Meeting the demon of the past.

Finally facing the demons of the past.

On Tuesday (Dec 8^th) I had stayed up the entire night studying for a chemistry midterm. So I was pretty exhausted and very tired by Wednesday. I took my test that morning and kinda sloughed through the day until I got to work.

At work I was on a call “Customer service this is Joey how may I help you?” and my sister texted me “Our grandmother is in the hospital and is not expected to survive the week. Martha wanted us to know.”

Interestingly how cold I had grown to the situation. My responses consisted of. “Interesting…. diagnosis?” My sister of course being a psychologist thought I might be in some deep state of mental trauma and kept on trying to get me to explain my feelings on the situation, which ended up on being more irritating than helpful. However after facebooking, and talking to several people I decided I would go to see this woman that I really didn’t know. I decided to go, in that I knew she was still alive and I had the opportunity to go and see her before she passed. In reality if I had found out she had died after the fact I wouldn’t have felt cheated from an opportunity to basically acquire knowledge of my heritage. However since I DID have the opportunity, I acted upon it. Looking back that was some cold reasoning on my behalf.

A little family history: I have two siblings, a brother who is 7 years my senior and a sister who is 5 years older than me. So I am the youngest child by a good amount of years. Long story short the mother of the family basically suffered from some unknown psychological illness at the time and a divorce occurred when I was 6 months old winning custody of her children. My “mother” or Nina, was very abusive, almost to an abstract level. While it may have been attributed to mental illness the things that were done were basically inhuman. Luckily I was only 4 years old at the time that my dad actually removed us from her home so I don’t remember much except for some specifically horrific events. However, my brother and sister lived through much worse and of course remember more due to them being older. In addition my “grandmother,” or Antonieta, was equally abusive and I also share basically the same sentiment between the two.

For the most part, being 24 years old, I had forgotten about that life, and I had forgotten about those people. I’ve never really missed having a mother. I have a dad, a brazen and impatient individual today; but still, he provided and cared for the 3 of us on his own. Definitely a trooper, in addition to dealing with basically traumatized children he handled a score of medical issues from my jaw being maligned from being broken and healed incorrectly (By my mother.), to handling the effects of illness from malnutrition, skin diseases, sociological problems etc. all within the first year of receiving us. I never felt left out, or unlucky for not having a mom. In fact, I am very lucky to have the dad I do.

Of course upon hearing this news it brought back memories, many forgotten memories but memories nonetheless. Have you ever forgotten something as a child or teenager but only revisited the thought as an adult? Isn’t it interesting how maturity and resilience can really affect the thought process on a previously melancholically harbored issue?

I discussed with my sister a lot via text about going to visit Antonieta. The pro’s, the con’s, all of it. She was very sensitive about this issue even though she was acting as if it wasn’t affecting her. Ahh the Perry method of handling things I’d say. Anyway, I would have gone alone after my sports wrapping final on Thursday except she had basically forbade me from going sort of insinuating that I may not be able to mentally handle meeting that family.

I waited until about 4pm, when Monica (sister in law) offered to go with me, which still would have been to the dismay of my sister in that she wanted my brother or herself to go with me. I didn’t inform my sister of my logistical plans on going until after I had already gone.

I purchased some flowers at the Food4Less next to Target. Upon entering the store I realized I had some odd emotions surrounding that Food4Less. The only times I ever specifically entered that store is when I bought flowers to bring to either a funeral or something close of that nature. Kind of weird to have strong emotions when entering a specific store isn’t it?

I arrived at Grossmont Center and picked up Monica to so we only had to park one vehicle in the Grossmont Hospital parking structure. We entered the ICU and very easily gained access to her room. I was told by the nurse that only two people can enter her room at a time, and one person was in there already. So we would have to ask that person to leave if we wanted to both go in. Monica, told me to go in first, not really knowing who or what was in there yet. I went in and saw a very frail small woman on life support. My grandmother was much smaller than I had imagined, and she must have at least been late 80’s in age. I saw a woman sitting by her bed who is best described to look like the Eskimo lady from the Simpson’s movie that Homer runs into during his time in Alaska.

Of course me, playing the role of strange man entering this room caused a bit of an awkward silence. I turned and looked at this woman sitting by the bed and said. “Nina?” She responded with “Yes, who are you?” “Hi I’m your son.” I shook her hand firmly but with a great amount of distance. She had mistaken me for Paul, in which I responded “No, I’m much younger.” She just said my name “Joey.” and stared at me for a short period of time. She responded with a simple question; the only question she asked me that entire evening, which was: “Where have you been?” In reality what appropriate response is there to a question like that? “I responded with “I’ve been me, what have you been?”

There was awkward silence for a moment, in which I interrupted and asked, “So what is wrong with her?” In pertinence to Antonieta who was in a comatose state, she explained she really didn’t know, except she had fallen the week before. She explained how she wanted a new doctor in that the current one only has grim outlooks on the situation. Completely understandable and I would probably have similar sentiments if it were my dad in that bed.

She started off with “I’m surprised you recognized me.” I answered with a simple, “No I didn’t I just assumed it would be you of all people here.”

What happened next is where I appreciate that I did not meet Nina until I was 24. I am so glad that I didn’t see this individual until I was prepared to handle who or what she is. I think there was some grand scheme involved here, in addition to the fact that I was educated in the field of Psychology, and my dad had basically conditioned his children to be fairly resilient in most all situations.

