Free My Life, Deleted by Scott Bolzan

scare anybody or make anyone sad, and most important, I hadn’t broken into tears. I’d made it through my first family holiday, and for that I felt thankful.

Chapter 5
    T HE NEXT DAY Joan started taking down all the Christmas decorations inside the house, except for the tree, in preparation for Taylor’s birthday on the thirtieth because she wanted Taylor to have her own, separate holiday.
    â€œNo combo celebrations,” she said.
    On the twenty-ninth Grant came over to help strip off the exterior lights. Although the sixty-five-degree weather wasn’t anywhere near heat-stroke temperatures, he was sweating and looked noticeably pale.
    Some of the bulbs had burned out, and Joan had already bought a new set of lights for the next year, but Grant made the simple removal job harder than it needed to be. As he ripped off the plastic cord in an agitated frenzy, he cursed when the lights didn’t come loose easily, then tossed and broke them on the front walkway.
    I’d heard people cursing on The Sopranos and in movies I’d been watching and asked Joan what some of the words meant.
    â€œ Ass is another name for butt,” she said, warning me before I repeated any of the other words, which she said were generally considered inappropriate. “We try not to swear, especially around the kids.”
    So, hearing my son spouting expletives that afternoon, I came outside to investigate. “What the hell are you yelling about?” I asked. “God, Grant, you’re making a mess.”
    â€œWhat’s the difference, we’re throwing them out anyway,” Grant retorted, continuing to swear as he tore the cord from the roof.
    â€œWell, I would rather get up on the ladder and do it myself than listen to you yell,” I snapped. Even in my fragile state, I preferred to risk further injury than let the neighbors hear any more of his tantrum.
    â€œFine, you can do it then,” he said, climbing down and storming off.
    With my head pounding, I pulled myself up the steps and heard Joan scolding Grant. “I can’t believe you let him climb that ladder when he just had a head injury,” she said.
    I’d pulled down five feet of lights when Joan made a beeline for me. “What’s going on? I could hear you guys yelling.”
    I filled her in, and she told me to come down. “I will do this,” she said. “I don’t want you on a ladder.”
    I knew she was probably right, so I did as instructed. Grant came back outside with a bottle of water and finally did as I asked, unhooking each light from its eyelet and handing the cord down to Joan while I watched, red in the face from the pain and irritation.
    â€œI just don’t feel good,” Grant said. “I don’t want to do this.”
    When he finished twenty minutes later, he mumbled that he was leaving and sped off in his 1998 Honda Accord.
    â€œI don’t know much,” I said, “but I wouldn’t think I’d let my dad get on a ladder if he’d just gotten out of the hospital. What is with this kid?”
    I couldn’t understand how or why my only son would act so selfish and uncaring after crying so hard over my injury at the hospital. It just didn’t make sense.
    The next day marked Taylor’s seventeenth birthday, which started off with another family tradition. Joan said we always served each other breakfast in bed on birthdays, so Joan and I made Taylor pancakes with a glass of chocolate milk and chatted with her in her bedroom while she ate.
    Even though I’d been up most of the night again and my head felt like it was in a vise, I was not going to miss participating in this family ritual. I knew from all of Joan’s efforts to make this day special for Taylor that celebrating birthdays was something I needed to learn how to do. I wanted to please Joan and Taylor, and I figured I’d better get used to doing things when I was in too much pain