Disrupted“

 

Be careful what you allow to form your opinions. Who’s in charge, truly? Disruption may very well be a gift you don’t initially embrace.”

 

Prologue 2019

 

By the end of fall, Winston-Salem was cold, roads virtually deserted by 6 pm. There is something about bone chilling temperatures, shadowy mountains that shut you in and the clock falling back that makes me and everyone else in town want to take shelter. When I thought about the word shelter, I pictured a makeshift roof of branches and sticks with tarps for walls and the hard ground, a bed. Like one of those survivors shows where the contestants, by choice, are dumped into some secluded area of the world with a backpack full of what appears to be futile supplies. No grocery store, no car, no house with electricity, and no phoning a friend. To me, it seemed so sensationalized with camera crews. I was curious if the crews just shuttled it back to a warm 5-star hotel, after a long day of filming while the contestants stayed outside with the wild animals breathing in their human scent and grumbling tummies craving buttery mashed potatoes, wondering what in the hell they’d gotten themselves into and if it would actually be worth it in the end.

 

As the first weeks passed, I was still steady on my feet, certain this stumbling block of my own would move and I’d be back to a self- righteous routine of a productive life; work, meetings, deadlines, financial security and don’t forget, importance because don’t most spend their lives identified by what they do and not who they are? I sure did. The lay off had mainly hurt my ego more than anything else. If I were being honest with myself, I was bored with writing about the beauty industry's call to action fluff. Ten years in the job and I’d gotten pretty much everything out of it I could squeeze from the health and wellness tube. The bright side is if the layoff hadn't happened, I most likely never would have quit on my own. Now I have time. Time to do other things such as clean out the junk drawer that had become extra junkie, re-caulk the old cast iron tub, cook more fresh soups, and finally be the first parent in line to pick up my son, relishing over the thought of how much it will thorn Jenny Stapton.

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These little hiccups are a gift, really, a chance to slow down, reevaluate, and breathe in this unexpected disruption. My son’s dad had bailed around the five-month mark of my pregnancy. This wasn’t breaking news, I knew precisely after our sixth month of dating, Jason wasn’t planning on settling down anytime soon, if ever. He enjoyed life on his own terms, a joker, a gangster of love. That was Jason; a lover and a sinner who gets his lovin’ on the run. And as selfish as I thought his actions were, I couldn’t stay mad at him for long. He didn’t argue, he agreed. I actually admired him for seeing his own shortcomings. There is something to say about a person who can recognize their own brokenness. Truly who can argue with that?

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And so, I got on with it. At last, settling into the idea of raising a son on my own. Women did all the time- most of those boys turned men, treated other women with much respect and tenderness. This could work, mother and son, son and mother. And for five glorious years, it did. Sure there were sleepless nights, little breaks and no one to share in the joy and sheer terror of parenting like the time when Noah, age three was marching around the living room with his red plastic tee ball stick blowing it like a trumpet. He smiled at me with his eyes a split second before he tripped over my tennis shoe that lay in the middle of the room. The red pole catapulted down his throat. When he looked up silently, blood poured from his mouth and I let out a hysterical blood-curdling scream causing fear and pain to have its way in my son. With bodily full force, I swept him up, rushing him to the emergency room. My white tee shirt was covered in blood as the doctors informed me that the entire top layer of skin on the roof of his mouth had been shaved off like a thin slice of translucent onion. He could barely eat or drink anything for weeks. The silver lining in that horror show though was Noah finally gave up the binkie for good. This and so many other treks, I waded through all by myself. What never occurred to me was things would get worse, much worse.