DC Reflections

Light flickering in my grandmother's eyes

St. Paul, Minn. -- I arrived at the party and locked eyes with a little brunette I had to meet. 

"What's your name?," I asked.

"Hailie," she said, with gusto.

"And how old are you?"

"I'm eight. I'm in second grade."

"You doing well in school," I continued. "What subjects do you like?"

"Of course," she said. "And I like English and math."

I don't often connect with young children. Ten and up and able to understand the finer points of executing the wheel play on a baseball field and I'm good. Young ones not so much. But my cousin Hailie and I hit it off and spent much of the day laughing together. She knew she had my number, especially when I asked her for one good reason that I should stop spinning her around and set her down. I asked her for the magic word, naturally expecting to hear offer up a "Please."

"Chris is awesome!," she said, making me laugh so hard I nearly dropped her.

I managed to set her down gently and then turned my attention back to the woman I had traveled 1,100 miles for one day to see -- my 97-year-old maternal grandmother, Myrl. My first hours with grandma had been about as rough as I expected. I had not seen her in more than a decade, her in Minnesota and me in Atlanta until last year. I saw her a lot when I was growing up, though -- first in St. Paul, where I lived from birth to about the age of 3, and then on road trips. She and my grandpa had later moved to Picayune, Mississippi.

I began bracing myself for the trip long before my plane left the ground for the family reunion. I knew her mind was fading; I had spent enough time around the elderly to know there was a good chance she wouldn't recognize me. My Alzheimer's' stricken paternal grandmother didn't know me the last time I saw her, and I've done volunteer work with other folks whose wires no longer connect.

Still, I wanted to show my love and support for a woman whose face used to light up every time she saw me ... a woman who had done so much for so many in her lifetime. (My uncle said she'd some times walk a very long way home after working a late shift at a restaurant so she could save 15 cents on bus fare, then get up and take him, my aunt and my mom on a bus to a pool hours later.) I even allowed myself the faintest hope that I might spark one glimmer of recognition in her eyes, that I could have my grandma back for even a moment That hope dimmed when my mother, aunt and uncle arrived at her assisted living center. She knew them, getting their names right on the first shot.

But she just couldn't make me out.

"Who is this man?," she asked. "He's good looking!"

We all laughed.

"You got the most important part right, Grandma," I said with a smile. "I'm Christopher, your grandson. Diane's son."

Nothing registered but she tried all day long on Saturday to figure me out. It didn't matter to her that she couldn't place a lot of other folks but I could see it bothered her that she couldn't make me out. She couldn't remember taking care of me every day when I was little and my parents were working. Couldn't remember taking me to the hospital when I felt the need for speed on my tricycle and busted my chin: Even my still-visible scar didn't ring a bell.

I didn't take it personally; you can't allow yourself to get rattled around people in that condition. You just have to maintain a happy, loving spirit and convey with your soul what words no longer allow you to express. I tapped into that understanding most heavily when we pulled into the reunion an hour later.

Others were afraid to try to lift my wheelchair bound grandmother out of the car like the man had taught us at the home, but I knew I could do it. I leaned in and tried to put her hands around my shoulders and neck.

She was terrified.

"No!," she screamed, trying to pull back. "Don't touch me, sir. Who are you, who is this man? Please don't touch me!"

She couldn't put up much of a fight and I tried my best to soothe her fears as I bear hugged her and lifted her out of the car and into her chair. 

I kept all my sad thoughts, and the darkness they lent themselves to, out of my mind -- mostly. As hard as it was on me, I knew that seeing grandma like that was a lot harder on her children. I feared there would come a day when I might have to care for my parents the same way, and that they might not recognize me, either.

"But who is that man?," Grandma would ask as if on cue to lighten the mood. "He's good looking!"

Then Hailie would come by and plop herself in my lap, or leave me no choice but to give her my famed "Big Brother Belly Buster" that I used to give my kid brothers at that age. One adult cousin sang for us. Another told jokes. We wolfed down some barbecue. I revisited old times with relatives I had maintained a relationship with, and greeted a great many people I was meeting for the first time.

The sun went down and the reunion drew to a close. Hailie cried when we said goodbye and said she wished we could keep hanging out. Me too, sweetheart, I said. I promised her I'd send her an e-mail soon (she told me she had an address and I could write her) and threw her on my shoulders for a ride to her car. She was heading back to Texas.

I had to get to the airport the next day. My mom, stepfather, uncle, aunt and I went to see grandma on the way.

Grandma resumed the previous day's query with me, continuing to break my mom's heart.

A moment later, something flickered in my grandmother's eyes.

"Christopher?," she asked, hesitantly.

