every step. When we arrive he gets me a glass of water.

“What happened?” I ask.

“You were unresponsive,” he said.

“You said it looked like I was having a seizure.”

“Yeah, you shuddered,” he said. “What did it feel like; do you remember?”

“I remember putting my head down and walking to the recliner. . . then I opened my eyes and saw you.

“But your eyes were never closed,” he added. “You were just staring. I gently slapped your cheeks do you remember that?”

“No.”

Falling asleep that night was scary – thought I might not wake up.

So, I wrote this, and now I’m in the airport – Freeport, GB; I’m going home to at least 10 inches of snow to figure out what to do with this experience.

Sometimes, I feel every minute of my age – especially when I struggle with technology. When I figure it out, I don’t feel any younger, just better. This is my first project blog, from the sunny Bahamas.

Identity: Interim Bahamian.

It’s Valentine’s Day, so why am I so pissed off? This forum might be dangerous. One of my muses said, “just write” and that is what I’m going to do. Just so happens that today is Valentine’s day and I will, in part, be writing about why I should not participate in the ridiculous expectations that come with. My partner and I seem to be at odds too much. Today is no different.

I am married for thirty years to one man. Our relationship is what I like to call “inter-resting.” In the midst of the tumult of living with racism, sexism, parenthood, business ownership, spiritual development, health issues and more, finding moments of true peace and inactivity is rare. Typically, we do not celebrate mainstream American holidays in conventional ways. We do, however, take advantage of days away from jobs to gather our family together and eat. Inevitably we talk about religious history and commercialism as they relate to the holiday at hand.

As I shopped for a Valentine card for my 6-year and 3-month old grandchildren, I decided to get one for my adult daughter and husband also. My partner and I would be in our humble studio apartment in the Bahamas on Valentine’s Day, so my thought was to promote love and romance with this gesture. It was my first mistake. That card came with unreasonable expectations and I should have known better. My husband and I do not celebrate mainstream American holidays in conventional ways; we set that example for our children and they set it for theirs.
my husband received the gesture indifferently and it offended me, even though everything in our Valentine’s Day celebrating history screams “who cares about buying cards or professing love on demand!?

Luckily, love prevailed. My partner, despite my selfish unhappiness, braced himself through my depressive outbursts and rode through it with me. He took me to see a local production of ‘‘Friends With Benefits‘ and held my hand to steady me.