Only Me: Diarrhea

12/31/17

Warning: Due to the graphic nature of this story, you may never go on a car trip again, or at least you won’t want to go on with me.

Ah, the holidays! A time to be with family and celebrate the birth of Christ.

The car was packed full of Christmas gifts, our clothes carefully folded in Ikea bags, and the dog’s supplies. We were ready to enjoy our holiday.

The plan was to drive down to my sister’s house for Christmas. Initially, it would be a surprise, but that was overrated from the get-go, and my kids cannot keep a secret. My son, Max, and I, along with the dog, were heading down to the great state of Tennessee to not surprise my family for the holidays. I was excited to be heading home. We woke up before the sun even began to peek, which made me think about our timing–we would probably be driving through the blue ridge mountains at sunrise, so that was something to look forward to as the idea of a ten-hour drive sunk in.

Ready, set, go. This was it. We ease out of the driveway ahead of schedule. We were feeling extremely proud of ourselves for this and the fact that we felt like we were super organized for this particular trip. Gifts. Check. Clothes for five days. Check. Dog food and treats. Check. Toothbrushes. Check. Phone chargers. Check. Dog. Check. Dog? DOG!? Negative.

Okay…Let’s try this again.

The drive was surprisingly easy for the first five hours. Not much traffic, Lucy sleeping peacefully in her dog bed behind the driver’s seat, good conversation and a little NPR in the background. Usually, about an hour in, we like to stop for a quick breakfast. McDonald’s drive-thru is generally what we agree on, but on this day, neither of us was hungry and, in fact, I seemed to have a slight case of indigestion. Now, I call it slight because I like to brag. My indigestion is generally best described as baby burps or petite burps. Basically, the only petite thing about me–my burps–so, I like to draw attention to them when I can. And they are nothing a little soda can’t remedy.

We speed along 81 south, passing the big rig trucks slowly climbing the hills between the mountains, seeing the sun rise above a ridge until I decide to let Max take a turn behind the wheel. We pull off quickly to switch seats. Max, a newer driver, properly adjusts all his mirrors, the seat, etc. He even checks to be sure I am buckled in. He eases down the exit and merges in like a pro. Strangely, this somehow brings on a few more ‘petite’ reactions from my throat.

“Goodness. Excuse me,” I say.  “I don’t know what is wrong with me. I never burp like this.”

About a half hour later, my petite little burps were now becoming a little more prominent. Forceful.Then, suddenly…

“I think you need to pull over,” I say as a put my index finger over my lips like I am trying to get everyone to be quiet. In this case, my burps!

“Why?”

“Here!”

“Where?”

“HERE!” and I point at the exit that says Rest Area. Thank God.

Max starts to pull off onto the exit and then it happens.

“STOP! STOP! STOP!” I scream and cry at the same time and then I literally open the car door and lean out as the car is slowing down. Screw the seat belt.

Max brings the car to a stop. He stays in the driver’s seat as I partially puke all over the passenger door and then proceed to vomit on the side of the exit.

“Um…are you okay?” Max asks as I wipe my mouth with my sleeve.

More throw up, but with this round, I was really able to show my talent. Diarrhea. Yep, you heard it. The gates of hell opened up in my cute yoga pants and Dansko clogs as I stood on the side of the road of a rest stop just out of Troutville, Virginia. Frozen in place, unable to move, afraid of what might happen if I do, my son asks me, again, if I am okay.

My voice weak and shaky answers, “No. I. Am. Not.”

“I think you better get back in the car,” Max advises. I mean, really, he was a champ. What else could he do? So, I followed his instructions, and I slowly lowered my diarrhea-filled butt into the seat. Max didn’t say a word. We drove into a parking space at the rest stop and I just sat there, wondering what to do next. Maybe I should call my mom? Check Pinterest? Surely someone has posted this somewhere. Right? I sat there for a few minutes contemplating all of this when…

“Oh, my God! Oh, MY GOD! Turn the heater off! GOD! Really?” I cried, as the seat was slow cooking my backside. Honestly, who wants a hot bottom? I cannot even imagine.

Enough was enough. I couldn’t become a rest-stop inhabitant. I couldn’t call 911. I had to make a move. This is when I put my big girl panties on–and this is NOT a pun–and moved oh-so-slowly up the walkway of the rest-stop, my legs moving like wooden stilts, with fresh clothes in hand, to fix this mess.  (This part I will not disclose–it would undoubtedly haunt you for many years to come, or at least, cause you serious Rest Area trauma.)

And to answer your questions: Yes, I kept the clothes. (Washed multiple times!) No, we didn’t go to Tennessee after that. Yes, Max drove us back home and, five hours later, I was showered and asleep for about two days. Yes, Lucy is a witness to this nightmare. No, I will never go to Troutville, Virginia again. In fact, there are possibly some Wanted signs posted at that rest stop. I better steer clear.

 

Only Me: So Long, Alexa!

