A Man’s Life An ongoing conversation about what it means to be a man in the 21st century
large part because I was pushed to think critically in every class, expected to act responsibly at every moment, shown how to lead effectively by Coach Gail Pebworth and many great professors and older fraternity brothers, and thanks to all of this, subconsciously decided there was no way to live but humanely. Facing Mom’s crisis, I prayed that she would survive. I asked for the strength and wisdom to handle whatever
it a few years, but I couldn’t justify the monthly costs amid the storm of bills. I hired a close childhood friend to clear out her house —the house where my brothers and I grew up—so I could put it on the market. I also put on notice my older brother, who had recently divorced and was living at the house rent-free. “You are putting your own brother on the street,” he
I was becoming the decision-maker in the family while the person I most needed to talk to was incapacitated and unable to speak. The woman who had taught me to be bold and chase my dreams was fighting for her life. happened. But I would learn over the next several months that faith is not always enough. I was going to have to make hard decisions for my mom and for my family, and nothing was a better tool to help sort through it all than the condensed version of that mission statement that rang in my head: “Think critically, act humanely.” she survived the surgery, but we were not able to get her off the ventilator,” the surgeon told me. For the next two weeks Mom didn’t open her eyes, didn’t respond when I spoke to her or held her hand. Her only movement came from the ventilator blasting air into her chest every few seconds. Most days, I felt like I had already lost her. Many decisions were looming. Even if Mom survived, her life would never be the same. She probably couldn’t work again or live on her own, and although she had yet to open her eyes, the bills were already starting to pile up. Armed with power of attorney, over the next few months I would launch a fundamental rewriting of her life. I retired her to lock in her pension to have money for all the bills and switched her insurance to a Medicare Advantage plan. I consolidated her bank accounts and dealt with the Social Security Administration. I sold her vacation home on the Oregon coast; she always wanted a place on the ocean and had only owned
“YOUR MOM IS STABLE,
screamed during one of several arguments about it, this one on Christmas Day. “Nate, I’m sorry,” I said. “I just have to get out from underneath all these bills. I can help you pay a month or two of rent somewhere, but ultimately the house has to go.” I was becoming the decision-maker in the family while the person I most needed to talk to was incapacitated and unable to speak. The woman who had taught me to be bold and chase my dreams was fighting for her life. I told AP’s international and Mideast editors what had happened, and I couldn’t have asked for more compassionate responses. Still, they wanted to know: Would I take the job? And if I did, when could they expect me to start? MOM BEGAN TO IMPROVE A MONTH after her surgery. I felt new hope that she would recover, that we had more chapters to write together. Drawing back from the brink of crisis allowed me to believe I could still take the assignment in Saudi Arabia. The job was the culmination of 10 years’ work. This was the fourth time I had applied for an AP position in the Middle East; the stars had finally aligned. I had studied Arabic at UCLA while married and juggling 50-hour workweeks. When we moved to Atlanta in 2008 I found an Iraqi tutor and continued to study, taking my oldest son with me to Arabic tutoring sessions and reading him children’s books in Arabic. Wi n t e r 20 1 3
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