When Patrick was four, social services removed him from his parents due to neglect. A month later his mother died in a fire and his father, Alex was further devastated by grief, and couldn’t immediately provide an adequate home. While Patrick was moved through three foster care homes over two years, his father worked hard to create an environment and lifestyle that satisfied the standards of Child Protective Services. For six intense years after getting on his feet, Alex made up for any loss of trust and positive influence. He focused on opening his son’s mind to the larger world, and Patrick embraced his dad’s eclectic interests. They showed up in jackets and ties to local theater, classical music, and art performances, volunteering to set up chairs in exchange for admittance. At home, they watched BBC mysteries, and classic Japanese monster and Samurai movies. Alex read Shakespeare and Greek myths to Patrick at bedtime, and they played chess on rainy days.
When Patrick was eight, Alex wanted to return to college, and sought care for his son so he could continue with his own activities during part of each week. This is how we came into their lives, when my husband, Marshall, was matched with them through the Big Brother and Sisters Program. He took Patrick to soccer practice, provided rides from after school programs, they read together at the library during his father’s college classes or played chess on our deck.
A month after Patrick turned 12, Alex was diagnosed with aggressive cancer, and given less than six months to make plans for his son. He couldn’t bear the idea of him once again in a strangers’ homes, where he might not ever have a permanent family. Alex hid his diagnosis from school and social services staff, and secretly asked several good families if they would adopt Patrick. All were touched and some were tempted, but none had the space or resources for another child.
Alex had to assign guardianship to someone he trusted or his worst fears would be realized. Marshall offered to be Patrick’s temporary guardian. We thought the right home would soon appear, and until then, we promised him we would never turn his tender young son over to strangers. The night he signed the papers he was admitted to the hospital. Two days later, Alex died.
In searching for family to contact about Alex’s death and Patrick’s need of a home, we learned that his father had broken contact with his son years before, and was not interested in even knowing about his grandson’s welfare. His mother’s family lived on the other side of the country, and Patrick’s grandmother explained she was physically unable to care for a young child.
We kept our promise--ours was the right home.
At twelve, Patrick was well experienced in the chaos and grief brought on by the adults in his life. I was determined to make a whole-hearted effort to give Patrick a real home, but worried about the cost to my well-ordered and adult life with a full time psychotherapy practice, and a newly published book. When friends asked how I was coping with such a huge change, at fifty-eight, suddenly being a mother, I announced a newfound philosophy: “When it’s your turn, you know it.” Secretly, I worried I might resent the time required to support a learning-challenged student, along with the emotional needs of a newly orphaned child.
The first challenge was to calm the fear we might abandon him if he made a mistake. A broken bowl brought him to tears and over-wrought apology, until I announced that it made for an excellent occasion for him to learn the essential skill of cleaning up broken glass. A lost library book? Merely a chance to clean out the car, then found eventually under his bed.
For months, Patrick remained the ultra-polite guest, which pierced our hearts. “May I please have a glass of juice, if it’s not too much trouble?” Daily, we reminded him, “This is your home, Patrick. If you are thirsty or hungry, you can get whatever you need, and we’ll buy you your favorite things.” We put a small television and video player in his room, and with a brilliant smile, he nearly sang “Thank you, thank you, thank you for my own television!”
He took my hand when we crossed the street, very sweet for an almost teen, and a clue to how much his father protected and treasured him. We hugged him as much as he let us, always worried he might be hiding depression and rage at a life where so much had been lost. I resolved to build deeper trust and confidence in this relationship neither of us had asked for.
I asked him during our first week together what he wanted to be, a question most kids resist with a roll of their eyes. Patrick responded without hesitation, “I want to be an author,” a goal we shared, although in wildly different genres: his is mystery and science fiction, mine self-help.
One of his learning problems is dysgraphia, making handwriting slow and frustrating. Since he hadn’t had home access to a computer to practice on, I offered to type as he dictated the stories he told me “wrote in my mind”. Expecting simple children’s tales, I was stunned at the sophistication of his social observations and ironic sense of humor. He has a gift for clever dialog and forensic conundrums, honed on the BBC Mystery shows he was now sharing with us. I was entranced and he was grateful. We’d found our way to connect.
We sought assistance from the Foster Care program and Child Protective Services, and considered the ways we might best keep our promise to Alex to provide his son a permanent home. Six months after he moved in with us, with his permission, we became Patrick’s legal guardians, monitored via the Foster Care system. We stood together in court, holding hands, and became a family.
Three years later, Patrick speaks of his previous life with his dad, recalls distant memories of his mother, and cries sometimes when he looks at photos of his parents, but there has been no explosion of emotion. He has quit trying so hard to be perfect. I delight when he grumbles about cleaning his room, or argues about bedtime, just the way a kid should. He has come to accept our requests and rules, albeit with some negotiation. My favorite is, “Hey, don’t I have any say in this?”
Despite my concern that my priorities would lose out to Patrick’s, nothing of importance has been lost from my previous schedule. While Patrick is at tap dancing and aikido classes, I go for a walk with a friend or write in my journal. Typing Patrick’s delightful stories has reignited enthusiasm for my own writing.
There is a magic stretch of time when you give your best to others. The magic is love.
Owner/Editor - Chris Chmielewski