Just before Christmas, my nephew–my 16-year-old nephew–told me that his girlfriend was pregnant.  On Christmas Day, when both of them were with me for my journey out to Carroll County see my mother’s side of the family, they told me they were about a month along.  Furthermore, they have only shared this information with a select group of people.  Neither my nephew’s foster mother nor his girlfriend’s parents were told of this turn of events.

Needless to say, I gave both of them the appropriate stern talk.  I told them that whatever they choose, their lives are irrevocably changed.  I told them what their choices were, and I told them that time is of the essence depending on the choices they made.  I also told them that they should decide what their course of action was going to be before informing her parents, thinking that if they come to the parents with a firm decision, it was going to be a bit more palatable than, say, coming to them with no thought to the choices before them.  I ended by saying the choice is theirs, and, that, whatever they decide to do, their family will support and love them.  I told my nephew I was disappointed in the choice he made, but I was certainly not going to disown him for it.

When last I spoke to him after New Year’s Day, they had still not made a decision.  Nothing much had changed beyond our discussion on Christmas Day.  I again reminded him that time was of the essence.

While at work on Monday afternoon, after returning to my desk following a meeting, I was met with an instant message from my nephew asking me if I had talked to his social worker today.  I replied that no, I had not as I was in a meeting and left my personal cell phone at my desk.  I looked at my phone, and I saw there was a voicemail waiting for me.  I asked my nephew what was up, and he replied that he could no longer live with his foster mother.  I told him I would discuss the matter with his social worker, but I had yet another meeting to run to for the end of the day.

I spoke with his social worker, and she apprised me of the situation.  My nephew and his foster mother were at an impasse, and the best situation was for him to be placed somewhere else.  (For some background, my nephew has complained of his foster mother, but most of his complaints sounded to me as the typical teenage angst, if you will.  Nothing terribly bad, but the typical teenage “I know everything” line of thinking.) Again, as in the not too distant past, I was asked if he could be placed with me.  I explained to the social worker that I just could not do so.  It’s a decision I have pondered off and on through the last few years, and something I have discussed with close friends.  At the end, though, I just do not think it was fair to him or I if we chose that course.  Given the current situation, I offered to her that he could stay with me while she worked to place him in a new foster home.  She could perform her walkthrough to check my home, and I would pick him up when I was told I could do so.

When I got home from the office late on Monday night, I engaged in another long instant message session with my nephew.  He was understandably upset, and he wanted to be with a “real family.”  He wanted to be with a relative or a family friend, and he did not want to go back to another foster home.  He threatened to “take matters into his own hands” and run away.  I countered that given the choices before him, he could choose to make things worse or try to make the best of a bad situation.  We went back and forth, with him not seeing the issue from my perspective.  We ended at that, as I was tired from spending a long day at the office and he could do nothing more to persuade me.

So, yesterday, the walkthrough was completed with no issue whatsoever, and I picked up my nephew that evening and gathered his things. I swung by the grocery store on the way home to get some food and to see if he needed anything else.  We talked about what has happened.  His girlfriend’s parents now know of her pregnancy, and they will not allow an abortion as it is against their beliefs. I asked him what he thought about that, and I asked him does he realize how much his life is going to change.  He said he does, and that the new child will have to take priority.  He realizes that he could have made a better choice, but the dice have been cast.  As he said, “I made my bed, now I have to sleep in it.”  In some sense, wisdom beyond his years.

Now, I am at the end of the first of two days where I am working from home while he stays here.  I have been making sure he is fed and clean, and he seems to be happy.  He especially seems to enjoy gobbling up the bandwidth at the house.

While I feel bad that I cannot be the shelter that my nephew so dearly wants, I truly think it is best.  I really cannot say I know how he feels.  I do not, nor will I ever.  I can only imagine what it feels like from his perspective, to think that no one really cares about him to make the committment to be his shelter.  At the same time, I know that I am not ready to take on the responsibility of taking care of a teenager.

Here I am, a tortured soul of sorts.  On one hand, I am providing shelter and encouragement.  I am being that place where my nephew can get refuge from the storms that have battered him of late.  On the other hand, I know I can only be a port of sorts where he can spend a few days.

It is this conflict that led me to say to someone the other day,

“Sometimes, I wish I never did return to Baltimore following college.  I should have just kept going elsewhere. I would not have surprised my friends or family by making such a choice.”

