Tortured Soul

My poor nephew in California. He's 29, tall and handsome, bright and artistic. He's also a tortured soul.

He was born in March of 1982, and my parents flew out to see their third grandchild. He was blonde and beautiful. His father was not much of a father, and my Dad returned to Florida worried about his latest: how would he be supported? My father died 4 months later, that July.

PJ grew up, and laughed and played like all kids. He grew tall and strong. After high school, he tried college, but he never thrived in a place where he was told what to do. Despite that, he applied to the US Air Force, which was at that time fairly selective. He got in.

His mother and the rest of the family were wildly proud of him, even though my sister's hippie politics and sensibility ran counter to the idea of military service. PJ got through the very tough training, though, and graduated. My sister flew to Texas to attend the ceremony. It seemed my nephew was on a great path.

He lasted a year, and then got out. Thereafter, his life took a downward turn, with a nomadic existence that ended in Boise, Idaho, with a call to my sister. She fetched him and took him home. Things got harder for him, over time.

It seemed each step forward led to two steps back. There were many words and dreams and plans, none of which led amounted to much. Still, he laughed and lived and shared his time with friends and my sister.

Last week, a most tragic event put him in the hospital, in a deep coma, with multiple fractures. His prognosis is uncertain.

We're all praying for my sister, for the unbelievable heartache she is enduring. She has been by his side, and plans to stay there, for as long as it takes.

PJ's brother Henry and his wife Valerie are there, for support and help. Ah, Henry...27 and already quite the man. He's succesful in his career and his marriage. Unfortunately, he's now called upon, like I was at age 20, to deal with things other than his own life: his mother and brother need his help, and he's been there for them.

PJ's road has been bumpy, to say the least. The one ahead promises to be even more challenging.

We still have hope. As terrible as his situation is, maybe he can emerge from it and head down a brighter path.

Maybe he can escape his own head, and start to drink in the exquisite nectar life can bring, especially to a young man.

In the meantime, he's in my thoughts.

Yesterday, the Ds and I spent a magical afternoon together. We walked the path around Brickell Key, with grand dog Mads in tow. The sky was impossibly blue. The weather perfect. We looked at the majestic cruise ships in the Port, and marvelled at the yachts that sailed by the seawall.

I showed them where we lived after Hurricane Andrew, a building where D2 took her first steps, which turned into runs, with peals of toddler laughter, as she discovered her ability to scoot down the hallways. D1 was far more cautious...

I also showed them a secluded bench, where I sometimes sat, and still sit, when I need to reflect. It overlooks Key Biscayne far across the Bay. It's a beautiful place.

Still, my nephew was in my thoughts...unconscious in a hospital bed in Fresno, with my sister there, rubbing his feet.

May he rise again.