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Everything I Never Wanted to Be

Page 17

by Dina Kucera


  It seems like a thousand dollars later, but we are finally in. Mom is smiling. We are all smiling. This place is magic! It is almost 100 degrees, but that is okay. Everything is glittering and colorful.

  I push Mom through the gate and say, “Here we go, Mom! We’re at Disneyland!”

  I get about ten feet when Mom’s wheelchair very abruptly stops and lurches forward, almost hurling her out onto the golden brick road. I look down. Tracks. There are train tracks? I look ahead and realize there are train tracks everywhere. To get Mom’s wheelchair over them, we all have to lift her so the wheels don’t get wedged in the track. John and I look at each other and without saying a word, we know we have just entered hell.

  Every few feet we lift, push for a few seconds, and then lift again. We are lifting the wheelchair with Mom in it when we hear the trolley making its way around the track. In the nick of time, we get Mom off the track, and the trolley passes with smiling people waving and having the time of their lives. John and I stare at them with sweat rolling down our faces.

  The lines for the magic rides are about forty minutes. I understand why they sell three-day passes now. If you want to ride several of the rides, it will take three days.

  By lunchtime, Moses’ face is beet red. Mom is also getting sunburned. I slather both of them with sun block, just as I had done before we left. We are sitting in some sort of fairy restaurant after waiting for more than an hour. Moses refuses to eat. I tell him to eat his fairy burger. He has a screaming attack right in front of all the fairies. Then April begins to lose it, and then I begin to lose it, and we don’t give a shit what the fairies are thinking. One hundred thirty-six dollars later, lunch is over. The fairies are not sorry to see us leave.

  We go back out to the mean streets of Disneyland. The fun Disney characters are everywhere. Moses does not appreciate them one little bit. He cries every time one comes close to us. I try to wave them off, but they come anyway. Moses screams. I smile and tell the characters they are doing a great job.

  The characters don’t talk. They just do fun, silly body movements. I raise my hand to stop them, and they put their hands on their enormous bellies as if they are laughing and walk away in their giant outfits.

  Mom wants to go on a ride, but the only ride in the magic kingdom that Mom can go on is “It’s a Small World.”

  Because Mom is in a wheelchair—and because God had mercy on us—we don’t have to wait in line. The entire family goes on the ride. We enter the tunnel, and immediately we are hit with the most beautiful cool air. We all realize our day just got better.

  It turns out the world is not as small as you might have thought. The ride goes on forever, which is great. It is a fun ride with all the different countries and the music and air conditioning.

  We come back out of the tunnel and pull up to the ride guy. We begin to stand and he says, “Wanna go again?”

  We all look at each other, confused. Mom says, “Yes! We do!” So off we go, back into the air-conditioned tunnel.

  Four times. We go through four times. That’s how long it takes to lower our body temperatures to an almost normal level.

  Afterwards, I am desperately looking for a tree to park Mom under. I find one tree. There are about sixteen Japanese people standing under it. They look like they are wedged into a crowded elevator. Each of them has a camera hanging from his neck. There is no way in.

  We all have first degree burns. I stand in line for half an hour to get water. Some to drink and some to dump on my family’s heads to save their lives. Nineteen dollars later, I get the water. Moses is bright red and crying in that miserable way that children cry when they have really had enough—sobbing, snot running out of his nose, rubbing his eyes. I am leaning down, patting Moses’ back, saying, “It’s okay, Sweetie. I know, I know...” when I see two enormous brown furry feet step into our space. I look up. It is another giant cartoon character. He waves. I say, “Please. Step away from the child.”

  The character does the same hand-on-the-belly laughing thing as all the other characters and shuffles away.

  I look at my family, and I can sense that the big people could actually have some fun if they didn’t have to worry about lugging around a tired, sunburned baby and an old lady in a wheelchair. I tell John to take us back to the room. And trust me, it is no sacrifice on my part.

  Mom and Moses and I get back into our room and it is truly magic. We crank up the air, order room service, strip down to our underwear, and climb in the big beautiful bed. We are all thrilled. We eat cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes, and watch TV. It is the best part of the trip. The three of us fall asleep for about three hours with the nice air conditioning blowing on our sunburned skin. Aaaah... life is great.

  The others stay at Disneyland until late into the night, which is great. They called several times saying, “Are you guys ready to come back?”

  I look at Moses sitting in his bath playing so peacefully, and Mom eating ice cream and watching something on TV. I say, “I don’t think so. Really, we are fine.”

  Later in the evening, Moses and I take a walk and go swimming. It is nice and calm and fun.

  I put Mom to bed in her little bedroom attached to our room. I am covering her and notice her window shade is open. Outside her window you can see Disneyland. Right at that moment, they begin a fireworks show.

  I say, “Look, Mom. Fireworks!”

  She watches as she lies in her bed. I call Moses in and he jumps up on the bed between me and Mom. Moses is pointing and smiling. Mom is smiling. There is complete silence... just beautiful, brilliant flashes of light and color filling the sky. The three of us lie there, hypnotized, each explosion greater than the last, and sometimes it feels like the fireworks are coming down on top of us. I look over at my mom. She looks happy. It seems like this is what she came for. The show goes on for about twenty minutes, and we watch all the way through.

