On Being a Woman in a House Full of Men

Throughout my life, I have watched and participated in the evolution of the role of women in today’s society. As I grew up, there was a strict division of labor within our household. Mom stayed home with the five children, taught us right from wrong (deferring to Dad as necessary), took care of us when we were sick, and made a full course sit- down dinner seven days a week. 

She cleaned the house (Monday: bathroom and kitchen; Tuesday: dust and vacuum downstairs; Wednesday: dust and vacuum upstairs; Thursday: wash and hang laundry; Friday: iron (no permanent press back then!); Saturday: change beds, go shopping for groceries and make Saturday/Sunday dinners. She was given a meager weekly allowance, which she carefully eked out to cover groceries, dry cleaning, house keeping necessities, and cigarettes. She had to ask for extra money to get her hair cut. Discretionary funds were out of the question. It was her job to care for her sick, incontinent and demented father-in-law who despised her. In fact the huge house she was responsible for was not her house but her in-laws, complete with hideous décor and furnishings, which she abhorred and was powerless to alter in any way. It ws not until she was 45 that she moved into her “dream house”, and even then she had no say in décor or furnishing for another 20 years.

 

I once came across her old girl scout book (c.1929), an explicit account of how each room in the house should be cleaned, beds made, table set, how to do laundry, how to cook, how to take care of minor injuries, and most importantly, how to catch and keep a husband.

She was miserable.

In 1979 as I was making my own way in the world, I had a compelling revelation: women in my generation face the biggest challenge in coming to terms with the legacy of the submissive role that most women of previous generations in our society have accepted. I understood that we were damned if we did go to work (“What? You aren’t going to stay home and take care of your husband and children?”), and damned if we didn’t (“What? You are going to give up your self for your husband and children?”).

At the same time, I was becoming involved with the Women’s Studies College at a large university. While I was aware that many women are given to subservience as a result of intergenerational role modeling and imprinting, I felt the “inequality” of women to be greatly exaggerated by the women’s libbers that I came into contact with. It seemed to me that their “inferiority” was a result of their own distorted perceptions: these militant women were looking for it where it didn’t necessarily exist.

It was this same year that my mother got out of the house and into the workforce. The transformation in her sense of self was astounding to behold. I knew then that should I have children, I would go back to work rather than lead the life of drudgery that my mother had. No way would I fall into the subservience that had been so obvious in the previous generations of women in my family. I told my husband-to-be that I was definitely not housewife material, I don’t do mending or ironing, and I have much better things to do than to keep a clean house. When we married, I kept my maiden name in order to maintain my own identity. After several years of having to further identify myself as Tony Witte’s wife or Henry Witte’s mother, upon the birth of my second son, I changed my name. 

 

Given that we are on this earth to learn certain lessons, I am blessed with four sons, clearly making one of my lessons learning to reconcile my role as a woman in today’s world, and teaching my sons to fit into a role more in line with what I hope is to become the norm. (I am inspired by Mahatma Gandhi, who said, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”) It has been challenging in that I have no role model for stepping into the role I desire for myself, nor for showing my boys this less traveled path. 

 

As it turned out, I did stay home with them. Lucky for me I like snakes and frogs and spiders. I was not able deter their interest in weapons or to squelch the tendency to employ any thing in hand (sticks, rocks, legos, blocks) as a gun, learned to accept the broken glass and furniture and holes in the wall created by four very robust males who insist upon wrestling and tumbling about, even to this day. Wishing not to transfer my fears to them, I was able to learn to squelch my terror as they jumped off 40-foot cliffs into the river, climbed 60-foot trees, created dangerous contraptions and explosions and all of the other fool hardy things that boys do. I am still repulsed by the rude and disgusting habits that seem inborn: hawking in the sink, belching, flatulence, whizzing all over the bathroom and leaving the seat up… 

 

In an effort to discourage the idea that women are here to serve them, I have insisted upon their self-sufficiency, taught them how to prepare their own lunch, do dishes, dust and vacuum, set the table, do laundry, be responsible for their own room, all perhaps to the point of negligence. Once when the boys were young and had gotten a rare refusal from their father who has given himself over completely to his sons (I could not have picked a better father for my children), when asked why, Tony replied, “Because I’m the Captain” “No you’re not, Mom is.” It seemed like a victory of sorts -at the time.

Through the years I have STRUGGLED with my place in this family. Dinner table conversations revolve around topics that are generally of much greater interest to the men in my family than me, and I so often feel left out as they discuss their “manly” movie interests (I gave up chick flicks years ago), and mathematical, scientific and computer interests. For years I felt rather stupid in light of these discussions, but have since realized my own brilliance in other matters. And trying to get them involved in heart to heart conversation involving what goes on in their inner lives is a supreme challenge. So I spend much of my time with them listening to them talk about things that I have little knowledge or interest in, and cringing at the things they think are hilarious. I rather envy the relationship they have with their father. Yet I so enjoy the camaraderie of my boys, who have become best friends as adults. 

