We often look back at our youth and wonder how we survived the storm. When I look back at mine, I see a 15-year-old girl, a gold Cadillac, and a little boy who grew up to be my greatest teacher. This is the story of my firstborn, Adam, and the long road we traveled to get to where we are today.

Adam was born early on an October Sunday morning in 1970. I was a child myself, having just recently turned 15. We were living just outside Houston, Texas, with my father-in-law. Adam’s dad, PJ, had left for US Air Force basic training just a few weeks prior on his 19th birthday.

The weekend of the birth, my father-in-law had gone out of town to try and reconcile with his wife, (aka – the crazy woman) and I was left with PJ’s Aunt Lena—a loving yet no-nonsense businesswoman way ahead of her time. She had a big house in the country near Conroe. 

That Sunday, I woke up at 5:00 AM in labor. Because I was so young, I didn’t actually know if it was labor or not. I waited an hour before waking her up. She sat me on the couch and calmly began to clean the house. After another hour, she sat down for coffee and realized things were moving quickly. She called a friend who worked for her at the Del Rio Inn in Houston, who agreed to meet us so she could ride along to the hospital on the other side of town.

Aunt Lena had a brand-new 1970 gold Cadillac. I will never forget the shiny gold upholstery in the backseat. That is where I lay in active labor for the hour it took us to get from Conroe to the northwest side of Houston, and then back around to the southeast side. Amidst all the excitement, there was definitely some panic that I was going to deliver the baby right there in the backseat of her brand-new car. (As an interesting side note, Aunt Lena had also been present when Adam’s dad was born). We arrived at the hospital without any damage to the Caddy, and Adam was born a quick 45 minutes later.

Everything happened so fast. The one thing that sticks with me is the ER nurse telling me not to push. There I was, a mother at 15. Adam was my own little living doll. Looking back, he was the easiest of all my children. His arrival was the quickest, and he was just an easygoing little guy. I don’t remember being sleep-deprived or stressed about his care.

The only stress in those early months came from “the crazy woman” and her drunken episodes. She and my father-in-law had only married the year before and they fought often. When she started making comments about a gun she couldn’t find, I knew it was time to leave. I woke up early one morning, packed Adam up, and walked out the door. My father-in-law‘s house sat beside a big pond about a half-mile from Aunt Lena’s. I walked around the pond and through the woods to her house, and there I stayed until PJ got out of basic training.

In the early years, Adam was my playmate. We lived in Tampa, Florida, just outside MacDill Air Force Base. I didn’t drive, so I would take long walks to the park and the beach with him. Later, I got a bicycle with a carrier on the front and we traveled everywhere together.

As Adam grew older, my inexperience as a mother caught up with me. Not knowing how to deal with childhood ups and downs, I repeated the same mistakes of my own childhood. I became a harsh disciplinarian and did not cope well with my frustrations. The years from about age 7 to 17 were rough. This remains one of my greatest sorrows.

It took many years, but after Adam had a motorcycle accident at 19, we began to grow close again. The accident caused a closed brain injury, and he struggled for a long time. He wandered the western US, sometimes homeless, trying to find his way. I would go months without hearing from him or knowing where he was. He finally ended up in Bakersfield, California. I visited him there once; it didn’t seem like the most optimal place to live in California, but through their social services, he got on his feet and secured disability assistance. He was never a quitter; he had such a giving heart. If I sent him money for his birthday, he would spend most of it on his friends—and unfortunately, some people took advantage of him.

In 2005, Chris brought all my kids and friends together for my 50th birthday. Adam flew up from California, and it became apparent he needed help. He told me Bakersfield was full of drugs and prostitutes. His brother, Aaron, flew down the next month and confirmed it; people had moved camping trailers into the yard of the little bungalow we provided for Adam. Aaron packed him right up and brought him back to Colorado.

Life in Colorado has been stable. He’s had his ups and downs with his injuries and medications, and he was always in my prayers. I often worried the medications might cause a depression he would succumb to. But he told me, “I stared down the grim reaper once and I beat him. He is not gonna beat me.”

This Sunday, fifty-six years after that Sunday morning in 1970, Adam is still in Denver. He seems happy. He has conquered the negative side effects of his medications and built a balanced life. He texts me with little stories, checks in, and always says “I love you.”

Several years ago, we finally talked about those rough childhood years. I told him how sorry I was that I wasn’t a better mother to him then. Just a few weeks ago on my birthday, he sent me the sweetest card. It said, “You’re a very special Mom…”

He is a very special son. The child of my childhood. I have many regrets in life, and if I could, I would change many things. But the fact that he was born is not one of them.

Happy Birthday, Adam. Now it is time to start taking advantage of those over-55 senior discounts!