I came back to Baltimore to be close to family–my grandparents and my mother.  Well, now, my grandparents are both gone, and my mother is still in Virginia.  Yet, here I am.  I realize of course that much has changed in the last ten years to make such a move a serious undertaking.  I have different reasons to remain anchored here–I own a home, and I have a good career.  Times like this, though, are trying.

In light of the situation, I am doing the best I can.  I am not normally an optimist, but I know that some good will come out of this somehow.

I really had little to say.  In light of it, anything I said afterward was trivial, at best.  I asked my grandfather if he was alright in light of the news, and he said he was.  I told him that I would be down for Thanksgiving, and we could discuss this further.  He told me “You don’t need to get me anything.”  A normally joyous holiday gathering is going to be overshadowed by this dark cloud.

I can only imagine how my grandfather feels.  I know how I feel.  It is difficult to imagine that the other person who has been largely responsible for my place will be gone soon.  It is even worse as I realize my grandfather is in a morbid countdown, waiting for time to expire.

For now, though, I am going to try and make the most of the time we have left.

Today, he was to meet with his regular doctor, and then tomorrow he was to meet with his chemotherapist and radiologist for a discussion of what is next.  At this point, the talk of hospice care has quieted down a bit.

Nonetheless, I have to think this a last stand of sorts by my grandfather.  He said something to me last night about not caring for hospitals and really not wanting to spend any more time in one.

I shall know more tomorrow, hopefully.  Although the written word does not betray me that much, I really am a bit fearful of the worst.

My uncle had him taken to the hospital today as he was complaining about pain, and when he called he mentioned that the diagnosis does not look good.  My grandfather has liver cancer that is inoperable.  When I talked to him later this evening, the growth is the size of a grapefruit.  Some early recommendations that my uncle mentioned the hospital had made was for hospice care and medication.

I will know more specifically about the diagnosis tomorrow, but I am worried a bit.  When I hear the term inoperable and hospice bandied about, the worst comes to mind.  When I spoke to my grandfather, he sounded slightly better, but I could tell he did not sound like his usual self.

I will know more about this tomorrow, but I fear hearing some very bad news.

The weather should be good, and our seats are in the west end-zone.  We will be heading off to a tailgate in short order, and I know this will be a good time.

I am personally looking forward to seeing my grandfather there.  He went to–and was a season ticket holder for–many Baltimore Colts football games.  He was also the person who took me to what was my first (and at the time) only football game when I was a little Jason.  Consequently, this event has a bit of emotional significance for me.

Here’s hoping for a good football game and a Ravens win!

On top of all of this, it was just two weeks ago that my mother told me she suffered a minor stroke.  She suffered a small stroke in her sleep, and she was very upset as to what had happened.  She had some memory problems as she spoke to me that morning, as I talked to her in my bleary-eyed state as she woke me up that morning. I did not know what else to say at the time, but my major concern was her recovery.  Was she receiving therapy?  What did the doctors say?  Do they know the severity of the stroke?  She was upset at the time, and as the phone call ended, her one driving thought was that I bring my nephew along.

In the two weeks since that call, I worked with the Baltimore City Department of Social Services.  After explaining the situation, my nephew’s social worker and her supervisor were able to get me the appropriate paperwork authorizing him to travel with me.  I was surprised that this only took one week to accomplish, and I knew that it would make my mother happy.  It was after all this paperwork was done, though, that I remembered that my mother’s birthday was on July 22nd.  How could I have forgotten that?

The drive was long, and I was tired after a long night the day before.  I had to pick up my nephew in Woodlawn, and I then drove out to Carroll County to meet at my uncle’s house before we continued on our adventure.  The drive was fairly quiet, though.  No one talked about the elephant in the room, yet we all knew where we were going and who were to see.

My grandmother was unable to join us, as she forgot her photo identification and was unable to be cleared to visit.  She was forced to wait for us outside, and I knew that this made her pretty sad, even catching her briefly crying.  After going through the somewhat embarrassing yet required check-in as a visitor to the correctional institution, we were transported to the gym inside the complex.  It was there that we waited, seated in the plastic chairs one finds on a backyard patio or deck.  I did not see my mother arrive until she was there, giving me a hug.

At first, I was a bit surprised by her appearance.  It was striking, as I had not seen her in some time.  Her hair was shorter than it has been, and it dawned on me much later that I had not seen my mother for something approaching three years.  She also looks older–I can only presume the results of the stress and worry her incarceration has had coupled with the way she was forced to live after leaving Baltimore.