She said she was surprised that I recognized her had originated from the fact that her face was swollen from the surgery “they” did to her so that her children would not recognize her and refuse her as their mother 20 years ago. She said her appearance was distorted due to an identity thief that assumed her identity and distorted her physical appearance so that no-one would recognize her. She even said that there were breast implants in her cheeks. (Her cheeks looked normal, and of course, similar to the shape of my own face.) She said this all calmly, with a flat affect.

Of course the first thing that came out of her mouth being so deranged was a shock. However it was an excellent buffer to myself for the rest of the conversation.

I spent the next hour listening to her. I was curious what she had to tell me. My whole life I had literally dreams of one day meeting this woman that I basically owe my existence to. I had so many things to say, I’ve wanted for years to place every single one of my accomplishments before her and say “Look at all that I’ve done; without you.”

It’s funny how we convince ourselves how certain scenarios will play out. As if we have some sort of clairvoyant ability to distinguish the reaction to any action within our own colloquial settings. Ever finally have something happen and it doesn’t play out at all like you imagined? Ever anticipate finally getting your shot at proving something grandiose but at that very moment all you really feel are sour grapes? –Joey. P.

She provided many stories, most untrue to an extreme level, and every once in a while there was a slight sliver of truth that would come true; an interesting fact or morsel about the life of my parents before the divorce: a fond memory, a story of my father that was true, information about herself that held interest, something substantial. For the most part however, it was all about the government conspiracies that took her children away from her to reap benefits from the social services sector and to conduct experiments on her. Or detailed stories about how evil my father was, and how he was conducting some sociological experiment on her today to make millions. She even said my aunt on my dad’s side was in on the experiment, and said that she was attacked by her. I took a moment to correct her and say that “Charla passed away about 2 years ago.” She told me it was all a government cover up and she was still alive but under a new identity.

Occasionally I grew bored of her stories, and would ask a question here and there about something that mattered to me. “What was your degree in? How old are you? Do you have any questions for me?” Each time I asked something relevant she would avoid my question and continue on with her stories. Almost as if I never asked.

As she spoke, I stood in the same spot and listened, literally in awe of how she perfectly fit the DSM-4 diagnosis of a schizophrenic with a categorization of paranoid/disorganized. She had the grandiose self image, the hallucinations of persecution, the belief of her own confabulations right down to the flat affect especially to emotional stimuli such as meeting your son.

She was disinterested in me. She did not ask things that you’d expect a mother to ask her son upon meeting him for the first time in 20 years. There were no: “You look handsome, Are you dating anyone? Are you married? Do you have a job? Did you go to college? What food do you like? What are your hobbies? What were your birthdays like? Did you ever think about me? How are your brother and sister?” There was none of that. Like I said earlier, the only question she ever asked me was. “Where have you been.” The rest of what she had to say was just explanations of what had happened at the time I was taken from her.

To demonstrate how devoid of compassion or even of interest she had for me, she explained several times how if she could she would have had her uterus removed at a young age so she could have never had children. In the very same conversation that I introduce myself as her son she decides it’s important that I knew this information. Of course having her uterus removed would have been for the purpose of preventing the government from taking her children away and farming them through the foster care system and having them beaten by their father. “I was never in foster care.” I told her. “My dad raised us, and to be honest, he’s never hit me before even though I probably deserved it at some point.”

She actually had the gall to say this one line, that I really will never forget her saying unfortunately. “Well I’ve never hit you guys before either, let me correct myself, I spanked all three of you once so that way your friends at school wouldn’t make fun of you for not knowing what it’s like to be spanked.”

I wanted to laugh; I wanted SO BADLY to correct this woman. However, for some reason I didn’t need to. I didn’t need to tell her how wrong her ideologies were. I no longer had the desire to display my lifetime of accomplishments before her, I didn’t care anymore. I stood there and just gazed upon her with an abstract pity. Did I reciprocate the same lack of compassion that this person displayed to me but in a passive way?

The entire time Monica was texting me, and I utilized the fact that Monica was waiting outside to end the conversation and leave. Upon telling her that I needed to go, I said. “It was nice to meet you, by the way. I’m 24 years old.” Yes a tad passive aggressive, but clearly indicative of the fact that she was disinterested in me and I had noticed. She responded with “Of course I know your birthday.” I almost wanted to ask: really when is it? But of course it didn’t matter to me anymore. I simply left after that. No good bye, no hug, not even a handshake.

In the aftermath of meeting Nina, almost anyone that has known me for longer than a year basically had a million questions about what transpired. I literally grew a little tired from telling the story. However I did feel loved that so many people were concerned about how I was doing and how many people offered their shoulder to cry on if needed. I have some amazing friends if you think about it.

Afterwards I wasn’t upset like I had imagined. My brother had accidentally met her 2 years before while shopping. He was an emotional wreck for several days afterwards. I was expecting to be in the same condition in reality. Unfortunately I still haven’t shed a tear in response to this whole situation. I’m assuming the profound confusion and hurt towards the things she would say or how she acted would invoke such a strong response in my brother. I’m sure he had his own ideal of what it would be like to see that woman again. I’m assuming it was very different that what he had imagined.

Maybe I’m not upset as I thought because of the discipline that I chose to become educated in. Maybe it instantly tempered my thought process from having grand expectations, especially after the remark that “They” had altered her appearance. Maybe I’ve become that resilient of an individual from the close relationships I’ve formed throughout my life. Who knows?

I don’t intend to see her again, as I’ve seen enough of what that person is. I do wish her well however, and hope that she receives appropriate help.

All in all, with everything that’s happened. I still feel like I’m a pretty lucky guy, that’s had a pretty lucky life, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

-Joey