Middle Branches

Maybe I will be a parent someday, maybe not. My sister, though, in anticipation of her first little one (due December 7th) has been a recent catalyst for endless conversations on the subject. Us? Parents? It's a good thing we've had good role models. We scoff at what certain other parents did wrong--in-laws, relatives, that one set of weird neighbors--commending our parents for getting those things right. Obvious things like being home, having dinner with us, and the ultimate decision of perfect parenting: Home Education (which we home-schoolers know is the magic ticket to raising good children).

Yes, my sister and I nod, we know how real parents parent.

But there are those other things, the ones you don't see for as long as your parents are right "because I said so," the small and hidden secrets you suddenly find have been growing inside you because sometimes, just sometimes, they were wrong. And sometimes they taught you to be wrong too, and no one ever told you 'til you went to meet the world, presenting the beautiful portrait of yourself, anticipating only applause.

And they all said it was ugly. You got it wrong. Start over.

I was talking with my brother last night about whether we're a "normal" family. I assured him that our parents had done well, very well, the best they could possibly do, and that try as he may he would never find a family that came even close. To normal, I mean. There is no such thing. Every family tree has its roots in the dirt.

My siblings and I live under the oppression of hereditary diseases: the one we're all dying from and the other ones that my parents acquired within the quarantines of their diseased childhood homes. As small children, they were trapped in close quarters with illnesses from which they can never escape--and neither can I. They are difficult diseases, the kind with names that are hard to pronounce in public. We have seen the doctors, we have heard the prognosis, and for these there is no cure.

What would those doctors say then, I wonder, if they saw my parents today? They would call it a handful of misdiagnoses. They would ask where we have been for help. They would ask whom we have seen. They, and my parents' parents made the same mistake. They thought that incurable diseases cannot be cured.

My parents, however, do not agree, and neither do I. I watch their healing and wait in hope for the cure to my own incurables. My children will still be born with my diseases, but it is not only illness that passes down from generation to generation.

There are a few rotten limbs near the trunk of my family tree, but the ones nearer me are more alive every day. And I can see the tiniest, topmost branches from here where I reach for the sun; they are young and green and flawless.

Dear Doctors,

Where we have been is on our knees,

and whom we have seen is God.

Sincerely,