Later, though, it became obvious that my mother was happy to see us.  Personally, I really had not much to offer my mother.  She knew what was going on in my life, and I had not much else to offer aside from the usual–work, play, house, talk about my grandfather, repeat.  She enjoyed seeing my nephew, and I expected that given that she spent a good part of his life raising him.

A little more than halfway through our visit, the volunteer staff took us aside to take our photograph.  Although I tend to detest photos, I stood in.  It made my mother pretty happy, even if the camera stole some of my soul in the process.    She now has a photo of my uncle, nephew, me, and her to enjoy.  I can only hope it brings her as much joy and comfort as it did that afternoon. While we chatted, I could see some of the effects of her stroke.  My mother had problems recalling certain words as we talked, as though the words were just on the tip of her tongue.  She did not seem physically as bad as I had expected, but it was hard to tell how it had effected her.  While it was easy to see her struggling for words, it was hard to see the physical ravagers that the stroke had “bestowed” upon her.

After some more conversation, we wrapped up our visit.  The guard came by to give my mother her identification, and she gave us our paperwork to proceed back to the main entrance.  I did not realize how long it had been, but we spent over 2 hours there talking to her.  At this point, my mom became clearly sad.  We all hugged, and we said our goodbyes.  We also got to watch my mother depart the gym/meeting area, escorted back to the place she now calls anything but home.

It took some time for my thoughts and feelings to gel after this visit.  Had I really been so bad to not realize how long it had been since I had seen my mother?  How much had my mother changed to drive me so far away? How much had I changed?  How bad is it that I forgot her birthday?  Am I so wrapped up in the selfish concerns of my life to forget about her?  How is she going to recover from the stroke over the long term?

Looking back, one of the toughest choices I had to make and standby was the choice I made to not help my mother as she descended into the personal hell of her own making.  Even now, it is difficult to continue to maintain my independence, knowing what my mother has been through.  Still, I know that if I had ever waivered, my sanity, among other things, would have been lost.  I had to do this.

There’s part of me, though, that thinks that the actions I have taken over the last three years–it has been that long–with my mother have dehumanized me in some way.  I no longer have the relationship I once had with my mother, and I still do not know if I will ever have that same relationship again.  Something has changed, but I can only hope that this time my mother has spent away from the people she loves has taught her an invaluable lesson.  I also hope, in some way, I learned a lesson, too.  I just wish I knew exactly what that lesson is.

He made a request the other night that I cannot recall, but tonight he asked me to pay for getting his hair colored.  I mentioned that I would think about it, but I am not too keen on the idea of paying for some preposterous coloring of his hair.  I asked what else he wanted, and he mentioned clothes.

At this point, I may treat him to a nice meal and some clothes, but the hair coloring is a last resort.  I definitely don’t want to be that kind of uncle.

I am happy to report that my grandfather is doing quite well.  He had an appointment with his doctor to get an update last Tuesday.  According to his doctor, everything looks good, and the growths in his lungs, liver, and chest have been reduced greatly.  He no longer needs chemotherapy, but he is going to have a final batch of radiation treatments as a preventive measure to ensure that what cancer is left in his body does not become brain cancer.

My grandfather even states that he is doing well, which is something of an achievement considering how hard it has been to get details out of him during his treatment.  He is no longer as short of breath as he was with the tumor that he had, and his voice has returned to normal.  Hell, in a completely unexpected turn of events, my grandfather–the same one who loathes going over to the beach–asked me if I wanted to take a trip over to Ocean City yesterday afternoon.  I obliged him, of course, after picking myself up from the floor after hearing the rarest of all suggestions from my grandfather.

We spent about an hour on the boardwalk, which was pretty crowded for late April.  We even ran into a quasi-relative of sorts while there, and we spent most of that hour talking and catching up.  After our boardwalk visit, we grabbed a late lunch and early dinner at Crab Alley.  I then spent the evening at my aunt and uncle’s, catching up on various things and playing my usual role of family help desk consultant.

This morning, I picked up my grandfather after he attended Sunday Mass, and we went to breakfast.  I treated for breakfast, but I saw yet another sign of my grandfather’s recovery: his appetite has returned.  After breakfast, I took him back to his house and packed up my car for the trip home.

I expect there to be a routine checkup for my grandfather from now on to make sure that he has no further recurrences.  It is good to see him getting around better, sounding better, and being more of his usual self.

UPDATE: Apparently, the HD version is broadcasting solely in Spanish, and I cannot raise anyone at Comcast to rectify the matter.  Nothing like having two $56.95 charges on my bill.