Zen and the Art of ? . . . Breathing. (G for gusher)

My good friend, Emily, just asked me for validation; she's having a hard time, a confusing time. And when she gets confused, she gets aaaaaaanngry. But, instead of offering support, I yelled at her. Well, not really yelled, but I basically said, I can't validate you; I have to save all my validations for myself right now. Selfishness can squeeze you up like a blow snake squeezes the life out of a rabbit. Though validations may be pretty much a waste of time, since Em knows I love her, and life happens to you anyway. This is a complicated little piece of eternity, isn't it? Some days I'm just glad I'm breathing.

Yesterday, at the parade, someone bought me a snake hat made out of balloons. Bright red and orange. The snake's tongue stuck out two feet from my head and bopped up and down when I walked.

I knew if I strolled around Porter Park wearing this balloon hat and danced in the parade (because no one else was dancing, but Meg pulled me back and wouldn't allow it, since I just turned 60, she said, she said) and if I screamed at the bull riding at the rodeo later, then ooood and wowed the stupid fireworks, I might forget that we had just dragged Beau to a doctor. And they put in in the Behavioral Center.

Quite a trip. Quite a trip. Sorry, but I'm going to gush all the emotion--no, actually only 1/100th of the emotion from the night before, so it's out of me, so I can kick it along the sidewalk, or throw it into the river, or flush it all down the toilet. Beware J.J.J. Beware.

Meg and I pace, while Beau sits with his arms crossed, still determined he doesn't need to be here. As soon as this Rexburg doctor opens the door, I ask one of the silliest questions ever. "Are you LDS?" I throw at him before he even sits down on his stupid round stool. "Because we've been praying our heads off that a doctor somewhere, somehow will listen to us, hear us, because they're not listening: we've been to five Emergency rooms over the last six months, and we don't know what to do. We think my son's in the beginning stages of schizophrenia."

And Beau sits back--leaning his head against the window, and after months of fighting, he--finally--lets me talk.

And so I told Mr. Robot (who holds the keys to locked down units, where, maybe, Beau might get the right diagnosis?) about some of the voices: one told Beau to meet her at a restaurant in San Francisco. "Go in and order, Beau; I'll be right there to pay for it." The waiter shows him to a booth by the windows, when the voice in his head says, "Beau, I can't come in the door. It's too dangerous." And Beau looks up to see two men in gray suits getting out of a BMW in the financial district of SF. "But, don't worry, Beau. The man at the end of the counter, wearing the blue shirt, is going to pay for your food." Beau approaches the man and whispers: "Are you the one who's going to pay for the meal?" The man keeps eating, looking down at his plate. Then, Beau tells me over the phone, "But, I realize, Mom, he can't look up at me, or he's going to tip them off."

"WHO THE HELL IS THEM, Beau?" Long pauses--as I realize I've got to calm down. I've got to get him home because these nightmare dayscapes are cycling closer together now. But I'm screaming into the phone, trying to reach through and grab his mind as its flying in pieces all over SF, like James' brownies hitting the fan. But, it's not like he knows who these voices are either. "They're angry, and they hate me." This is only one story I tell Mr. Doctor.

Meg and I try to explain madness to this white suited robot, who looks so normal (please excuse bitterness) that he's probably planning which fly to tie onto his pole tomorrow, or maybe he's going over his sacrament talk on home teaching, while I keep reaching, trying--with all the words I've ever had in me--to paint the hell Beau is living in, how he burned his arm twice last night with a cigarette to take away the pain in his head. In fact, now I'm standing between him and Beau, saying, "He's not a cutter, you see; it's just that the pain gets so bad he has to redirect it--make it come from some other place than from his head. Do you understand?"--already I know he doesn't. How could he?

If I'm not careful--using these stupid inadequate words, words trying to explain insanity--another dimension most people don't know about, care about, can't understand, unless they've walked the path. They can't hear these words. What are the words? Where are they? This will be the book I write. I will find the words to explain the landscape of insanity; I swear I will do it--but, If I'm not careful, the thought crosses my mind, this guy will take me to the neurological center along with Beau. But, who the hell cares? I believe mothers have excuses for hysteria.

Finally, this doctor--healer of men--looks at Beau, who's busy listening to two women argue in his head.

One says she's from Tennessee, but Beau knows she's lying. "She's really from Texas, Mom; why does she swear she's from Tennessee?" And I want to grab his head like Dinero grabs the sides of Christopher Walkin's head in Deer Hunter, to keep his brains from falling out all over the floor. But instead I'm screaming again, "Who the heck cares where they live, Beau? They're in your head right now, so It doesn't much matter. Tell them to shut up and back off, so you can hear me. I'M THE MOTHER." These coping methods make me realize I'll certainly make Mother of the Year next month, and God has me already lined up to join the ranks of Compassionate Nurses in the next life.

But I can't explain the landscape in Beau's head to this man, who finally gets Beau's attention. "Do you concur with what your mother's said, young man?" Really. I'm not kidding. That's exactly what he said, like I'd just told him Beau's finger hurts, and I think he needs a band-aide.

Then we see Beau, in great shame, drop his head, and say yes. And Meg and I want to pick him up like a little child and protect him from all evil, but instead we melt with relief and go home to crawl into fetal positions until we can grasp that we may be losing him.

So, we go to the parade. I've had no sleep the night before because I watched him fight imaginary, full blown people, who hate his guts, who tell him not to talk to anyone, who scream at him until he bashes his head against the tree outside the back door to make them stop. But, it's the next day now--the 4th of July. I turn over on the couch to get away from the cat and fall off on the floor, which wakes me up; I hear ducks and grab the rest of the bread to feed them--and suddenly, before I know it--I'm really awake, and I need this Rexburg, small town, ridiculous parade, where the winning float is from Grease Monkey. My grand daughter is marching. And Meg's new husband, Ben, who has never seen a Podunk, country parade is hilariously baffled by all the tractors. ("But, they're 1959 tractors, Ben. Get it?" "Hmmm . . . no, not exactly," he says. He's giving it a good try. "They're, well . . . tractors.") He's puzzled by the kids in polished Chevy SUVs, throwing candy ("Ben, those are the student body officers of Sugar Salem. Get it?"); Then military display scares both of us. Ahhh, yes, we're supporting the fighting men, but do we have to do it with tanks and other war machines, which have been made for one purpose--to kill other human beings?

But we wander over to the park and eat mangoes dipped in hot sauce and lime. (They don't taste the same without the tequila--from my much younger days, of course, but I don't care.) We eat corn on the cob slathered with mayonnaise then sprinkled with Parmesan cheese and hot sauce. We eat something from every booth--lots of hot sauce and we get sick. We watch the old Rexburg carousal and listen to the worst music I've ever heard, and get sick, but it's a good day. It's sunny and people are--not exactly happy, but more relaxed, or . . . at least not angry or too irritated. And because we have no, absolutely none, zero expectations, it's a good day. Then I go take pictures of some baby colts in a field along the highway, until the rodeo starts. And it's all good because I love rodeos and fireworks and love to watch the people watching all of it (as long as I have space between us.) And everything lifts for awhile, so I can breathe. These are the days when just breathing is very good. It's enough.