By Carver
One brutal, looming truth was about to eclipse the entire edifice of my (relatively young) life achievements: I was going to be a 30-year-old man who lives with his mommy and daddy.
Every permutation of the “30-something-year-old guy who lives in his mom’s basement” joke? I’m about to be the subject of all of them. Having a Bachelor of Arts in philosophy and being the 2024 recipient of the Dewey J. Hoitenga Prize in Philosophy are irrelevant (or perhaps explanatory) facts in the face of “my mom always makes sure I have my toast in the morning just like the Teletubbies.”
This had to be dealt with swiftly like a roundhouse kick from God.
Gratefully, that swift roundhouse kick from God made its way round to me in the form of a house, a place to stay with none other than Nic. Let me briefly tell you about the journey to this fortuitous offer from Nic, and in so doing, I shall provide the 900 millionth example of how the entirety of West Michigan is really just one giant small town.
Meeting Nic
Like myself, Nic was born with hypohydrotic ectodermal dysplasia and was raised in the East Grand Rapids area. I on the other hand was a nearby-ish Cutlerville cubby. A lovely journalist from the Grand Rapids Press, Julie Makarewicz, wrote a series of articles featuring me and Nic, and there exist somewhere I suspect some devastatingly cute photos of young Nic and me at his home with our respective mothers, Sue and Julie (Julie and Julie I know!).
Makarewicz declared that our story was her greatest purpose as a journalist, which developed a friendship that has endured to the present day. My dear mother tells me that Christmas cards are exchanged between Julie and herself every year.
Aside from the West Michigan media sensation, Nic and his mother, Sue, also participated in a charity run around Reed’s Lake in East Grand Rapids, their stomping (or running) grounds. This run was an NFED fundraising event that was organized by my marvelous mother, whose dedication to those affected with ectodermal dysplasia is its own book that ought to be well-read.
Reconnecting and The Rescue
And from that point onward? Nic and I were apart for a great number of years, as I was living my colorful and raucous life in Coopersville and then Allendale. But as I mentioned earlier, the giant small town of West Michigan has its bounds within the blizzard.
I eventually found myself a job as a pizza courier extraordinaire at Vitale’s of Comstock Park. The young man who recommended me to management only ended up working there for about six months. Meanwhile I’m pushing past eight years to this day. Go figure.
Who do I find to be a common sight amongst the regulars? Nic himself. From there, the oft-repeated grumbling and gripings about my living situation reached his ears and an offer to spirit me away from my woes was extended. That was a rescue mission years in the making. Of course, the real rescue was something that still hadn’t quite arrived yet.
To put it simply, I was nowhere near prepared to bear witness to how much of a selfless guy Nic is. Even during the introductory tour to what would be my new home in Comstock Park, I was taken by surprise. I inquired about the rent and tried to solidify my understanding of it, already in a good disposition to pay what I thought would be the monthly amount, $650 a month. He had told me no that wouldn’t be what I’m paying. It would be more like $600 a month.
I wasn’t haggling or negotiating. I was fully prepared to enthusiastically pay $650 a month and, rather than take the money that’s on the table for him like any self-interested American citizen would, he instead took the opportunity to correct me for my sole benefit.
Of Good Character
This interaction was the first of many baffling examples as to the constitution of Nic’s character. Allow me to tell you some of the other times that Nic demonstrated true concern and attention to my person. When he had a work friend over on a casual Sunday, his friend had taken one of my sodas, truly not a big deal. To rectify this, Nic had purchased for me an entire new 12-pack. This was unnecessary but he insisted.
I can also stay up well past the time any responsible person would normally be preparing for bed, with the cacophony of explosions, gunfire, and screams one would expect from today’s most cherished digital entertainment emanating from my room and he will say nothing of it the next day.
Now you may say here “well he probably hates it and is too kind to say so,” but you would be wrong. Multiple times I have, unprompted, apologized the next day for the ridiculousness from my bedroom the previous night but he will tell me with a soft chuckle that it’s nothing.
Any kind of noise holds no hope of penetrating his unconscious state. He sleeps through damn near anything. It’s incredible.
What else is incredible is his generosity. He’s heard every report of my automotive woes these past several weeks: hit-and-run incident, deer detriment, roundabout collision all within a six week timespan. Nic told me not to worry about paying utilities for the month. I could weep.
Keeping it Cool
Lastly and most endearingly, he considers my ectodermal dysplasia. Before the heat can really microwave the landscape and make everything feel like those Salvador Dali paintings, I can come home and expect four different air conditioning units to be installed in the house. On one occasion, I made a comment about the fan in my room seeming kind of wonky (it actually was barely hanging on with a faulty fixture to the ceiling, hello final destination) and he promptly replaced it with a brand new fan that was a bit swankier (what, fans can be swanky).
Again, I didn’t really ask for a brand new fan, but this was an important issue for him, because he knows how much of an important issue it is for me to have cool, circulating air in my room of all places on this Earth. He understands what I feel.
This infinitely patient and understanding man in my life presents me with an unbalance, I used to think. I couldn’t imagine how I could possibly correct the scales given all that he has done and continues to do for me. What on Earth do I give Nic? How does he seem to genuinely like me, let alone tolerate me? One day, it became abundantly clear what it is I do for him.
Tough Working Conditions
Nic had come home from a particularly irksome day at the car dealership where he is an auto mechanic of all things. This surprises me not because of my sense of his abilities, but because a sweltering boiler room like a car garage is not an ideal place to be slaving away as someone with ectodermal dysplasia. The only worse places to work would be on the line at a restaurant or a steel mill.
He illustrated the details of the accommodations that he demanded in order to be able to perform his job at all: proximity to the bathroom, an open garage door to allow some kind of a breeze, a cooling vest. A special relationship with the management of a nearby gas station allows Nic to cool off in their beer cave after leaving work on especially infernal days.
How do his coworkers respond when they see this noble human struggle against the laws of physics and biology? It’s comical to them. Jokes and laughter are in ample supply without a trace of sincere support. Of course, being made the object of jokes is often how the common folk who toil day after day show affection and bond with each other, but at some point a person requires and deserves something more.
And that’s where I come in.
What I Do for Nic
Standing in our shared kitchen that he remodeled with his father, exasperated over the deliberate ignorance of his knucklehead coworkers and staring at the floor, Nic put it quite plainly that “people just don’t get it.”
How could they get it?
Everyone knows the feeling of battling the heat. Most people don’t know the feeling of being cooked alive, all energy and focus siphoned from your spirit regardless of your age, sex, and physical fitness.
But I get it.
I can acknowledge Nic’s struggle and SEE him without having to utter a word. And he can do the same for me.
I may not do much for Nic when it comes to finances, tidiness, or reasonable noise levels, but I am at least one exceedingly rare thing for someone with an exceedingly rare condition…I am someone who gets it.
- Carver is a guest blogger for the NFED. He’s affected by hypohidrotic ectodermal dysplasia and lives in Michigan.
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