Excerpt: It’s July 26, 2010, late. I’ve sunk onto the edge of the bed in my childhood home. The bedroom reminds me of one of those cozy, pretty Valentine’s Day shoeboxes I made back in elementary school: small, pink, white, flowery

Dorgan, Kelly A.

English

East Tennessee State University

East Tennessee State UniversityDigital Commons @ East Tennessee State UniversityETSU Faculty Works Faculty Works9-1-2017Taking CareKelly A. DorganEast Tennessee State University, dorgan@etsu.eduFollow this and additional works at: https://dc.etsu.edu/etsu-worksPart of the Family, Life Course, and Society Commons, and the Gender, Race, Sexuality, andEthnicity in Communication CommonsThis Article is brought to you for free and open access by the Faculty Works at Digital Commons @ East Tennessee State University. It has beenaccepted for inclusion in ETSU Faculty Works by an authorized administrator of Digital Commons @ East Tennessee State University. For moreinformation, please contact digilib@etsu.edu.Citation InformationDorgan, Kelly A.. 2017. Taking Care. Borrowed Solace. Vol.1(1). 77. https://borrowedsolace.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/fsobshi1-12.pdfTaking CareCopyright Statement© 2017. This document was published with permission from the editor. It was originally published in thehttps://borrowedsolace.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/fsobshi1-12.pdf.This article is available at Digital Commons @ East Tennessee State University: https://dc.etsu.edu/etsu-works/122543 taking care by Kelly A. Dorgan   It’s July 26, 2010, late. I’ve sunk onto the edge of the bed in my childhood home. The bedroom reminds me of one of those cozy, pretty Valentine’s Day shoeboxes I made back in elementary school: small, pink, white, flowery. My cell’s pinned between my ear and shoulder. Words tumble from the other end, a soft murmuring bringing my first love story to a cacophonous conclusion.   In 1993, I’d returned to the southern Appalachian mountains during springtime, a period of rebirth when pur-ple crocuses are often ice-encased. After six months of liv-ing in and traveling through India, I was looking forward to my own rebirth.   The weekend after my homecoming, I wound up at a local restaurant, a dim hangout choked with youthful bod-ies. My friends and I tucked ourselves into a back room, iso-lated, forgotten by the wait staff. In the haze of smoke and hormones, my excitement throbbed, almost painfully. Sitting across from me was the guy I was crazy about (I’ll call him Seth). Seth was funny, sexy, geeky, and I’d met him right before leaving for India. Along with my backpack, I’d hauled fantasies of him across the subcontinent, towing my attraction for him west to east and north to south, then back home again.   That night in the restaurant, I seriously doubted I had a shot with him. I was squat, five feet short. He was a glori-ous bear of a man, a six-footer with longish soot-black hair. Later, in the men’s restroom, I discovered that I did indeed have a shot after all.   When he emerged from the dented and scraped met-al stall, I was waiting by the sink, porcelain with swirls of rust. Then and there, I ambushed him with my audacious attempt at seduction under sallow florescence. Without pausing, he cupped the back of my neck, his hand un-washed.   We kissed, inches from the foul toilet. We only pried apart when a man pushed into the restroom and snickered at our absurdly enacted passion play. 44 *  Looking back, I see why I fell hard for him. Seth was a boot-wearing mountaineer who hand-penned melodically haunting poems about his youth, one marked by red clay, poverty, and fear. Clad in faded jeans and plaid shirts, he hiked rugged trails, sprinting over rocks and roots like he’d been born in the wilds. And when he smiled, his crooked teeth were smoothed by lips the color of spiced crab apple butter. To me, he always smelled of a mixture of just-lit cig-arettes and leaf-covered trails. And his mind left me stunned. Though I’d earned a master’s degree and had taught university classes, I was no match for his intellect. Later, as I would learn when he enrolled at the local univer-sity, he both mesmerized and infuriated me—like those times, having forgotten an astrophysics exam, he’d ace it after a late-night cram session. Then there were the poems, lines he jotted down almost casually but somehow manag-ing to capture humanity’s torment and beauty. Afterward, he would regard resulting praise from professors and class-mates the same oblivious way that a grand woodland crea-ture receives oohs and aahs from awestruck onlookers.   Like many young couples, we had little money. I taught college classes, part time. Meanwhile, Seth  trans-ferred from community college to the same four-year insti-tution where I taught. He pulled in money as an on-campus student worker and an off-campus dishwasher/cook at a local seafood restaurant. Quickly, his earthy scent was re-placed with bleach and grease—and cigarettes, always ciga-rettes. Our dating life reflected our pathetic incomes. There were movies (occasionally) and dinners out (rarely). Mostly, we took to the woodlands surrounding our mountain town. We discovered one another on fragrant wilderness trails, slipping into lush areas and icy swimming holes, and pur-sued our intimacies pulled off to the side of night-time backroads.   The natural world oversaw our courtship. So it was fitting that our wedding took place outdoors. Under an au-tumn sun, ringed by delicate asters and stately goldenrods, we exchanged lyrical vows, as lacey and lovely as wild car-rot blossoms. Seth wore a crimson bowtie, uncomfortably tight around his neck, and a vest that hugged his wide chest. He slipped a yellow-gold ring on my finger, its leaf pattern complementing the one etched into his own  45 white-gold band.   *  Deciding to pursue different graduate programs at the same school, we moved further south. Along the way, there were all kinds of signs. In fact, there had been signs everywhere, but I had dismissed them: the sullen silences, brimming anger, and furious outbursts. There were lies and secrets, jobs gotten and lost, restless nights and eggshell mornings. I talked myself out of seeing the signs, wiping away tears as I would raindrops, and brushing off doubts as if layers of pollen. I’d reasoned myself out of my disen-chantment: There was never physical violence or cheating and rarely name-calling. Eventually, I had learned to remain vigilant for sudden shifts, eyes peeled for bruising darkness and ears opened for unsettling stirrings.   His energies ebbed and flowed, sometimes rapidly. He sheltered under layers of shame-filled omissions and embarrassing secrets (to him!). Together and apart we uttered reassurances, little delusions that helped us contin-ue on in spite of the distant rumbling and nearby crackling. It would get better, we told ourselves; things would clear and settle. Once he quit smoking. Once I got my PhD. Once we had more money. Once he had a job. Once I had a job. Once we had a house. Once we moved. Once he…Once I...Once we...It would get better.  *  By the early 2000s, we had returned to the Appala-chian mountains. Back here, I took special care of him. Though I worked fulltime in a tenure-track teaching posi-tion at a state university, I identified all sorts of ways I could alleviate his burdens. Like a seasoned thru hiker, I sought to carry more weight for him, reasoning that he could better steady himself. I took care of the bills, the sav-ings, the housework, the groceries, the cooking. I took care of how I walked through the house, especially when he’d finally collapsed in the wee hours at the end of a sleepless night. I took care how I woke him, repeatedly rousing him for work (a process that usually took one-two hours). I took care how I spoke to him, especially about my own needs, my fears, my desires. I took care when I tried discussing our largely sexless marriage.  46  Taking care is what I did. Taking care is who I be-came. Over the years, there were numerous doctors and counselors. There were theories and diagnoses.   There were treatments and hospitalizations. There were capsules and tablets. There were waiting rooms and examination rooms. Still, we persisted, pushing against the stigma—external and internalized—and sometimes bitter re-alities of having our lives disordered by brain disorders.   I don’t know how to write this part; I don’t want to disparage a good man who struggled mightily in his own journey. But here is my truth: Years of taking care trans-formed me. Over time, I started reflecting the rugged ter-rain of my life. My face hardened underneath the weight of my unexpressed needs. My body widened, overly nourished by the food I used to comfort, sublimate, and satiate. Even-tually, I came to resemble the rounded, granite boulders I hiked by on so many secluded mountain trails. Emotionally, I was as cold and stony as well.  *  In January 2009, Seth vanished, leaving without a good-bye to me or an explanation to our young child. One morning, he’d simply kissed me on the forehead and left for work. When night came, but he did not, I’d started calling: his cell, his family, his boss, the police. Finally I got a text, a message as cryptic and indecipherable as my husband. At least I had proof of life, though.   He’d returned home days later while I was out, leav-ing a hand-written note on the kitchen counter; he’d crawled into bed, going sound to sleep. The moment I got back, my eyes instantly snagged the note. Before reading it, my heart promised that the lines on that single page would answer all, allowing me to go on taking care of him in spite of everything. My heart’s promise was not kept.  These are the words I remember the most from that note: “It’s not my fault.” As I saw it, his only letter to me was an abdication of responsibility for going missing. Per-haps he was right. Perhaps nothing was his fault. Regard-less, those words released me, more so than any apology could have.  We were divorced by November. 47 *  Toward the end of July, 2010, Seth removed his wedding band; he’d continued wearing it even after our di-vorce. He placed it on the counter of a dingy apartment (For some reason, I imagine the white-gold metal discarded on laminate, cheap and flimsy, the yellow of dying tulip poplar leaves). He slid off his wire rimmed glasses, frames round and tarnished. He dug out his worn wallet from his back pocket.   He deposited these meager possessions right beside the wedding band. Then, he went through the door and de-scended into the basement of his apartment complex. Once there, he slipped a noose around his neck. At times, my brain punishes me by silently asking why a man—who’d hat-ed the confining bowtie he’d worn on our wedding day nearly fifteen years prior—had secured something so tight around his throat.  *  It’s July 26, 2010, the night before our child’s birth-day. I haven’t been able to get hold of Seth, and I’m mad because he stood up his son, yet again. Lights are off. The whole house is asleep, including our kid and my aging par-ents.   When the call comes, it’s after eleven in the evening. I learned as a child and relearned as an adult: the late-night ring of a phone is seldom the harbinger for good happen-ings. I feel the bad news before it’s spoken to me in a series of low, halting murmurs. At some point, I sink onto my bed and listen-not-listen.   Tucked in my small childhood bedroom, it no longer feels cozy. Suffocating, I tug open the door and drift into the den. My brain’s frozen, not unlike those ice-encased crocuses from that spring long ago when I had first fallen for a boot-wearing poet and mountaineer. Eventually, my mind thaws enough to let this seep in:  Twelve hours from now, I have to find a way to cele-brate my child’s eleventh birthday. And sometime after that, I have to figure out how to tell a young boy that his father is dead. All I know for certain is this:  I will have to take care of what I do and what I say, but I have no idea how.  

Taking Care

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Taking Care

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