Mother and Son

It was a glorious summer day when Al reluctantly arrived. My due date had passed two weeks ago, yet he showed no sign of giving up my womb. The doctor decided to evict him with forceful persuasion and hooked me up to tubes loaded with powerful birth-inducing drugs. The contractions started in the middle of the night and continued until the following afternoon. With the reinforcement of episiotomy and forceps, the exasperated doctor finally pulled him out of his comfort zone to the unknown world.

The nurse lifted him for me to see. A rush of blissful joy permeated my battered body when his gorgeous little face shone through the fog of my heavily sedated mind like a glistening full moon. I let out a quiet sigh of elation and blacked out in the drunkenness of love.

I found myself alone in a ward when I woke up. The fifteen-hour ordeal had paralyzed the left side of my body. I turned my head around to make sense of the surroundings and saw a small cart in the corner of the room. Was my baby inside? I could not see. The door opened. A young nurse walked in.

“Do you want to hold your baby?” she asked. I hesitated, unsure of my strength. I could only move one arm, and my mind was momentarily shutting down.

“Yes,” I said. The nurse brought my baby over and laid him on my tummy. His flawless beauty rivaled any masterpiece. He seemed asleep. So quiet. Suddenly, my mother’s instinct sensed something was not right.

“His lips are purple!” I tried to alert the nurse. She was unconcerned.

“Newborns all look like that,” she replied dismissively. Was I being paranoid as a first-time mom? Should I trust the expert and stop sounding foolish? I felt Al’s little hands. They were cool to the touch. No. I couldn’t take the chances.

“His hands are cold and his lips are purple. Something is wrong!” I insisted.

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ll check.” She nonchalantly retrieved a thermometer to take Al’s temperature. Blood drained from her face when she read the result a moment later. She grabbed Al and rushed out of the door.

Al would not have survived his first night had I ignored my instinct. I would find myself in the same situation again and again over the years, fighting alone with arrogance, prejudice, apathy, ignorance, and malice to protect and rescue my son.

Polycythemia and the subsequent jaundice kept Al in NICU for a week. When my left side recovered from paralysis, I went to see him. My wound from the episiotomy was still throbbing. I held on to my husband, Michael, for support as I took each agonizing step. He became increasingly irritated. Turning with a big frown, he snapped at me, “You are too slow!”

I Wish Mommy Always Be with Me

Al kept me up at night, but he transformed into a delightful, curious, and spirited angel when the day dawned. He struggled to lift his head, turn himself over, and move his body, squealing with frustration at times. When mom picked him up, covering him with kisses, he cooed with sparkles in his big brown eyes. The torment of the night was forgotten.

I had the living room set up as his playground to explore, learn, and enjoy. We played, read, and sang. Soon Al would sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” to announce his awakening in the morning. He was cheerful, active, and inquisitive, putting everything through the taste trial.

One day while working in the kitchen, I heard distressing sounds from the child-proofed living room. I rushed over to discover in horror that he was choking! I quickly put him over my knee and administered the Heimlich until a wad of Kleenex fell out of him. All the while, Michael was just one shut door from where Al was in trouble, much closer to him than I had been. He either chose to ignore Al’s distress call or was engrossed in watching TV instead of working as he claimed. Since then, I kept Al in my sight. When I prepared meals, he would take out pots, pans, and rice, playing cook on the kitchen floor.

Bedtime was Al’s favorite time of the day. I tucked him in and read him a few stories. We sang a silly song: “Two tigers, two tigers, run so fast, so fast. One without eyes, the other without tail, how strange! How strange!” Then I kissed him goodnight.

After moving to Portland, we often beat the crowds to find a spot in the forever-packed Portland Children’s Museum. It was always a hard sell to persuade Al to leave.

As he grew, I drove him around town to various extracurricular activities, playdates, and amusement parks.

One afternoon we went to a park. The expansive green field was adorned with yellow dandelions, and the white puffballs glistened in the setting sun. Al picked a puffball and blew it into a million feathering pieces.

“Did you make a wish?” I asked. “Yes. I wished mommy always be with me,” he said. My heart throbbed with mixed feelings of delight and foreboding. I wondered whether Michael’s absence cast a shadow on his subconscious.