  When it is over, I close the shade, and pull the blanket over Mom’s shoulders.

  She says, “That was the best fireworks show I’ve ever seen.”

  I say, “Me too.”

  Right at that moment, I feel a connection to my mother that I have not felt in years. It is me and my mom watching the fireworks. It feels like we are both present for the first time in a long, long time. It is a moment I will never forget. It is magical.

  I don’t think moments are the things in life we plan. Like getting married or having children. Genuine moments happen when you aren’t expecting them. Those are the things you remember all your life. Little snapshots that you can see as if they just happened. I went to bed grateful for that little bit of time with my mom, and I remembered just for a second what she used to be like.

  We got home and it took six weeks to heal from the effects of Disneyland. We put the toilet back in Mom’s bathroom and unloaded her wheelchair. I was happy Mom went to Disneyland, and she has an eighteen dollar coffee cup to prove she was there.

  People always say, “You have to go to Disneyland. At least once.” I agree. You have to go. At least once. But you know where the happiest place on earth is? My house. My bed. It turns out the best part of going to Disneyland is coming home.

  I wanted my book to end like this: “Carly has been clean for seven years and now she’s an astronaut. She will be the first heroin addict in space—and I mean real space. Jen and her longtime girlfriend were legally married and now have octuplets. Jen has been completely cleared of any medical conditions. April is six years sober and is the best-selling author of Is Your Unorganized Utensil Drawer A Scream For Help?”

  Most people don’t have a clean, clear happy ending to the traumatic events in their lives. I’ve had to learn to live within the trauma. Live a life while the events are happening. Get up in the morning instead of climbing in a hole and waiting for the storm to pass. Because the storm isn’t going to pass while you’re in the hole. I have to admit, some days, the hole is screaming, “Hey Dina! Come back!” But climbing out of it is more difficu
lt than not going in there in the first place.

  Some days I cry. Sometimes in public. But at least I am dressed, sort of, and in public. Life happens even when we’re not in the mood for it. Fake a smile. Fake a courteous mood. Make some hot chocolate. Wrap yourself in a blanket and sit on the couch and watch a Will Ferrell or Chris Farley movie. If one of those two don’t make you laugh, check yourself into the hospital, immediately.

  When the day is really bad and I think about things in my life that have happened to me or the girls, I pray that God help me see the good. When you’re in a tunnel of anger or sadness, it’s hard to see good and light. I try to look for it.

  The truth is that I can’t sustain this kind of thing every day. But it’s my goal. My heart is heavy, but movement seems to help. Laughter fights the fear.

  Addicts and alcoholics are sometimes unlovable. I know this because I’m one of them. They do things and say things that make you feel sad or angry or both.

  There is a saying, “Love them until they can love themselves.” That’s easier said than done and some days it takes all my strength. There are moments I want to say to them, “You are a fucking nut job.” But I try to make a point of saying, “I love you.” Even when the kids aren’t acting lovable and sweet. Even if I’m not feeling the words right then, I say them.

  I think, One day they will begin to love themselves, and I hope they will know the importance of saying those simple words. I’m sure there have been occasions when people told me they loved me when they wanted to tell me I was an unstable crazy mess.

  Every day I make sure to tell Mom I love her. I say, “I love you, Mom.” She says, “What do you mean where am I? I’m right here!”

  I mean let’s face it. I’m not Mother Teresa. Most days I scream the “fuck” word until sundown. But at the end of it, if nothing else, I can at least spit out an “I love you.” And some days, that’s as good as it gets.

  There are moments when you realize what makes the world go around. Those are the moments that change your heart and you become someone else. You pray that God allows you to hold onto those moments and the people involved, and if he does, whatever else comes up, who cares? Financial problems? It’s frustrating, it’s stressful, but it isn’t something you’ll remember the day you leave the earth. It isn’t so traumatic that it changes your heart. Macaroni and cheese isn’t that bad. The wave will come back in.

  I have a picture in my head of when we all went to Venice Beach. John and I got bikes. John’s bike had a baby carriage attached to the back, and Moses sat back there like a king. The three girls got Rollerblades. I looked at them and they all grabbed each other’s hands and skated off down the boardwalk. They were adults, not children. But they’re sisters and they hold hands when they Roller-blade, screaming and laughing and trying not to break their necks.

  I can picture Thanksgiving and taking pictures of the girls and Michael, and feeling like my heart would explode with happiness. The girls, so beautiful, and Michael, so handsome.

  It’s very rare, but every now and then, the girls and I manage to have lunch together.

  We sit in a Mexican restaurant, and we are in a rush because Jen has a doctor’s appointment for a mysterious lump on the top of her foot, which she also has on the other foot. It’s called a bone, Jen.

  April moves the things around on the table. “This looks better like this, right?”

  Carly says, “Do they have pasta here? I’m hungry. I’m full. I want to be a lawyer. Can I take a nap in here?”

  I tell the girls, “It’s okay to fight with me, but try not to fight with your sisters. One day, when you get older and your kids are driving you crazy and your husband is an asshole, you won’t call me, you’ll call each other. So love each other and keep each other close.”