"Yes!," we all said. Her face lit up like a kid at Christmas and she put her arms out so I could slide between them for a hug. She kissed me on the cheek and pressed with her little might on my shoulders.

"I love you, grandma," I said.

"Christopher!," she said, confidently. "I don't believe it."

Tears welled up in my eyes, and adrenalin in my veins, as I had received the gift I didn't think was coming.

We all made small talk and then said our farewells. She said goodbye to each of her children by name, then turned to me.

"Who is this man?", she asked. "He's good looking."

On a Penske truck and a prayer -- surviving 1 year in DC

A year ago today (June 11), I asked my father and one of my brothers to wait in the Ryder moving truck we had spent the weekend loading. I went from room to room in the Stone Mountain, Georgia house that had taken care of me for the past 11 years. I said a final goodbye to every room and the decade of memories they contained, kissed the back yard that my beloved husky Orion had roamed, shook hands with four Japanese maples I had raised from pups, and got into my car with half-husky Alexis.

Then I sobbed uncontrollably. I cried so hard I couldn't start the car. I couldn't make myself leave everything I had known and held so dear. My dad asked me if I was going to be okay, if I was going to be able to drive. I motioned that I'd get it in gear, took one last look at my life in Georgia, and turned the ignition.

It was time to motor away from a great and lengthy chapter of my life, and time to try to put the previous six months -- especially the previous week -- behind me. The first six months of 2007 were among the worst, and certainly the most frightening, of my life.

Orion died of a stroke in January. My dad got wheeled into an operating room for heart surgery -- the only time in my life I have seen my father scared of anything. I couldn't eat or sleep in the days leading up to the surgery, then nearly fainted when the surgeon came out and said my dad didn't need heart surgery after all: the tests Kaiser had performed had given a false result. My dad was fine.

With my dog gone and dad in good health, I knew it was time to increase my effort fo find a new gig and a new life in Washington. That would prove to be another roller coaster, though one that ultimately landed me a dream job.

If only 2007 had stopped right there.

The week before I was supposed to move, the offer someone had made to buy my house fell through. There was no way I could afford to pay a mortgage there and the shocking rent here. Panic set in as I began trying to sell my house within seven days.

About two days later, that problem became much smaller. Kaiser Permanente turned its incompetence on me. After failing to adequately diagnose some problems I was having, I suddenly found myself undergoing a battery of tests ... including an MRI on my brain.

I knew I was in trouble when my doctor called me after dinner that evening; I nearly dropped the phone when he told me that I may have multiple sclerosis. I initially glued myself to the word "may", only to see my life change when he said, "but you're not sick enough YET to jump in line and see one of our neurologists here in Atlanta. You'll have to find one on your own in D.C."

The word "yet" convinced me he was sure the degenerative brain disease had in fact stricken me. The next few days were a dark, confusing and surreal blur. I found myself going through the motions of still trying to sell my house ... while wondering how in the hell I was going to function with MS.

Could I cope with the pain? Would I even want to live once I started losing the ability to function? Should I call my new employer and say I'm not coming, and instead moving in with one of my parents to await my decline? A lot goes through your mind when a doctor tells you that you have a disease like MS. Especially when you've suddenly lost some hearing in your left ear and have an unbelievably loud, piercing shriek in that ear -- one that you learn is called tinnitus and that will not go away as long as you live.

Already a regular communicator with God (I'm not an outwardly religious guy but me and God are tight), I did some heavy duty praying that week. I remember the night I realized I knew the course of action I was going to take: I was going to go live my dream in DC disease or no disease, do it as long as I could, and at least take satisfaction in knowing I had been lucky enough to live it for a while. I envisioned taking a lunch break, walking down the street from my new M Street office, and chowing down on some hot dogs from a pushcart while staring at the White House from my favorite bench in Lafayette Park. I would tip my hat to one of my heroes, John Adams, and marvel at the history that building contains.

Yes, that night, I reminded God that I'm not one to pray for myself and that I wasn't going to start then. I told him I'd obviously rather not be sick but couldn't ask him to play favorites, even though I pray for a litany of friends and family each night. Instead, I asked God to give me the strength -- if I had to be sick -- to handle the disease with class, dignity and humor. I asked that he help me not be a burden to the ones that I love, to give me the seemingly unimaginable strength I'd witnessed among so many people I had met or interviewed who suffer from major diseases.

The time blur continued through Friday afternoon. Through the miracle resulting from being put in touch with a real estate investor who went to church with my then boss's wife, I signed the paperwork selling my house around 2:30 p.m. that day. That gave me precious little time to drive to the complete opposite side of Atlanta -- from Gwinnett County north of the city to Clayton County south of it -- to meet with a neurologist my mom had somehow gotten me an appointment with. I couldn't be late, though: he was leaving the country that afternoon.