When Michael filed for divorce, Al took to camping in my office, desperately trying to hold on to me. Although the court awarded me fully legal custody, it adhered to the split parenting time convention. Watching my eleven-year-old boy carrying a bulging backpack stuffed with his belongings shuffling between two households broke my heart. His sense of stability and security crumbled.

His World Collapsed

My job relocation was a devastating blow to Al. The judge’s decision to keep him in Oregon eviscerated my gut and knocked me off my feet. The drive home from the courthouse was a tear-soaked journey as if I just lost my son in the jungle. I cried for Al, for his shell shock of losing his mom, his inevitable suffering of neglect, and the undoing of my painstaking work of raising him a healthy, confident, and happy child. I prayed that my efforts had laid a good foundation for him to build on. I prayed that the deep bond between us could sustain him through tough times. I prayed that Michael would follow the “Dos and Don’ts” of parenting taught in the mandatory class preceding the divorce. I prayed that the woman he brought to Al’s life was kind, loving, and compassionate.

The day I left Oregon, Al broke down bawling. Knowing I could not go on if I started bawling with him, I held back my tears and kept mumbling, “I’ll be back to see you.”

I went back to see him every two weeks. Michael had married his mistress, Potechin, by then. Al only flatly mentioned that she did not interact with him and said nothing more about what happened in that house.

He was always sick whenever I phoned him. Not being there to love and care for him was a gut wrenching feeling.

He had became obsessed with video games by the time he visited me in the summer. And out of blue, he awkwardly parroted some stinging accusations.

I was stunned. After getting everything that he wanted, Michael did not stop attacking me and what I represent. I considered taking him to court for parental alienation but feared it would exacerbate his neglect of Al. And I could not bear putting Al through court interrogation. I simply explained to Al the truth with evidence to back it up.

Al’s revelation deeply troubled me. Michael was not only destroying the vital bond between a mother and child but was also poisoning Al’s mind with hate, cynicism, ingratitude, and self-indulgence, jeopardizing his development. His assault on learning and work ethics would erode Al’s motivation for a productive life.

To stop Michael from ruining Al, I swallowed my rage and hurt feelings and reached out to him repeatedly. Finally, I could bypass his lawyer and communicate with him directly, recommending positive and engaging parenting. I urged him to enroll Al in extracurricular activities and limit his access to video games.

My recommendations did not make a significant difference. Michael continued to behave as an irresponsible parent. Insulated from positive influence in the toxic environment Michael and Potechin had created, Al became increasingly attached to video games. Michael saw the addiction as a strategic barrier to divide Al and me and exploited it without concern for his wellbeing.

I took Al to the Redwoods, the beach, aquariums, arts and science museums, and the Exploratorium whenever he was with me, trying to make up for the experience Michael failed to provide. I was thrilled to see Al enjoy our hike through the Presidio, Marina Green, and ending at Ghirardelli Square. It was a wonderful day of outdoor adventure, away from video games. How I wish he were with me all the time!

I respected Al’s autonomy as an adult when he attended college near me and refrained from interfering in his life. Had I learned sooner the extent of the emotional and psychological abuse he had endured for eight years at Michael’s home, I would have given him much more attention, love, and nurturing. I wish I had asked more questions.

I looked forward to his coming home on the weekends, starting to prepare dinner in the morning, and making extra for him to bring back to school. We watched a TV program together at dinner time, and he never ceased to impress me with his insight and observation. I felt so close to him in those moments, but when he locked himself in his room, gaming for hours on end, it seemed a stranger had possessed my son’s body. I knew underneath the hardened shell of defence was a lonely and sad child, my precious child. I didn’t know how to reach him, draw him out, or comfort him.

The day when Michael took him back to Oregon to carry on gaming, Al tried to ease my distress by telling me it was a temporary option. I knew that was not true because I could see the look of forsaking in his eyes, that of a kamikaze pilot. I saw him bid farewell silently to our dogs and everything symbolizing a sensible life – love, family, and relationships. Recalling his statement that he would rather die than give up gaming, I hugged him tightly, fearing what would happen when he returned to that trap house. I wanted to tell him that he could break free of the addiction’s deadly grip if he allowed himself to embrace love, nurturing, and healing, and he would see a whole world of opportunities for enjoyment and happiness if he stayed away from the death trap that was his father’s home. But I knew he was not ready to listen…

I simply told him I would always love him and be there for him.