 

Today as my four sons prepare to go out into the world, I find myself obsessing over the woulda, coulda, shouldas.. Should I have made more of an effort to develop the interests that they have so as not to feel such the outsider in this family? I could have made more of an attempt to develop my interests in matters of physical science, science fiction, music and film and computer interests more in line with their experience. I could have done this and that. I chose not to do these things in my struggle to develop my own identity. I am so fortunate to have as a life mate a man who is kind and sensitive and supportive of my personal growth. The two of us have tried to show the boys the path to being aware that each of us has certain gifts. It is our job to go out into the world to make the most of our talents, and at the same time be supportive of friends and loved ones in doing the same. -RDW 6-10-07

This story is dedicated to my mother, Carol VanDeusen Dutting

Laying in Wait

I.

Bed rest. Weeks of confinement and being sequestered in my bedroom with admonitions to stay put, the only exception being to use the bathroom. It is a mixed blessing really- an opportunity to send long hand written letters to everyone in my address book. It is a chance to read and sleep, be waited upon, and to complete needlework and quilt projects (the Michael Hague Christmas stocking I’ve been stitching for Henry since he was 8 months old; the rainbow Trip Around the World quilts for Henry’s and Phillip’s beds). The precise therapy that every frazzled young mother yearns for- and it totally sucks. Imagine the pending holidays: gifts to make and acquire and get off in a timely manner, tree to get up and decorated, cookies to be made, parties to attend, carols to sing, and being helpless to participate in any of it. 

 

Friends are enlisted to assist round the clock with Phillip, age 1 ½, and Henry, 3 ½ years old. Thankfully they are able to shower those boys (and me!) with love and attention enough to get us all through this difficult time. Donna and Cindy, the dear wonderful women tending to my household (mothering my children, doing laundry, dishes, shopping, changing diapers, cleaning, running errands, cooking, … and getting paid to do it!) while I am bedridden sympathize with my predicament, and chide me to enjoy being queen for a day or however long it takes these babies to safely enter the world. They help me to keep the bright side to all of this in view, serve me nutritious lunches too big to cram into the limited space afforded by two rapidly growing beings within, and marvel with me as the babies perform their gymnastics beneath skin stretched so taught it threatens to split wide open.

The boys are so sweet marching up and down the stairs to visit, or share lunch, or read stories (The Little Engine That Could, Chicken Soup With Rice, Good Night Moon, The Cat in the Hat- over and over again until every word of these treasured favorites is remembered yet, almost 20 years later). Their little table and chairs have been brought into the bedroom along with various projects for us to complete for grandparents and Daddy. We make miles of paper chains, paint sweatshirts and pictures to be framed, and make wrapping paper. But it breaks my heart to see them go back over the stairs to carry on with the life that I am no longer a part of. 

 

The Boston Pops Christmas music drifts up the stairs, as do Henry and Phillip’s voices laced with excitement over the arrival of the pine scented Christmas tree. The aromas: warm cookies straight from the oven, and hot chocolate, and popcorn to be strung with cranberries, seem to reach from the holiday magic of my early childhood and once again I am filled with self-pity. It is so not fair that I am to miss such an important and historic moment in the early lives of my children. 

 

I can’t stand it a moment longer and creep down the stairs to at least observe and supervise the tree decorating. You know how it goes- no one else can get it just right. All previous lessons in letting go are forgotten for the moment. (Naughty Ruth- bad, bad girl!) 

 

That visit in the real world satisfies me for a few days, until a dear friend brings a promising recruit for the family practice Tony belongs to. “Can you just come downstairs for a few minutes, she so needs to meet you.” “Oh, I guess a couple of minutes won’t hurt.” (Bad girl, Ruth).

Furlough #3: The boys are planning to watch the Bugs Bunny Christmas special. “Come on down,” pleads my husband. “Oh, I don’t want to watch that, I’ll wait until Charlie Brown or The Grinch or Rudolph are on.” “You should come down now, it will be good for you.” “But I really don’t want to watch that.” “Please???” “Oh, all right!!” As I make my way down the stairs, I look out the window to the left to see a car in the driveway. “Huh, someone is here.” I turn my head to the right to find the living room lit with the warm glow of dozens of candles and filled with about 20 women! My heart leaps into my throat. We’re having a Blessing Way!

A Blessing Way is an alternative to a baby shower, the focus deeply spiritual, as opposed to the commercial bent of a typical baby shower, which neglects the sacredness of the birth process. Women gather to bestow upon me loving care and energy to help guide me through the birth. This involves message, washing of feet, brushing of hair, singing and prayers for a hale and hearty birth experience. The initial self-consciousness gives way to the restoration of my resolve and gives me hope to endure the last difficult days of a long and tumultuous pregnancy. 

 

Given my life circumstances and my incapacity for being told what to do, it is rather amazing that there are only four breeches to my sentence of bed rest, the last of which is our traditional ooh and ah ride to check out the Christmas lights around town. On Christmas Eve we all bundle into the car wrapped in blankets, Mickey Mouse and Alvin and the Chipmunks providing festive music to the occasion. The cold night air and magical twinkle of colored lights in my first excursion into the world outside of the hospital or our house since the day after Thanksgiving, fills me with great joy and that sense of magic that fills my children with awe.

Finally, on the day after Christmas, I have reached term regarding safe delivery of those little dickens’s that have totally dictated my life for this last month. I'm free!

II.

