Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey (24 page)

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Authors: Colby Buzzell

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As Mom went into recovery, I followed the doctors
next door to the ICU, where they placed him inside a tiny baby hospital bed,
surrounded by preemies and a bunch of other babies dealt a bad card upon
arrival. I stood there uncomfortably next to him, feeling awkward as I just
stared at him, not knowing what to do, or what to say: What do you say to a
newborn? “Hey, how’s it going, I’m your father—hey, stop crying, it’s not that
bad. I didn’t get to choose mine either. Yeah, this sucks, I know, but once the
doctors here get you all good to go, we’re outta here and you can be back with
Mommy again.”

He looked terrified. If my mother were there with
me, she’d probably yell at me, “Do something!” My father got that a lot from
her, as well, so I did. I kind of stuck my index finger out for him, and with
his tiny, tiny fingers he instantly grabbed it and stopped crying for a second
as he held on tight, real tight, and did not let go. As I watched, the nurses
came by to shove an IV into his arm, sticking him with needles, one right after
another. He cried, all the while still holding on to my finger.

I felt sorry for him—what a crummy way to start
your life off, first being introduced to me, and then all this. Poor kid.

It was a bit surreal for me to all of a sudden go
from hanging out inside hospitals witnessing my mother die a very painful death
to, almost overnight, being thrown into the hospital to now witness the joy of
bringing a new life, which I helped create, into the world.

When the nurses started taping monitoring devices
and tubes to him, I remembered how my mother, while doped out on pain
medication, would rebelliously yank all the IVs and cords from her arms, with a
look of satisfaction on her face that things were going to be her way or no
way.

Now my tiny son did the same, defiantly yanking
them from his tiny body. This kid is 100 percent my son. I smiled, chuckling. I
love him.

The story goes that when my wife was all fixed up
and they wheeled her in from her recovery room, I was seated on a chair next to
his bed, passed out from exhaustion, his hand still tightly wound around my
finger.

P
revious generations tuned out by running away, further from whatever
was going on in their lives. Though it’s tempting, and I fully understand the
reasons why—hell, I’ve done it—I wonder if you could do the opposite, tune out
and dive headfirst into whatever was coming at you. For me, the direction of my
son. Focus on that.

M
y
mother passed in March, and so in May, for Mother’s Day, I visited her grave
site. I went by myself, and since she liked flowers, I had some with me. I never
really noticed or paid any attention to flowers at all until after she passed
away. Now I can’t help but notice them every time I see them. When I was going
through old photos of her, they all seemed to include flowers. I had some roses
with me, which I stuck into the ground above her grave, along with a Mother’s
Day card.

I hung out at the cemetery for a while. Several
others were there that day as well. I talked to my mother for what felt like the
first time ever, and while thinking how much has changed since the last Mother’s
Day, I got depressed, really depressed. The Mother’s Day before this she was
fine, in great health. She had just run Bay to Breakers for the first time, and
with no preparation beforehand, finishing the race by repeating the mantra, “If
he can do it, and she can do it, then why not me?”

Months later, weak, her hair nearly completely gone
from chemo, assisted by a cane and my father, she’d get up on the elliptical
machine at the gym. Just as she had done every morning for years, it was her
daily routine, she’d stay on that machine until her thirty minutes was up,
putting forth her best effort, not once letting the cancer defeat her,
disregarding the flashing “Pause” and “Pedal Faster” messages.

That fight-to-the-death spirit and “If he can do
it, and she can do it, then why not me” confidence—something I’ve never had—is
something I want my son to have. I wanted to pass it on to him by doing what my
mother did, leading by example.

She never smoked and hardly ever drank, maybe once
or twice during the holidays, but never more than a glass or two of wine. Except
for that one time in Cancún on the Club Med vacation with my father when she got
ripped on the free booze.

I don’t know how I did this, especially when my
father called me several times in advance to remind me, but I forgot Mother’s
Day the year before she died. It completely slipped my mind. I didn’t even know
that Mother’s Day had passed until the day after, when my father called me up to
inform me that I had fucked that one up, how I should have sent flowers, a card,
something, even calling and talking to her would have been nice. I remember just
saying sorry, and how I would remember next Mother’s Day.

So there I was, visiting my mother, flowers and
card on the day I remembered. I slowly walked back to BART, where I stared out
the window on my way back home. Once the train moved underground, everything
turned black and I was able to see my reflection in the window; I looked
away.

My mother always reminded me to smile; she never
felt I smiled enough. This is one of the things I’ve learned to do a lot of
after losing my mother, especially after my son was born. When he was born, I
saw how my wife was with him, how excited our families were to be with him. For
my family, unspoken sadness in the absence of my mother. Thinking of her, I
understand now; I want my son to smile, I want him to be happy.

I
don’t ever recall a night spent in New York City where I didn’t end it totally
wasted, but tonight I just didn’t feel like doing that. My thoughts dwelled
heavily on the fact that you can never go back home again, but, more
optimistically, you can build a new home, that things are never really that bad.
Yes, they could always be worse, but we get through it. People are resilient,
good things happen.

Instead of going back inside the bar, I flicked my
cigarette out. Then I started walking.

H
eading back home, my carry-on filled with cold-cut sandwiches taken
from the green room, I sat in my seat, thinking about home, and what it meant to
me at this point. The airline stewardess came around and asked me whether I’d
like a drink. I thought about it, and told her no.

“I’m fine, thank you.” And I smiled.

Acknowledgments

Julia Barrett

Tyler Cabot

Isaac Callahan

Julia Cheiffetz

David Granger

Peter Hansen

The Harringtons

Mother of my child

My family

Cesar M. Ramos

Katie Salisbury

Heather Schroder

Nicole Tourtelot

Mark Warren

Everybody else who helped out and made this happen.

About the Author

C
OLBY
B
UZZELL
is the author of
My
War: Killing Time in Iraq
and served as an infantryman in the United
States Army during the Iraq War. Assigned to a Stryker Brigade Combat Team in
2003, Buzzell blogged from the front lines of Iraq as a replacement for his
habitual journaling back in the States. In 2004 Buzzell was profiled in
Esquire
’s “Best and Brightest” issue and has since
contributed frequently to the magazine.
The Washington
Post
referred to his article, “Digging a Hole All the Way to America”
as “A Tour de Force Travelogue” and in 2010 his article “Down & Out In
Fresno and San Francisco” was selected for
The Best
American Travel Writing 2010
. His work has also appeared in the
San Francisco Chronicle
and on
This American Life
. He currently lives in San Francisco, California,
and has no plans whatsoever of staying there.

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Also by Colby Buzzell

My War: Killing Time in Iraq

Credits

Cover photograph © Sebastian Sashse

Cover design by Jarrod Taylor

LOST IN AMERICA
. Copyright © 2011 by Colby Buzzell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780062097095

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Buzzell, Colby.

Lost in America : a dead-end journey / by Colby Buzzell.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-06-184135-4 (hardback) 1. Buzzell, Colby—Travel—United States. 2. United States—Description and travel. 3. United States—Social conditions—21st century. 4. Iraq War, 2003—Veterans—United States—Biography. 5. Men—Identity. 6. Fatherhood—Psychological aspects. I. Title.

E169.Z83B89 2011

956.7044'3—dc22

2011012889

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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