  We carry on. I drink my French vanilla creamer, walk around the bookstore, kiss Moses. John plays cards. The girls do what they do to get through the day, and we keep rolling down the street.

  There’s another saying, “Bloom where you’re planted.” I’m actually a huge fan of repotting. We have choices. We don’t have to follow in the path of those who came before us. Maybe the saying should be, “Bloom where you’re planted, unless you’ve been planted on a shit farm. Then you should repot and bloom in a better area.”

  Carly came home after six months in rehab, and she has been clean ever since. In fact, she and Andy both have one year clean now. I pray they will be okay. Turns out, that’s all I can do. Carly is clean today and all I can worry about is today. Will she stay clean? I don’t know. Will April stop drinking? I don’t know. Will Jen ever be happy? I have no idea. Will John run off and find a family that is not crazy? No. He doesn’t even know how to arrange his pill box with the eleven different pills he takes. He’s screwed without me.

  So at the end of each day, I give Moses his medicine, I give John a handful of heart pills, I give Mom her pills. And then I eat a Snickers bar and swallow it with a Coke.

  Thirty-one years after my ban on religion, John and I walked through the doors of a church. It was a big, flashy church. Because we’re flashy people. After thirty-one years, I needed more than your every day run-of-the-mill, give-it-to-God kind of deal.

  They call the choir, and they come out and they just keep coming. There must be a hundred people. They start singing and it’s like the roof is coming off. Some of them are really, really young. They’re dancing and singing and the electric guitars are cutting through the enormous crowd. I think to myself, Wow, church has changed. I dig it.

  I look around. The people look peaceful. They’re smiling. They look calm and at home here.

  I’m still filled with judgment about church and church people. I know I don’t believe the same things most of these people believe. I feel because of my beliefs, I’m an infiltrator in this large group of singing and smiling people. But something comes over me. I realize that these people don’t care if I’m an infiltrator or not. I sense they will take me and my group any way they can get us. We can wear a dress or jeans, dress shoes or flip flops, we can walk in or do cartwheels. These people simply don’t care. They are happy to see us. We walk in, brushing off the ashes from the last thirty years. We take our seats, and I feel like we’ve earned these seats. Like everyone in the building, we have all earned a seat in a place where once a week we come to replenish our spirits and let someone else be strong for us... to come and lay everything down and be still.

  We’ve gone every Sunday since. After John’s heart attack we needed something. We’ve always been able to pray and keep God in our lives, but now we were weary. We needed a spiritual espresso. We needed more.

  I know one Sunday morning, the pastor is going to say something that I completely disagree with. He’s going to talk about the gay people, and I’m going to shift in my seat. But what I feel right now is that I need to take what I need, and leave the rest. Take what fills my heart, and leave the rest. Because really, at the end of my life if what I believe in is wrong, then I will deal with God, not this church or any church. So I guess, yes, I’m an infiltrator. And so far I’m getting away with it. I am getting spiritual enlightenment, a heart full of love, and there is a Starbucks right by the front door.

  A Starbucks by the entrance of the church? Man, like I said, life is trippy. Bring out the choir. Turn it up. Let the healing begin.

  Epilogue

  John: You are my whole heart.

  Jennifer, Michael, April, and Carly: If I knew then what I know now, I would have held you in my arms forever. I would have never let you go. I would have followed my instincts and followed my heart. I would have been more like the person I am now, but I got here by walking down a long, long road and learning everything the hard way.

  Life is hard. The goal in life is not to have a life without problems and stress—because much of life is problems and stress. The goal is to continue to have faith and have a laugh.

  I am a better person because of the four of you. You are the loves of my life,
and I am so unbelievably proud of you. I’m thankful for all the laughter we’ve shared, and I’m so sorry for the times I disappointed you. But I cannot turn back the clock. And so we go on. Watching reality television and planning holidays. Laughing, crying, fighting. It’s life. It’s our Divine Order.

  The doctor rolled the stethoscope over my stomach and then stopped. He said, “See. Right there. Can you hear it?”

  I listened. Then, as clear as day, I heard your heartbeat. It was confirmation that you were with me and I was with you.

  As I listened, I tried to picture you and what you would be like. And now, all these years later, I am still comforted by the sound of your heart.

  About the Author

  Dina Kucera was born and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico. After completing a project to collect and identify fifty insects, she graduated from the ninth grade and left school for good. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Her first job was a paper route, and she has worked as a maid, bartender, waitress, and grocery store checker. She recently left her job as a checker to become a writer. She has also been a stand-up comic for twenty years, for which she receives payment ranging from a small amount of money to a very, very small amount of money. When it comes to awards and recognition, she was once nominated for a Girl Scout sugar cookie award, but she never actually received the award because her father decided to stop at a bar instead of going to the award ceremony. Dina waited on the curb outside the bar, repeatedly saying to panhandlers, “Sorry. I don’t have any money. I’m seven.” Dina is married with three daughters, one stepson, and one grandson. She currently lives in Phoenix, Arizona.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Contents

 

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