I re-enter the real world to carry on with my life to the stares and audible gasps that the spectacle of my enormous belly evokes from passers by. Each day the stretch marks get angrier and I fear that the babies' gymnastics will push beyond the limits of the elasticity of my skin. When I go to the grocery store, I knock over a display of oranges because I have not compensated for the space required by the three of us. My arms are barely long enough to reach the cart. When I go to use the public facilities, I am no longer able to close the door. And when we have dinner, I set the plate on my belly because I can't reach it otherwise.

The due date for the babies passes. Day after day I long to reclaim my body, but since they were refused entrance into the world the first time, they are quite content to stay put. I teeter on the creaking stepladder painting the dining room. The boys and I build a gigantic snowman in the front yard, providing quite the spectacle for our neighbors as I awkwardly push the snowballs about with my fingertips. When we go sledding, my sled plows through the powder to strike bare earth; it takes three people to help me up from the ground. The babies won't budge. 

 

Drastic times call for drastic measures. On the sly I consult with a friend who is a midwife, seeking her advice in inducing labor. She suggests taking castor oil. My partner in crime, Cindy, beloved caregiver and friend, makes the necessary purchase and makes a rather disgusting concoction for me to drink. No go. Cleans everything but the babies out of my poor beleaguered body. Dear Cindy seeks out Black Kohosh Tea, a remedy used by midwives for inducing labor, certainly not available in this little berg. She brews another nasty potion, which I readily gag down- to no apparent avail. They stay put.

III.

It is not until 4:15 AM two weeks after their due date that I am startled awake by a monstrous and searing contraction. If there is a Richter scale for contractions, this had to have been a 9.5, and increasing my 3 cm dilation to a gaping 9 cm. I awaken Tony in alarm, only to have him roll over, mumbling to wake him when my labor is serious. This is the point, of course, that is famous in the annals of birthing, cursing superlatives flying out of the poor victim of delivery and the birthing experience in attack of the person responsible for this agonizing and miserable predicament.

 

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, stark naked, huge belly spilling over the edge, waiting for the contraction to end, only to realize that it is continuous. Amidst the indescribable agony, I so wish that Tony could have a taste of it. (Oh to be handed that little bundle of joy with none of the immense torture, and taking half the credit to boot). Then Baby Phillip wanders into my bedroom in his yellow sleeper, huge brown eyes and pacifier; the stark contrast between the intense pain of labor and the soft warm little hand that takes mine is so dramatic that the moment will forever be precious in my mind. Thankfully Tony is attentive enough to capture that moment on film. He finally is able to coax me into the car as our bleary-eyed neighbor stumbles in to care for the boys while I bring their siblings into the world. As we cross Main Street en route to the hospital, one thing is certainly clear. I want drugs! I have proven twice that I can give birth with no medication, and I’ll be damned if I have anything left to prove. I want drugs! And oh my God you better step on it Tony!

We arrive to the maternity ward to the great dismay of the nurses on duty. We have forgotten to call the hospital to let them know we are coming. As I undress and am begging for drugs, I am aware of the poor woman in the other bed, calmly hanging out with her family and having to listen to me freak out. There is a mad scramble to prepare for the double birth. Tom and Donna, (my family doctor and his wife, my coach), the attending OB-GYN, our pediatrician friend, Susan, who is planning to be on hand in case of complications, are still in oblivious slumber. 

 

The nurse who checks me says to Tony, “I don’t know how you feel about this, but you might want to check her. I think she’s fully dilated!” –And to me, “Don’t push!! No you can’t have drugs it’s too late for that now!” Rush to the delivery room with frantic admonitions not to push. Cold metal sterility seems blinding to me. Tom and Donna rush into the room, and with Donna’s gentle grasp of my hand, I calm instantly. The magic words “You can push now” vaguely reach my ears before “Baby A” practically shoots across the room in one push. It feels so, so, so, so good!! And I think to myself, this is how it’s done! It’s a boy!

Just after Baby A arrives, the missing cast members: obstetrician, pediatrician, anesthesiologist, additional nurses trickle in. Given that Tony is well known throughout the hospital, word has rapidly spread far and wide, and bets are being made as to time of birth and gender of the babies. 

As with the births of my older sons, the crushing contractions cease and all is well with the world. "Would you like to hold your baby?" "No I can't do that right now. (i.e, Are you crazy I'll crush the poor kid trying to get this other one out!) 

Everyone relaxes and we wait. And wait. And wait. Susan has taken charge of photography, having missed the opportunity to record Baby A's entrance into this world. Tony takes the baby and I greet him, but yet refuse to welcome him into my arms for fear of doing him bodily damage. 

I'm frustrated that everyone is taking this all so lightly, chatting and joking, and having a grand time. I need to CONCENTRATE. Now, I had imagined that the second would arrive in mere minutes- totally disregarding my friend Laura's comment that it could be an hour between births. But nothing happens. 

 "You aren't feeling any contractions?" "No." Monitor shows no contractions. "O.K. Ruth, we're going to give you a pitocin drip to see if we can get this show on the road." And I'm thinking, oh God I don't want to do this again. 

The contractions start slowly but quickly pick up in frequency and intensity. Baby B is breech. Tom jokes, "Don't quote me but I think it's a boy!" By this time, I am watching everything that is going on from up in the corner of the room. The anesthesiologist says, " We’re going to put you to sleep for a moment" and before I have time to object I'm awake again being introduced to my fourth son! He is one hour and four minutes younger than his brother, something he will never live down. Thank God I won't have to contend with adolescent daughters!

