Rethinking Sunday’s Blue Law

It’s Sunday, and my son, Luke, has his cell phone turned off. Which means if I want to be in touch, either my husband, Steve, or I must drive five miles to his house.

Steve is there now. We’re grilling out, and I thought Luke might want to join us. Luke is the only one of our three adult children who lives nearby, and he occasionally comes for dinner. There aren’t too many single, 34-year-olds males who say no to a home-cooked meal.

Several months ago, Luke adopted what he calls No Cell Phone Sundays, when he detaches himself from the digital world. As someone who grew up with blue laws—when retail stores in my hometown were closed and the drugstores took turns staying open on Sundays—I like No Cell Phone Sundays, despite the temporary inconvenience it causes.

I’m not surprised by Luke’s decision to disconnect from the digital beeps and buzzes that bombard us each day. All of my adult children try to live balanced lives, for they learned early on the effects of stress on a person’s health. Their father was diagnosed with a mental illness when they were young, and I talked frequently to them about the symptoms of his illness, which are exacerbated by stress.

I remember asking our daughter how she knew her father was sick, even though he didn’t have symptoms a six-year-old could easily understand. At the time, she was feeding the fish in a tank we kept in our living room, a chore for which she was responsible. I even made a chart for her to check off the days she fed them.

“I know Daddy is sick because when I feed the fish, he doesn’t know what day it is anymore,” she said.

Steve was diagnosed with bipolar disorder then, but his symptoms went well beyond the mood swings associated with that illness. He also had significant cognitive issues, like knowing what day it was. The right combination of medications eventually alleviated some of his symptoms, but not all.

•   •   •

Steve’s back from Luke’s house now, smiling like his old happy self.

“Is Luke coming to dinner?” I ask.

“Ohh! No!” he says. “I forgot to ask him.”

“That’s why you went there,” I say, frustrated but not angry. Living a less pressurized life now, I’m more mellow about these kind of glitches. “You were gone almost an hour. What we’re you doing?”

“We sat on his porch and drank a beer,” he says.

Sounds like a stress-free Sunday to me. Now if they could only prescribe something for forgetfulness.