Why Are You Doing This?

I never believed in angels, but for some reason they believed in me, and I’m truly thankful for it. They kept watch over me during the many crazy, death-defying stunts I indulged in as a kid.

I hopped on freight and passenger trains, and—only after learning the hard way—made sure to hit the ground running when hopping off. Still, chances were, momentum slammed me ass-first onto the sidewalk. Not cracking my skull was a good day. I crawled through dark, dank sewer pipes, never knowing where or if they ended, or what might be flowing or creeping my way. Thinking about tight spaces all these years later makes me cringe.

For reasons I will never understand, my friends and I—fully clothed and in sneakers—would jump into the roaring rapids of the Hohokus River after a hard rain. We floated over waterfalls and around boulders while dodging logs and debris for what seemed like miles. The only escape before reaching the Atlantic Ocean was to grab hold of pricker bushes spilling over the riverbanks and pull your soggy, beaten, and now bloody self to safety. We called it body surfing. Sane people, no doubt, called it something else. If my mom or dad caught wind of any of these escapades, they surely would have done what trains, sewers, or that raging river never could: put me out of their misery.

How my parents survived their “sixpack” of kids confounds me to this day. Seeing what they went through while only knowing a fraction of what we did played a big part in me not wanting, or having, children. I came close once. It happened in the fall of 1984, soon after I moved to Los Angeles. We met at a Hollywood party. For fun, I assumed a French accent and poured glass after glass of French wine for her, for others, and many for myself. I remember little of what happened after, but in the morning, she said my accent did the trick. I blamed the wine.

A few weeks later, I got a call with the news. She ended it with, “Daddy arranged everything, so not to worry.” I had no say in the matter. I guess I could have, but staying quiet seemed right at the time.

And there I was some thirty years later embracing “parenthood.” Only this time the child was my ninety-year-old mother. I jumped in with gusto and happily took on all of the usual first-time parent duties. I lost sleep . . . lots and lots of sleep.

The physical tasks, though time-consuming, were manageable, and with practice became routine. They were nothing compared to the emotional roller coaster I had found myself on. I didn’t expect it. Didn’t want it. Tried to ignore it. But it crept up on me as I realized this “child” would sleep more hours, not fewer. Her vocabulary would not increase but diminish to barely a word. She would never again walk on her own. Never outgrow her dependency. She would only continue to decline. And—most difficult—I had to accept the fact that I would not have her for much longer.

My mother’s life was in my hands. I needed her to understand that.

“Do you trust me?” I asked.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Do you understand I will do everything in my power to keep you healthy and safe?”

She smiled and nodded.

“That means I’m in charge. And that means you must listen and obey me.”

Her mood shifted in an instant. She looked me dead in the eye and puckered up her lips. I wasn’t sure if this was a sign of surrender or one wishing me luck. I kissed her and hoped for the best.

After a particularly stressful day for the both of us, Mom shot me a curious look and asked, “Why are you doing this?”

I paused and took a deep breath. “Because it’s an honor for a son to take care of his mother,” I answered in all sincerity.

Taken aback, she replied, “It is?”

Her surprise stung me on many levels. I felt the need to reassure her. “Of course. How long did you take care of me?” I said. She was unconvinced, so I continued. “Who forgave me when I shelled all those lobster tails and turned your lovely New Year’s presentation into a pile of white meat? And who forgave me when her expensive but noisy spoked hubcaps flew off her car after I tried to silence them with grease? And who didn’t tell Dad I was suspended for two days in the seventh grade for slamming the vice principal’s door?”

And with that, she smiled.

But her question got me thinking. Why did I take this on? Why did I give up my carefree bachelor’s life to move back in to my childhood home? Yes, I was in a position to help. I had no children, no pets, and no current relationship tying me to Los Angeles—at least none that I knew of. My acting career had stalled long ago. And after devoting fifteen years of blood, sweat, and plenty of tears to my organic popcorn business, Grandpa Po’s Originals barely had a kernel of life left in it.

Perhaps the pain of overhearing my brother Michael channeling Dad’s tirades about money played a role. Mom’s careless spending continued to be an issue as long as telemarketers had access to her, and she had access to a credit card.

Maybe I did it for selfish reasons. I wanted more than the eight days I got with my dad.

Maybe I needed a win. I needed to accomplish something meaningful, which, at that point in my life, I felt that I hadn’t. I was good at many things, but I never stuck with one long enough to excel above all others. I got bored and moved on. That was my MO. When I met my niece’s new father-in-law at her wedding in Bermuda, he asked what I did for work.

“I started five nonprofit businesses,” I said.

He looked at me like I was Jesus.

“None were intended to be,” I added quickly.

We shared a good laugh and returned to our Dark ’n’ Stormys.

Taking this on, perhaps the biggest challenge of my life, could be my saving grace. After all, it was my mom. She never once gave up on me. So, I committed myself not only to her but to my five siblings. They all put their trust in me, and no matter how difficult—physically, mentally, or emotionally—this journey became, I was determined not to let any of them down. This time there would be no moving on until she decided to move on.

But during those difficult times, I often asked myself the same question: “Why are you doing this?”

Then I’d see her smile, or I’d catch one of her witty comebacks, or I’d melt when she puckered up for a kiss, and I had my answer.

So, maybe those angels who’d saved me all those times had a plan all along. Do I believe in them now? I believe I do.

A chapter from A Cup of Tea on the Commode For more information, click here.

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