The Beginning...

RDW 07-21-07

Letting Go

 I had been so delighted the first two times I found I was pregnant. When Henry my eldest, was almost two, I had thought, “Okay. I’ve done this. I know what I’m doing. I can do it again.” But I quickly realize that two kids require constant vigilance, take every bit of energy and attention, draining all reservoirs of patience. Not to mention that things are not all that great in my marriage. The fundamental differences between us have surfaced, and there is an underlying current of anger, resentment, disappointment, criticism and deep loneliness that has created a wide gulf between the man I have chosen to share this life with and myself. I go through the days feeling that the tight wire inside of me will snap at any moment, never a single second to myself, never being a good enough wife, feeling terribly disappointed in the mother I have become. The last thing I need is yet another person grabbing and slobbering all over me, demanding more than I can possibly give, sucking away my life force …

***

Living in a small town and lacking the anonymity I desire, I send my friend Rita for the pregnancy test. Damn. The instructions clearly state to wait until morning’s first pee. A long restless night filled with dread ensues. 

 

Okay. Why do they have to make these damn packages so hard to get open? Hold the tip in urine stream, wait three minutes: one bar not pregnant, two bars pregnant. Shit, it’s only been about thirty seconds but I decide to peek anyway. Oh God no, please no, it said it would take three minutes. Wait a minute. The directions say to hold the tip down and I was holding it up. It must be wrong…

But I am pregnant. Again.

I walk through my life in a daze. When I look in the mirror, I see a pale and despondent woman with dark circles and greasy hair looking back. My body moves about like a sack of wet sand. I have all I can do managing the two little children I have. How will I ever deal with further compounding the situation? My desperation sweeps me away as I long to flee from this life.

While visiting friends, I lay on the dock, feeling the growing lump within pressing against the hot splintering wood, as I will the energy of the sun to nurture and love my unborn child in a way that I feel unprepared to do. After confiding my misgivings to a dear friend I worry about admonitions regarding emotional havoc wreaked upon the fetus of an unwanted child of his acquaintance, and the grown child’s struggles with chemical addiction and criminal behavior…

Four days later I go for an ultrasound. I don’t know when I had my last period; I always know when I last bled. My mother used to mark the calendar with a big R on the day I was due, for the entire world to see. But for years it has been my secret- only I know when to expect the red tide. Always. Except this once. At least they are not checking for twins as they had the two previous pregnancies. After the first rush at the possibility of twins, I had known the second was a false alarm as well. This time the ultrasound is performed to “check dates”. 

 

Preparation for an ultrasound requires drinking water way beyond the capacity of the bladder and creating extreme discomfort as the pressure becomes so great as to crush the other organs. My sole thought and focus becomes not to embarrass myself by creating a lake in the middle of the waiting room. Of course, this is the day they are running behind. “Oh, you can pee, just not more than the three ounces it takes to fill this cup.” Right. I know better than to open the floodgates and use this opportunity for kegels- or rather one long continuous kegel, as I will the technician to come for me.

Finally, as I lay on the frigid table, the tech squeezes the warm sticky goo onto my belly, chuckling as she sets the transducer onto my abdomen. As I look over my shoulder to view the screen, I gasp at the sight of two separate entities floating before my eyes, thinking in that split second, “at least it won’t be a ten-pounder” (the first two children being 8, then 9 pounds), and “we need a new washer and dryer!” 

 

“Oh my God, that’s TWINS isn’t it? Is that twins?!? How did that happen?” (There is no history of twins in the family- but later a doctor friend says “sit down and I’ll explain it to you!”)

Wow, twins! That puts a new light on things. Preparations must be made. Call the contractor. Knock down the kitchen wall. Rethink nursery school, after having made the decision that our children are already getting the experience they need to start kindergarten. Shoot, we’ll probably home school them anyway. Hm. Better rethink that too.

The tech asks, as though speaking in slow motion into a barrel, “Shall we call your husband for a look, he’s in the building.” Tony is a doctor in the family practice next door and has been called into the hospital for an emergency. “No, I’ll tell him. On second thought…”

Tony bounces in with a grin on his face. “Is there a baby in there?” He looks at the monitor, his face draining of color, chin dropping to the floor. “Wait a minute, that’s not …”, he murmurs in disbelief amid gales of laughter. By the time I go for blood work a few moments later, everyone in the hospital is abuzz with the news. When Tony wanders, dazed, back to the office, his nurse asks him about the delay at the hospital. “Twins…” “You delivered twins?!” “No… we’re going to have twins…” he replies in a dreamy monotone.

I delight in breaking the news to friends and family.

“Hey Dad-you’ll never guess what.”

“You’re going to have twins, heh heh…”

“Yeah!”

“What?! You’re going to have twins?? You’re joking right?”

My friend Kathy looks at the photo trying like the dickens to yank those two images into one, for surely she is seeing double. Her husband Bob jams his fist into his mouth, bug- eyed. My sister, upon picking me up at the airport almost slams into the car in front of us at the tollbooth as she and her daughter whip their heads around to see me laughing hysterically in the back seat.

I have been suddenly plucked from the lower depths of depression as in the coming months I am showered with attention, and preparations are made. We make plans for having the kitchen remodeled, so that the house we purchased with two children in mind will seem more accommodating. We shop for another crib, purchase bunk beds, move Phillip in with his brother Henry. The days fly by and suddenly the holidays are upon us.

Then, the day after Thanksgiving, in my 32^nd week, after an interminable day of shopping, my exhaustion keeps me in the car while Tony goes back to look for Henry’s jacket. As I wait, world a-shine with city lights on wet pavement, the thought crosses my mind that this is exactly the way I felt the night before my firstborn arrived after a day of climbing on the rocky shore of Maine.

Upon arrival home, I make a beeline for the bathroom and gasp in horror at my bloody underwear. A panicked trip to the maternity ward ensues. Bustling medical professionals hook me up to monitors, I.V., ID bracelet, all talking at once, asking numerous questions to which I am unable to respond, so great is my fear.

Labor has started and unless they are able to forestall it, the babies are in great jeopardy. Friends flock to my bedside, so very well intentioned, and so very unwelcome, in my mind. I desperately need to stay focused on willing those babies to stay put. As the medication that is being administered to halt the labor sets in, I feel myself slipping off the deep end. I’m jittery, tearful, getting a bit paranoid, having hot flashes, unable to sleep at all, and completely miserable.

The following evening it is decided that I will be transferred to a hospital more capable of dealing with preemies. Those well wishers are still streaming in to lend support, as I am tearfully loaded onto the stretcher, worried sick about what the attendants must think of this huge whale they need to be lifting into the ambulance. As I am being transported through the corridor, a crazy woman in a room we pass is screaming obscenities, adding to the sense of surreality. 

 

As I speed (both literally and figuratively, for the medication has that effect) through the minutes in the ambulance, tubes swinging, vitals watched closely, I am reminded of hellish bygone days when trips to the hospital in this fashion were commonplace. 

 

No time is wasted getting me admitted into the metropolitan hospital. Amid the commotion, I hear the doctor speak of difficulties resulting from under developed lungs, blah, blah, blah. Sleeplessness and virtual starvation have taken their toll as food is withheld in case of the necessity for anesthesia. I am at my wits end as the medication given me to stop the labor wreaks havoc through its side effects. I hear myself whining that I am hungry and have had nothing to eat since the previous day’s lunch. The inconsiderate resident attending me refuses to allow me sustenance, and then has the gall in the same breath to offer my husband pizza that has just been delivered to the nurse’s station. I feel the sparks fly from my eyes as through clenched teeth I admonish that thoughtless twerp not to be so unbelievably insensitive- “Don’t you ever dare do that again! At least have the decency to be more discrete as you flit through your manly ignorance giving no thought whatsoever for the deep agony of your patients- JERK!”

I have so desperately missed the boys, having abandoned them with no notice, and am suffering pangs of guilt and breech of loyalty as I give the second two my full attention. I spend my days weighing outcomes. If the babies come now, they’ll be attached to tubes, monitors, breathing machines for god knows how long, but at least I can travel back and forth and continue to be mother to the two sons I have. On the other hand, if it is necessary for me to remain here for several weeks, the babies will get off to a better start which would be better in the long run. But I may not see the boys for days at a time and what will happen if they see it as abandonment and being replaced. But if this…. that. 

 

And if that…thus… Round and round until my already fragile psyche feels ready to spin out of this orbit.

Tony brings the boys for a visit, but EEEWWW- the crusty goo of the worst pinkeye I have ever seen repels me. I can’t get pinkeye! What if the babies are born today? If they contaminate me, then I will not be able to provide the mother nurturance the babies will require. If I reject my sons because they are less than sterile in the face of tiny newborn fragility, will I be choosing my next born over my first two? And what kind of a choice is that? If I reject these two, the others will have a better start, but won’t I undo all that I have worked so hard to achieve in the way of providing a sense of absolute security? And if I welcome them with open arms as I so long to do because I have yearned for their presence, then aren’t I putting the others in jeopardy?

The boys come and go with their father in their slimy oblivion, with stories of eating in the cafeteria, Phil’s huge encrusted pink-brown eyes bobbing above the bulky blue and teal jacket, pacifier glued to his face with green snot, Henry in his blue and gray jacket and overalls, tow head, silly jabber and efforts to do bodily damage to his little brother under the guise of affection. Can’t Tony see that they should not be here in this condition? What is wrong with him? He is a doctor for crying out loud.! 

 

They leave and I watch them climb over snow banks, plowing through every slushy puddle they encounter, and weep bitterly over my circumstances. Why is it that once again Daddy gets to have all the fun, bringing his sons on this adventure to the cafeteria, and oh, by the way, we should go say hello to Mama while we’re here… Round and round and round I go, weighing all the possibilities, willing this or that to happen with all of my mind and soul, only to come to the sudden realization that all of my projections are completely pointless. I have absolutely no say in the matter and whatever happens is going to happen regardless of bargaining and pleading and wishful thinking. And within minutes, the contractions stop.

- RDW 1-30-07

Apocalypse

(1995)

What is that noise? 

 

I drag myself from my disconnected dreams to discern the clicking, squeaking, swallowing noise over my shoulder. 

 

Oh no!! He's getting ready to puke in our bed! 

 

As I throw the covers off and start to flee for a container, I look over my shoulder and am horrified to see my little son laying on his side, eyes rolled back in his head, swallowing in a way that makes my heart stop. 

 

Oh my God! He's having a seizure- “Tony!!! Wake up! He's having a seizure!!”

I look on in heart thumping alarm until he returns to the angelic slumber of my sweet little boy, then stumble into the bathroom. The accusatory words of an acquaintance swim through my head: “How can you even think of having kids?” 

My world is spinning in shadow as I grip the edge of the sink and my distraught psyche is screaming NONONONONO!!! This can't be happening. This could not be happening twice in the same family. There is no way in hell God would make us go through this again. Please God no. please God not again this cannot be happening. 

 

I return, dazed, to the bedroom. In utter panic, I stare at my little boy so sound asleep. He is in the altered state of consciousness that a person enters after experiencing an epileptic seizure, and will not wake up. 

My husband says, “that wasn't a seizure, that couldn't have been a seizure.” He is a doctor for crying out loud and I want to slap him out of his denial.

“Are you kidding me,” I wail. “If that was not a seizure what was it? That was a seizure! My sweet little boy had a seizure! How can this be happening.”

Flash back to 1971.

In the middle of a sentence, there occurs a snowy disconnect. Like that of the radio between stations. Nary a thought can penetrate this blizzard.

Clarity returns.  “Where have you been?”

“Nowhere.”

“That can't be. You must have been thinking about something.... Unless something is terribly wrong.” 

 

“I am terribly wrong. A huge mistake.”

 

It all starts with the angst of a lost fourteen year-old, uprooted from childhood, and bearing the weight of an alcoholic mother. Seized by depression and lack of belonging, she is flagged by her parents as troubled. Help is sought in the form of pastoral counseling. 

 

She begrudgingly attends these sessions and not wanting to disappoint, gropes for an explanation worthy of such parental concern. But nothing comes, for there is no explanation.  She has come unplugged. An oddity among her peers. Assumptions are made. The mutterings ripple through the community.

“There's something wrong with her.”

“Maybe she's crazy.”

“She must be on drugs.”

Finally, to her tearful relief, a diagnosis is made. Epilepsy. Not crazy. 

 

She is perpetually enveloped by a black cloud of impending doom, the precursor to the devastating and unpredictable storms within her brain. Following her disoriented wanderings, she reclaims herself: misplaced, bruised, broken- in the middle of a field, a strange neighborhood, a busy thoroughfare, at the foot of a long flight of stairs,...

The situation continues to worsen, waves of terror drowning her, dashing her against soul crushing rocks... Over and over and over and over again. 

 

She resurfaces gasping, in gut wrenching sobs as an avalanche of people is squashing the life out of her, and the realization that it has happened again washes over her. 

 

Such a spectacle: flashing lights, sirens screaming, the attendants joke, “we have to stop meeting like this” as she is swathed and strapped onto the gurney. The dramatic composition of this scene is so redundant. Only this time, there is blood remaining from a horrible car accident which had claimed the life of a friend's brother only minutes before. The swinging IV and swaying shelves of bandages and equipment begin to recede, as the now familiar EMT calls to the driver from an elongated distance, “Here she goes again!” 

 

She comes to in the gleaming sterility of the emergency room as repeated attempts are made to get a new IV in. “I'm not finding a thing.” “ I got one into her knuckle the last time- try that”. The exhausted doctor rushes in, the whole scene looping over and over in endless repetition. As her surroundings recede once again, a white shadow slips past the periphery of her vision, a wraith holding the ultimate weapon against these apocalyptic brain storms that seize her in endless grips of terror. Relief is at hand, yet she begs them not to do it; obliteration by Syringe is far worse. At least between these assaults inflicted by her faulty brain, there is a friendly face, some witty attempt to alleviate the terrible gravity of the situation. 

 

But it is too late. The Syringe plunges her into a deep black hole of non-existence...

*****

5 years later... 

The activity in nocturnal I.C.U. is in itself like a weird dream- a series of surreal and medicated distortions. The person in the cubicle next to her codes that night and as her neighbor is tended to, she lapses into a hallucination in which she has been kidnapped and is being held in the back of an ambulance. If her parents don't come up with the $200 ransom within four days, the slow drip poison in her I.V. will kill her. In the wake of her room mate's death, the nurses, Anna, Judy, Patti and Wally, celebrate with a bubble dance in anticipation of her pending execution. So surreal are they in their blue surgical garb as they bobbed in and out of view, their distorted voices burbling through the medicated fog that envelopes her. The stench of terror at her pending death fills her bed with sweat.

Morning dawns with beautiful, clear skies and the rattle of breakfast trays. She is moved to the spot next to the large plate glass window, vacated the previous night by her unfortunate neighbor. She gazes at a pair of crows soaring about over field and forest, laughing at her as she imagines their household busily preparing for her sister's graduation that afternoon. 

 

Sylvia is the nurse caring for her that day. The nurse removes the untouched breakfast tray and with unusual sternness admonishes her to get cleaned up. She sits in the sweat drenched bed draped in IV tubes, watching the “bath” water turn cold and feeling completely sorry for herself.

"Come on now. I don't have time for this." The nurse is busy and has other patients to tend to. The girl is expecting a visit from her older brother and sister who have come for their sister's graduation, and the nurse is getting annoyed.

Sylvia just gets the bath materials cleared away and drapes a clean sheet over the girl's scantily clad body, when her older brother and sister appear from behind her right shoulder. Then her two younger sisters come from behind her left. Mom and Dad from the right. Friends Andy and Mary from the left. Bill and Jay from the right. Mr. & Mrs. Correll, the family's minister and his wife, left. John and Pinky, right. Ellen's social studies teacher, Mr. Bessey, and Dr. Sanzenbacher. Finally, the nurses from all shifts who had cared for her during these last impossible months, as a mortar board is placed like a crown on her astonished head. 

 

*****

Note: When I was going through my own epileptic hell as a teen, an extensive battery of tests had presumably determined that my seizures were the result of the lack of oxygen during a febrile convulsion I suffered at the age of two. A part of my brain was atrophied and this shrunken lobe was identified as the focal point of my seizures. 

 

The presumption had been that my children would not inherit the catastrophic disorder . Presumably my children would grow up in relative normalcy, without the overwhelming fear and anger and guilt and helplessness and sense of abandonment that had wreaked devastation upon my family of origin... 

Thankfully, the type of epilepsy my son was later diagnosed with is Benign Rolandic Epilepsy, a type that happens only during sleep and only in childhood. We passed through this period relatively unscathed. 

RDW (2-3-10)

The Old Man and the Little Girl

As I understand it, her mother's father died a painful death of esophageal cancer when she was two. Being a sensitive child, she felt for his pain and tried to soothe him with the white blanket which brought her so much comfort, patting him gently and singing softly as she covered his lap. Of course, she was too young to understand about death, and was bewildered by his absence when he passed on to the next world. 

 

Her eldest sister, eight years older than she, doted on her, relieving her mother by taking her little sister in the stroller for a walk about the neighborhood. Occasionally they made the expedition to the center of town where she released the little girl to run about the common and watch the trains arrive and depart from the elevated station across the street. On one such adventure the sweet little blond spied an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife, sitting on a park bench, and mistook him for her beloved grandfather. Climbing into his lap, she threw her arms joyfully around his neck.

In the days that followed, the little girl and her sister would often see him on their jaunts downtown and they grew to become friends. Finally, one day at church, the girls' parents met the grandfatherly soul they had heard so much about, and from that day forward he joined the family for Sunday dinner and the afternoon. When it was time for the children to go to bed, he would say goodbye and go back to his lonely existence until the following week. 

 

As the years passed, he became the young girl's special friend, and she the grandchild that he would never have. They saw each other several times a week as she grew old enough to venture downtown on her own, and he continued to join the family on Sundays. After dinner the old man and the little child would walk hand in hand downtown. They would go to Brigham's ice cream parlor where he would enjoy a vanilla shake as he watched her eat her ice cream, and then lovingly clean up the sticky mess before resuming their walk. They visited the other shops in town, picking up candies and trinkets along the way. 

 

As time passed, the man joined her family for holidays and other special events as well. To her delight she discovered that he was able to reliably predict the weather a week in advance. He was an avid fan of the Boston Red Sox, and drew her interest to follow the televised games on Sunday afternoons . When she was in fourth grade, she was assigned a research paper on the state's capitol. Given that he had grown up in Boston, he dictated the whole thing, incorporating his life experience of the city, relieving her of the research that had been the intention of the assignment. 

 

In the summer he sent the girl letters and postcards through General Delivery in the town closest to the family's current vacation spot. Upon their return, he would greet her with his favorite song, Hello Dolly. 

 

Once, upon returning from a two week camping trip, the family was devastated learn of their elderly friend's admission to the hospital. The girl accompanied her mother to the hospital for visiting hours, but broken-hearted, she remained in the lobby due to the age restrictions placed on visitors. 

 

After he became well enough to return home, he occasionally stopped by the house to pick his young friend up for one of the church suppers being held in the area, for that was often where he found his evening meal. Then one day he took the girl, her three sisters, and their caregiver, to the St. Patrick's Day parade in Boston, and it was with great alarm that the older woman reported that their friend was a danger behind the wheel. 

 

As she grew older the girl became aware of the fact that she had him wrapped right around her little finger. All she had to do was gaze longingly at an object that drew her fancy and the following week it became hers: the beautiful orange and white gold fish, the adorable pink Easter bunny, the Kodak Instamatic camera in the drugstore. For her eleventh birthday, he presented her with a beautiful garnet ring. 

 

As they each became older, he well into his eighties and she approaching puberty, their relationship began to change. Their Sunday afternoon walk became a game of hide and seek, the girl running ahead, hiding in a doorway or alley, heart thumping in suspense as he approached, peering into nooks and crannies along the block. It was terrifying.

He came to require a nap in the afternoon and sulked if the budding young woman wanted to spend time with girls her own age. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she lay on her bed while he napped on her sister's bed in the room they shared. As soon as his breathing deepened she would sneak away to her friend's house and guiltily, fearfully stay away until it was time for supper, coming home to find him watching TV or reading the paper, clearly upset by her abandonment. As it came time for him to leave, rather than accepting a kiss on the cheek as he had always done, he wanted a kiss on the lips. “Oh, that was just a peck,” he would chide as she brushed his lips with her own, and in her confusion and disgust, she felt obligated accommodate him. As he left he would place into her hand three Cadbury Chocolate bars.

One afternoon, because her friends were going to the movies and she was required to stay at home to “entertain her guest”, filled with resentment, she reluctantly walked with him deep into the cemetery as they had done on occasion over the years. They sat on a park bench and he pulled her to him, kissing her wetly on the lips as she attempted to pull away. She was deeply humiliated when a couple walking by looked on intently, and even more so when the cruiser pulled up, the officer telling them to get into the car, he was taking them home. 

 

The next day, the child was sent to spend several weeks with friends in another state. Upon the girl's return home, her mother informed her that their friend would no longer be spending Sundays with them, as she had forbidden him to see her daughters. She was at once relieved, angry with her mother for having hurt his feelings, and deeply ashamed that she had somehow caused each of these people whom she loved dearly further humiliation.

As the weeks and months passed, the girl became intensely fearful of running into the man on the street during one of her trips to the center of town. When she did catch sight of him, she turned to flee in terror, dizzy, her eyesight dimming as she felt the blood rush out of her head, heart pounding in her throat.

That fall, she was admitted to the local hospital for exploratory surgery, resulting in an appendectomy. While recovering from the operation, she looked up to see the white haired man in his damp wool coat looming in the doorway, a large armful of pink gladiolas in sharp contrast to his black coat. He started to sing Hello Dolly, as he had so many times before. Despite the familiar panic sensation, she had the wherewithal to ask him to go to the coffee shop to get a strawberry frappe, and then pretended to be asleep when he came back. The next morning before dawn, the flowers having been placed in a glass vase on the counter across the room, inexplicably crashed to the floor, shattering the vase and ruining the flowers.

The following spring, he attended a concert in which she was a choral and orchestral participant. With a frightful gasp, she looked up to see him sitting in the second row. She left the stage for the bathroom, refusing to come out until the auditorium had been cleared. Slipping out the side door she peered around the corner of the building to see him waiting out front, the familiar panic seizing her as she rushed to hide in the back seat of the family car.  

That was the last time she saw him, for after that she rarely left her own neighborhood.

Eight years later, the girl having moved with her family to another state, was walking up the hill to the post office, when a sob caught her throat and she burst into tears for no reason. 

The next day she received a call from the man's cousin informing her of his death at the precise moment she had broken down the previous day. He died a peaceful death: looking at family pictures, they began to slip out of his hand onto the floor, and he was gone. He had left one third of his estate to her, his cousin explained in bewilderment.

She attended his funeral with her older brother and sister. The officiating minister, who had not known the man, said that his favorite song had been God Bless America. But the girl knew better.

RDW 6-19-07

Tooth Fairy

I lost my first tooth the summer before I started kindergarten, while spending two weeks with my cousins. The moment every child eagerly awaits arrived as I bit into the first ear of corn I ever rolled in a stick of butter, as taught by my uncouth cousins. As my teeth grazed along the cob I felt the grinding tear that initiates the first wiggle. 

There should be a name for the dance that is universal among children upon making the thrilling discovery that you have just been added to the list of pending visits by the tooth fairy. I imagined a huge pearly mound of teeth to be used for the little bracelets given newborns as a welcome to this world. I felt pride that one of my very own teeth would soon grace a tiny baby’s wrist. I could imagine the tooth fairy’s golden waves of hair shimmering in the breeze, as she was delighted by the discovery of the especially lovely pearl that was my tooth.

During my visit, I became obsessed with that tooth. I accompanied my elder cousin Roger on his paper route, chasing down the ice cream truck and feeling the jolt as the blue Popsicle I savored made contact with a nerve. As we played in one of the numerous forts around the property, I pinched my tongue on the rough edge of tooth at gum level. I wiggled and prodded that tooth as I watched in horror the tiny “robots” attacking the old lady on the Twilight Zone, tasting the first salty sour gush of blood. I was sure that it was the tooth fairy responsible for making it pour rain on our side of the street even as the sun shined in the front yard on the other side. When we went to the penny candy store, my aunt suggested that rather than something hard or chewy, I get the wax “bottles” filled with sweet liquid goo. I shadowed my cousins in their mischievous shenanigans as we trespassed in Mr. Spinney’s cornfield only to be chased away in the manner of Peter Rabbit by Mr. MacGreggor, my tooth swinging by that last thread of flesh, refusing to let go. My uncle suggested tying tooth to string to doorknob and slamming the door in order to yank the thing out once and for all.

As I lay awake in the middle of the night, flinging it around inside my mouth with my tongue, the tooth let go. I placed it under my pillow certain that the tooth fairy would at last make an appearance. Hardly able to sleep the rest of the night, my tongue incessantly poked around in the slimy, metallic-tasting hole that remained. 

 

To my great dismay, when I checked under the pillow the next morning, there lay the tooth, and I was none the richer. Upon entering the kitchen close to tears, I was greeted with the news that my mother had been in a car accident and I would be leaving that morning as soon as we could get ready. I cried. Not for my mother. Not for the fact that I had to go home early. I cried because the tooth fairy had not seen fit to collect my tooth and leave the long anticipated coin. 

 

A short while later, as we were preparing to leave, my aunt came rushing down the stairs to show me the quarter that she had found on the floor while making the bed. It took a fair number of years to figure out why that was the only time I ever got a quarter instead of a dime! 

– RDW (11-2-07)