I broke a great number of speed and traffic laws making that drive for a second opinion. Tears rolled every time I got stuck at an intersection. I had to see this guy, a real specialist (unlike the ENT who made the diagnosis at Kaiser). I had to know what my fate held.

The neurologist reviewed my MRI, gave me an exam, and told me Kaiser Permanente didn't know what it was talking about, that it should have never mentioned the words multiple sclerosis to me and instead have sent me to a neurologist to take a look at my brain.

I looked at my mom in disbelief. I couldn't understand the doctor's words.

"Chris, on behalf of my entire profession, I apologize to you for what those doctors have put you and your family through the past few days," he said. "You absolutely do not have MS. I can't help you with the ringing in your ear and my advice to you is to get a new health care provider when you move to D.C., but I want you to go up there and save some wilderness so I have more places to hike."

I sobbed into my mother's arms, then called my dad, stepfather and everybody else I knew to tell them the news. I did not have a degenerative brain disease, and I had sold my house, so it was off to Washington for me!

It was time to go seek my destiny -- a life in Washington that I first began dreaming of in fifth grade. I fell in love with this town through old-fashioned reel-to-reel films I saw in elementary school about the Smithsonian. My dad took me on my first of many trips here that summer so I could see the things that had set my imagination on fire. Even then, though I was captivated by images of the Air & Space Museum, I was a huge fan of American history -- especially the Revolution, and all things civic affairs. I viewed the White House, Capitol and other buildings for what they represent -- the greatness that is this nation and the opportunity for everyday people like myself to make their voices heard. 

In the trips that followed, I sensed it was my destiny to be the next Mr. Smith to go to Washington. I am an unapologetic idealist who refuses to let the stain of so much reality interfere with my belief in the ideals and institutions that make this country great. Some day, I thought, I will move to Washington and find a way to perform my highest level of service to our country. (It's true; I was a strange kid.)

My political views are too independent to allow me to follow Mr. Smith's exact steps, though maybe some day I'll run for a city or county office to test that theory. But DC is truly the U.S. capitol for a difference. I felt at home here from the day I started my job as a communications director for a great nonprofit. I love going to work every day and having the chance to make an impact on issues I care about. I love all the museums and the intellectual life this town contains. I love chasing down fly balls with national monuments in my view.

I love how surprisingly friendly I've found DC to be. I love the spirit of a city in which most of the people who come here share the bond of seeking to make America even better. We may not agree on much, but we're all here as patriots fighting for our beliefs.

My first year in this town hasn't been without its setbacks. I knew I'd have to go through some first-year struggles. As sad I was the day I pulled out of my Stone Mountain driveway, I was also scared. I knew all of one household in this city and it had been quite some years since I moved to new locales the way I did to Alaska and Spain in younger years. I didn't know if I'd fit in at work, if people in the District would hear my southern accent and think I was a dope ... if I'd hurt some innocent bystander when I drove through traffic circles.

I've withstood the mistakes I've made the first year -- shooting some toes off at work, initially moving into a house that wasn't quite right for me, accidentally breaking some traffic laws that fortunately have done no harm, and not handling some social situations the way I would have liked.

I sit here tonight, almost to the hour of my midnight arrival, reflecting on the choice I made -- just like I do about every day. I keep returning to the identical conclusion: it was the right thing to do and I'm grateful that I took the chance. Almost every day here seems like a gift. The lessons learned from the MS scare are still with me. That week magnified my already strong belief that life is precious and that every day I spend in a way that doesn't lead to happiness and fulfillment is a day wasted.

The scare also humbled me a good bit, something my friends like to remind me is a good thing. The ever-present ringing in my left ear that's a result of that week is a constant reminder that life is short and can be taken away at any second. And just when I feel the strongest urges to ram a fork in my ear, I remember how much worse life could be -- and how blessed I am.

I have a lot of goals and hopes for my future here ... I want to make the maximum possible difference at work. I want to get active in some very specific volunteer projects and make the maximum possible difference in the community. I want to complete research I started that could turn into a possible book relating to the Revolution. I want to see and do everything there is to do in this town. And if I'm really lucky, I'd like to meet the right woman to share this new life with.

Regardless of how the future unfolds, however, I realize now that there's something I've neglected to do. It's time for me to go get some hot dogs, sit down at my favorite bench in Lafayette Park, stare at the White House, and celebrate how far I've come since I left Georgia on a Penske truck and a prayer.