brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
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I was looking through old photos the other day and came upon one of my parents. They’re at that age I hold them perpetually in my mind now that they’re gone. They’re sitting on the back terrace together, unraked leaves littering the bricks. My dad is still robust, slim but not yet frail, wearing a plaid flannel shirt and work pants. My mother is in a blouse, pair of slacks and heels — her uniform whether she is teaching school or driving to the grocery store. She is reading the newspaper, legs crossed, holding the front page open with both hands. My dad is leaned over, elbows resting on his knees, his hands together at some task, two buckets at his feet. Whoever took the picture has caught their attention, as my mother has lowered the paper and my dad has turned his head to the camera. They are both smiling.
My sister thinks our dad was peeling apples to make applesauce. It would be the right time of year, evidenced by the gathering of rust-colored leaves at their feet and the hint of gold behind the pines. One bucket would be for the peelings, the other for the bared apples. We had an apple tree out back and every other year or so it would yield a crop. They were not apples you were tempted to eat. They were small and misshapen, shrunken and knotty and puckered with holes, but to my dad they were a treasure trove. He would pick them from the tree and gather them from the ground to make batches of lumpy applesauce that was never, no matter what, sweet enough. He enjoyed the process, though — peeling the apples, boiling them for hours and then mashing the pulp. The smell would fill our house. I wish I knew what was in the pages of the newspaper my mother was reading that day. Was it the Boston Globe? The New York Times? Did she share what news there was with my father? The light on her face indicates the sun was setting in the pasture behind our house, casting a long shadow across the bricks but igniting the trees. There’s a rectangle of light along her ankle and my father’s forehead. I can feel the heat of that sun. I see the veins on my dad’s hands, recall their coolness and strength and the warmth of my mother’s hands. It’s a moment of stillness that won’t last. My mother will soon refold the paper, restoring the sections to their proper order, and my father, his work complete, will gather his buckets. She will head to the kitchen to tie on an apron and prepare dinner, the NPR theme music on the radio heralding the arrival of more news for her quiet intellect to absorb. He will retire to his study to grade the student papers stacked on his desk or roll a plain sheet of paper into his IBM Selectric typewriter. The erratic clack of the keys will be followed by the silence of his pencil or pen — a careful notation here, a quiet crossed-out word there. Somewhere in the house there are children. Reading upstairs in their bedrooms, doing homework at the kitchen table, watching TV or playing outside with friends. Summoned indoors by the dinner bell, they bring with them the scent of dry leaves and the evening’s chill. The table is set and the candles are lit. There’s a dog curled in the corner of the dining room and a cat perched on the buffet. My father takes his seat at the head of the table. At his back, behind the glass of the French doors, the light is fading, a pale glow behind black trees. The day is over and another one yet to begin, somewhere still in time.
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I suffer from a disorder known as TTSD. It’s a relatively new disorder, with early cases reported early to late November 2016 showing a marked increase after Jan. 20, 2017. A recent study indicates more than half the population of the United States may suffer from TTSD, with diagnoses ranging from mild to severe. The American Psychiatric Association has declared it a public mental health crisis and written an emergency addendum to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders Fifth Edition, available online.
The earliest known symptom is hyperventilation. Subjects may be seen walking around, seemingly in a daze, carrying paper bags. Other signs of the disorder are nervous tics at the mention of certain words, like “great” and “loser” and “sad.” Country names like China and Russia are considered particular triggers. Mention of “Barack” and “Obama” can have a calming effect or cause outbursts of uncontrollable crying. Treatment is still in experimental stages and there is no cure. While psychiatrists recommend exposure therapy, patients are cautioned it may lead to panic attacks, nausea or vomiting. Left untreated, patients describe feelings of increasing anxiety and despair. Their outlook is one of doom and gloom and their affect is stunned and incredulous. In worst-case scenarios, catatonic patients are found in a fetal position rocking back and forth, mumbling, “I still can’t believe it. Nearly 63 million people voted for this?” Addiction to social media is common. For some, this is a curse, increasing their sense of isolation. For others, it’s a blessing, offering companionship, solace and an outlet for emotional support. While TTSD knows no socioeconomic or geographic boundaries, it’s oddly absent among the rural white working class and white, affluent suburbanites. The outbreak is most prevalent on the east and west coasts, in urban areas and among people with a social conscience regardless of gender, race, ethnicity, religion or sexual orientation. Experts hope to have the epidemic eradicated by 2020, if not sooner. Scientific advances and even a breakthrough are expected as early as 2018, although research has been stymied by recent cuts in funding and a peculiar ban on any mention of the disorder. In fact, the U.S. Surgeon General recently issued a warning that Trump Traumatic Stress Disorder doesn’t exist and is merely a product of fake news. |
Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |