Dad was scary. That's how it was when we were young. Perspective underwent expected changes as we grew, but in the "early years", Dad was scary.
When you grow up in a home with two parents who fall into two classifications - strong, resilient and pragmatic mother with unshakable belief in "the good fight", and a father who persisted in placing faith in the unattainable dream, you learn straight-away that the power balance is apt to shift wildly and unpredictably. It was imperative that one read the signs, and the signs took on greater import when you toss in the variable of "hopeless alcoholic." Of course, in the early years, "hopeless alcoholic" wasn't the label you could have understood, much less invoke with raised fist or righteous clenched jaw - you simply were too young to attach such labels. At that time, it translated into the uncomplicated self-mandate to look at the face... look at the face. Some of us became really good at that. And when the German marching music or Mexican mariachi vibes invaded every nook, cranny and crevice of our cramped 7-room Cape, we saw it as another unmistakable sign; uh-oh! Dad's channeling his inner drunk. He was a mean drunk. Every past personal failure leeched vilely from his brain, and coursed through his body; anyone in his path became his helpless prey.
Much of life's pleasure for me is somehow connected with my successes in creating or re-creating things with textiles. It's so true now, and it was true way back when my mom first trained me to operate a sewing machine and then when she guided me to re-upholster a piece of furniture. My mom and I worked together on a sad Louis XIV accent chair. As you can imagine, the intimate joining of two pairs of hands in a singular effort left as much of an impression as the finished product. Later, when dusting and tidying up in the living room, I took special care to assure that Louis was most overtly cared for.
What's that smell? I asked my sister Margaret one day. With an electric stove and an oil-burning furnace, wood smoke was not an odor that we should have sensed inside 415 Titicut. Inhaling deeply and as rapidly as we could, we followed our noses to the living room where we found a smoking father. Dad was hunched over in the Louis with smoke rising from his crotch. "Oh, shit! Dad's on fire!" I exclaimed, and ran to fill a dutch oven with water from the faucet. Returning to the scene, Margaret close on my heels, I abruptly stopped, the water sloshing over the sides of the pot. Turning to Margaret I said, "You need to dump this on Dad's crotch! NOW!" As any sane-minded, memory-laden daughter of an alcoholic father would behave, she froze. My statuesque (in the physical sense) younger sister stood motionless while I turned with the pot toward my smoking, drunken-stupored father, then back to her, back to him, back to her. Flustered to the point where reason had long fled my body, I lifted the pot. . . and dumped it over her head. Not on the fire, mind you, but on my sister's head! Her shrieks awakened the sleeping, smoking giant. With shaky-sounding composure, I said (in the most unaffected voice that I could conjure), "Um, Dad, you're on fire." I pointed to his crotch, though I thought the gesture redundant, and he responded - with equal lack of affect, "Oh, I guess you're right." He stood and observed the growing smoking hole in the seat of Louis. Pointless in the extreme, I raced to collect more water to douse Louis. Louis never recovered. . . or I should say, I never "recovered" Louis. (Har-har!) He was a gonner. The indelible memory was never the reupholstered "veneer" of Louis; it was the shared memory of making something new with my mom.
(The dutiful daughter in me needs to allow for an accurate record. Dad taught me many skills when I was young that, even if I don't utilize them now, I can boast that I know how to do. He taught me how to re-caulk a window, operate a circular saw, and wire an outlet. Perhaps he forgot that I was "just a girl"; I'd rather believe that he was a believer that ANYONE can do ANYTHING.)
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
My Husband, My Georgie
Cancer scares the hell out of me.
It doesn't matter how much I try to inform myself, or the number of times I repeat the encouragements that are supposed to make me feel in command. (In command of what? I ask.)
In 2007 the ground gave way beneath our feet; George learned that he had Multiple Myeloma, and that his life expectancy was somewhere between three and five years. I didn't even know what the disease was, but in that moment of bad news delivery I instantly found it difficult to breathe, as if water were threatening to fill my lungs if I inhaled too deeply. The ride home from Lahey Clinic in Burlington was suffocatingly silent. We were both filled with grief, and clung to each other's hand. Three to five years? That's but a blink of the eye.
We had just begun that phase of our marriage when we thought it was okay to be selfish again; we could focus on us. Lord knows we needed to work on us; we had become too practiced at blaming each other for everything that wasn't working, all aspects of married-with-children that didn't measure up to the stiffest standard. We had at some earlier indefinite point in time become entrenched in adversarial roles; for whatever reason, we had strayed so far from the close bond that we had forged in the first years of our relationship. But that was just beginning to change. We were friends again; we could laugh easily. . . especially at jokes that only we got. (I'm no doubt the major reason why we struggled with each other, even when life was being kind to us. I had become too anxious, anxious about parenthood, about my career in teaching, and just about anything that falls within the category of "life".)
George approached his diagnosis with stoicism and a sense of resolve. He would endure the treatment plan, and he would continue his life. He had rare moments of emotion, and always quickly regained his composure. Although his cancer steadily eroded his body (sometimes making frontal attacks and at other times ambushing him), it never altered the man that had earnestly promised in 1978 that he would provide for me and love me unequivocally. A softer version did emerge, though; for example, George - always generous - became more so. We once attended a fundraiser dance event for a perfect stranger who was going through his own medical crisis; in addition to the admission fee, George left a sizable donation; our stay was brief, but even if the other attendees gave not a moment's thought to our presence, I understood George's gesture. Little acts like this were possible, and they brought George great peace of mind. On the other hand, every kind act that he performed resulted in a helpless feeling on my part. NOTHING WE COULD DO COULD ALTER HIS OWN FATE. No matter how many times he planted money in a supplicant's hand, it didn't arrest the insidious march of his disease.
All my life I've had a paralyzing dread of cancer. When my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 1995 I couldn't imagine my way forward, I couldn't conceive of life without her. I remarked to her at the time, "But I'm not done learning from you." In customary fashion, she responded, "Not to worry; I think you've learned all you need to know from me." I've observed that same fear in Megan. At her friend Jen's wedding, she sensed that something wasn't right with us. (It was one day after we had received the dreaded news.) She asked with no preamble: "Does Dad have cancer?" I couldn't answer, I could only look at her with sadness. She collapsed on the ground, wailing, "NO! NO!" For the first time in all the years that I had known George, he gathered her in his arms and cried. Sharing the news a day later with Lindsey was no easier. We were now all "in it together". The world shrunk away that day; it was just us four. . . with our helpless pain, and the knowledge that life was about to steer us in a new direction. And there was no going back.
Nine years. Nine years. That's what it took to bring my strong, proud, devoted husband down. He kept his gloves up till the very end. His last couple of years were a testament to his fighting spirit. February will forever more conjure my most exquisite pain. One year it was his stem cell transplant; the following February it was the removal of a tumor on his spine and a laminectomy. And February 2016 was the final knock-down. His oncologist, Dr. Rabinowitz, was in awe of his tenacity. His final words to me were, "Your husband was a very courageous man."
So what do I walk away from all of this with? How do I properly honor my Georgie? How do I reshape my life? My constant musings that it should have been me, not him don't serve any useful purpose. God chose to take him. Brought to my knees, I nevertheless am not completely broken. I laugh harder, cry harder, make my feelings more transparent, and stroke my forty-year love for George with pure tenderness. (And, Georgie, when I dance alone in front of your photograph, I imagine you right here with me. I even raise my arms to wrap around your body and hold you close. Your arms hold me and guide me, too. You taught me to love to dance, you do know that, right?)
It doesn't matter how much I try to inform myself, or the number of times I repeat the encouragements that are supposed to make me feel in command. (In command of what? I ask.)
In 2007 the ground gave way beneath our feet; George learned that he had Multiple Myeloma, and that his life expectancy was somewhere between three and five years. I didn't even know what the disease was, but in that moment of bad news delivery I instantly found it difficult to breathe, as if water were threatening to fill my lungs if I inhaled too deeply. The ride home from Lahey Clinic in Burlington was suffocatingly silent. We were both filled with grief, and clung to each other's hand. Three to five years? That's but a blink of the eye.
We had just begun that phase of our marriage when we thought it was okay to be selfish again; we could focus on us. Lord knows we needed to work on us; we had become too practiced at blaming each other for everything that wasn't working, all aspects of married-with-children that didn't measure up to the stiffest standard. We had at some earlier indefinite point in time become entrenched in adversarial roles; for whatever reason, we had strayed so far from the close bond that we had forged in the first years of our relationship. But that was just beginning to change. We were friends again; we could laugh easily. . . especially at jokes that only we got. (I'm no doubt the major reason why we struggled with each other, even when life was being kind to us. I had become too anxious, anxious about parenthood, about my career in teaching, and just about anything that falls within the category of "life".)
George approached his diagnosis with stoicism and a sense of resolve. He would endure the treatment plan, and he would continue his life. He had rare moments of emotion, and always quickly regained his composure. Although his cancer steadily eroded his body (sometimes making frontal attacks and at other times ambushing him), it never altered the man that had earnestly promised in 1978 that he would provide for me and love me unequivocally. A softer version did emerge, though; for example, George - always generous - became more so. We once attended a fundraiser dance event for a perfect stranger who was going through his own medical crisis; in addition to the admission fee, George left a sizable donation; our stay was brief, but even if the other attendees gave not a moment's thought to our presence, I understood George's gesture. Little acts like this were possible, and they brought George great peace of mind. On the other hand, every kind act that he performed resulted in a helpless feeling on my part. NOTHING WE COULD DO COULD ALTER HIS OWN FATE. No matter how many times he planted money in a supplicant's hand, it didn't arrest the insidious march of his disease.
All my life I've had a paralyzing dread of cancer. When my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 1995 I couldn't imagine my way forward, I couldn't conceive of life without her. I remarked to her at the time, "But I'm not done learning from you." In customary fashion, she responded, "Not to worry; I think you've learned all you need to know from me." I've observed that same fear in Megan. At her friend Jen's wedding, she sensed that something wasn't right with us. (It was one day after we had received the dreaded news.) She asked with no preamble: "Does Dad have cancer?" I couldn't answer, I could only look at her with sadness. She collapsed on the ground, wailing, "NO! NO!" For the first time in all the years that I had known George, he gathered her in his arms and cried. Sharing the news a day later with Lindsey was no easier. We were now all "in it together". The world shrunk away that day; it was just us four. . . with our helpless pain, and the knowledge that life was about to steer us in a new direction. And there was no going back.
Nine years. Nine years. That's what it took to bring my strong, proud, devoted husband down. He kept his gloves up till the very end. His last couple of years were a testament to his fighting spirit. February will forever more conjure my most exquisite pain. One year it was his stem cell transplant; the following February it was the removal of a tumor on his spine and a laminectomy. And February 2016 was the final knock-down. His oncologist, Dr. Rabinowitz, was in awe of his tenacity. His final words to me were, "Your husband was a very courageous man."
So what do I walk away from all of this with? How do I properly honor my Georgie? How do I reshape my life? My constant musings that it should have been me, not him don't serve any useful purpose. God chose to take him. Brought to my knees, I nevertheless am not completely broken. I laugh harder, cry harder, make my feelings more transparent, and stroke my forty-year love for George with pure tenderness. (And, Georgie, when I dance alone in front of your photograph, I imagine you right here with me. I even raise my arms to wrap around your body and hold you close. Your arms hold me and guide me, too. You taught me to love to dance, you do know that, right?)
Thursday, April 6, 2017
Equestrianly Speaking
Being retired, I am able to luxuriate in a lot of imaginative thinking. Today as I watched just barely two minutes of Grand Prix equestrian jumping, I imagined myself in the saddle. I was GOOD! In fact, I was so good I won, beating out Austria - a perennial super-power...equestrianly speaking, and Spain - who takes great pride in all things horsey. In my post-competition interview I wasn't in the least self-conscious about my thickly Ukrainian-accented English. (At least I can speak a foreign language.)
My imaginings should have ended there, but they didn't. In transitioning from the family room to the kitchen, I observed both kitties making a bee line to their respective food bowls. Well, that's not entirely true. What I "saw" were two show cats jumping. Poor Scout, with dainty little paws that bear several more pounds of concentrated weight than they're designed for, put in a poor performance, while Sonny, with concentrated power in his magnificent hind quarters, was poetry in motion.
I want to ride a horse. The Kentucky Derby is less than a month away.
My imaginings should have ended there, but they didn't. In transitioning from the family room to the kitchen, I observed both kitties making a bee line to their respective food bowls. Well, that's not entirely true. What I "saw" were two show cats jumping. Poor Scout, with dainty little paws that bear several more pounds of concentrated weight than they're designed for, put in a poor performance, while Sonny, with concentrated power in his magnificent hind quarters, was poetry in motion.
I want to ride a horse. The Kentucky Derby is less than a month away.
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