Something has been weighing on my mind.

For Thanksgiving my Mom went to considerable expense and effort to have the family dinner at her house. We have always done the majority of the holiday family celebrations at her house, and now that her house has sold to some poor sap some lucky woman, she didn’t want anything to be too different for the grandkids, especially the little ones. She was particularly worried about Evan who, as I have mentioned, suffers from Asperger’s syndrome.

At sometime during the meal someone inquired about my Mom’s health and she replied that she had been awakened in the middle of the night by Charlie Horses. After she had relayed her symptoms and heard the gamete of advice ranging from straight up pharmaceutical relief to that which contains elements of diet, exercise and even a plethora of oriental medicine that may or may not contain snakeskin and rat’s tails that you boil and drink, there was a pause in the conversation.

“Your father used to get Charlie Horses in his legs at night”, my Mom said and then we both looked at each other and went “AGHHHHHH!” because that was the sound he used to make when he woke up in pain.

I remember it well, because while trying to fit six people into a three bedroom one bath house my parents used every possible scenario, including putting my bed across the end of their bed. I was frightened at first, because I didn’t want to hear them having sex. The first time my Dad yelled out “AGHHHHHH!” in the middle of the night I thought for sure that this was the moment I had dreaded, having to listen to my parents have sex.

“Don’t worry John, it’s just a Charlie Horse”, I heard my Mom say soothingly in the darkness. I was relieved to know that it was pain, not pleasure, that had caused him to yell out so.

After the mention of my Dad at the dinner table my oldest sister Monica looked over at my Mom sternly and said, “He wasn’t invited to this party”. I was a little surprised, but I figured it was my Mom’s apartment, she could say something. Of course she didn’t say much for the rest of the evening.

Recently I called my sister Maria to ask her what her son Evan wanted for Christmas and over the course of the conversation she mentioned how cool she thought it was that Monica had said that to my Mom during Thanksgiving dinner.

I responded that I disagreed with the comment. “After 20 years of marriage and four kids I believe that Mom should be able to mention her husband if she wants to.” was what I said. We agreed to disagree, somewhat.

I called my Mom and apologized to her long after the fact. “No one should tell you that you can’t remember and mention your own husband” I said to her. She thanked me, but I feel bad for not speaking up sooner.

I know firsthand the difficulty of dealing with and grieving for a man who was not only an abusive alcoholic, but one who took his own life to boot. I don’t want to paint him as a saint, he was far from it, but he deserves for us to recognize the fact that he was ill and that he did the best that he could even when his best was far from enough.