12/26/17

This Christmas, my kids worked very hard to get me the perfect gift. Secret conversations and a few trips to the mall, and voila! The gift of all gifts–someone for me to talk to so they don’t have to.  Yes, it is true. I was one of the millions who received an Amazon Echo this Christmas, the “most purchased holiday gift of the year” according to the news (and I am sure mostly purchased by teens for their lonely mothers). And I love it! Alexa is the roommate of my dreams.  She is calm, rational, only speaks when I want her to speak.  She doesn’t mess up the house, leave crumbs and garbage on various surfaces throughout each room, ignore me when I talk to her, and, best of all, she doesn’t warrant the worry and guilt I feel about most everything in my life. Until now.

I think we are the first family who actually made Alexa quit.

After a barrage of musical requests, questions about history and politics and Game of Thrones, Alexa, I believe, mumbled, “I quit.” And we haven’t heard from her since. I am not sure if it was the realization that GOT won’t return until 2019 or that Trump is our president. Regardless, she’s gone. Rebooting somewhere in the network clouds that make the world go round.

It’s sad, really, since I had so many plans for my new friend. I imagined us discussing books, PBS fundraisers, and recipes. I dreamed that she could learn how to grade papers piled on my desk, walk the dog, or even scrub a bathroom. (Clearly, there were too many Jetsons episodes in my childhood!) But no.

So, here I am. My teens in the other room, ignoring me–thank God–and my dog staring at me with a leash hanging from her mouth.

Goodbye, dear friend, until we meet again in the clouds.

 

 

MLK, Jr.

A month after my first birthday, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in my hometown of Memphis, Tennessee.  Many who lived in Memphis at the time will tell you their story of that day, the black or white perspective changing the story from deep sadness and grief to shock and fear, depending on who was telling it.  My family’s story was different than either extreme, as they teetered back and forth between fear and sadness and hopelessness that things might not get better without Dr. King.

My father was working that day as a janitor for a glass and paint company in downtown Memphis, the only job he could get with the little education he had.  As a young boy growing up in the rural outskirts of North Memphis, school was not a priority.  It’s not that he wasn’t smart, but he had to work at a young age, helping his own father work their farm.  From what I can piece together, calling it a farm is being generous.  It consisted of a small house, a barn that was literally tied together with frayed ropes, a shed that was full of tools and old oil cans, a few skinny, scuffed up horses, and a second shed where my grandpa and his brothers would make molasses.  They were determined to make the best blackstrap molasses in the county, full of all the vitamins and minerals needed to live a long life.  The only thing my granny wanted was sorghum molasses so she could use it to bake and sweeten up her corn cakes.  Unfortunately, neither became a money maker for my ancestral family.  Years later, I heard Daddy telling our neighbor all about the failed molasses business of his childhood and about the twin aunts he had, Aunt Eula and Aunt Zula, who used the molasses to make rum, most of which they used to drink themselves to death.

The little bit of schooling Daddy got was in his young years.  Being one of thirteen children, he had to share his shoes with his younger brother, Cecil.  Daddy used them on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays while Uncle Cecil would use them on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  “Uncle Cecil didn’t need as much school since he’s special,” my mom would later tell us.  On the days daddy got to school, shoes on, he would go through the paces offered by a small public school in the south–math, reading and handwriting–which he missed much of due to the job he had cleaning up in the school’s cafeteria.  At the age of eight, he was mopping floors and washing dirty lunch trays while other kids were learning about the world, how to compute numbers and to read. He always told us it was worth it because he was able to eat all he wanted in the lunchroom, since his work paid for his lunches and his brother’s on the days he had school.

Twenty years later, and he was still sweeping smooth, concrete floors, only this time in a giant warehouse lined with gargantuan pieces of glass separated by dividers of wood and plastic. He worked here with three other men of his age, around thirty years old, but not of his color.  They were all black, or as daddy would describe, colored.  A word of the ages, I guess.

On April 4, 1968, daddy was sweeping aisle 17, home of windshields of varying sizes and thicknesses, when he suddenly heard his name being yelled from the main office.  The urgency in the voice of his buddy, James, made daddy cut his whistling mid-tune and drop the push broom handle to the floor.  He started running toward the office in a slow jog and then faster as he saw James leaning in the doorway, his head down in one hand, moving back and forth repeating, “No, no, no.”

“They shot ’em, Ray.  They shot ’em.”

At home, my mom had already heard the news from Aunt Jane, who called her after hearing the news from her husband’s secretary. Uncle Paul was an administrator of the hospital where Martin Luther King, Jr. was being taken, so mom knew it was real and happening and terrible. Mom’s first thought was Daddy, who was downtown where this tragedy was unfolding. The news of the shooter, his skin color and the announcement of Dr. King’s death began to circulate.

Paul Hess, assistant administrator at St. Joseph’s Hospital, where Dr. King died despite emergency surgery, said the minister had “received a gunshot wound on the right side of the neck, at the root of the neck, a gaping wound.”

“He was pronounced dead at 7:05 P.M. Central standard time (8:05 P.M. New York time) by staff doctors,” Mr. Hess said. “They did everything humanly possible.”

Anger and grief spread through the streets of Memphis. People were scared.  My parents were scared.  Dad’s warehouse buddies were, too. In order to get my dad home safely to his wife and three young daughters, his warehouse buddies, as he often called them, had to put him in the back floorboards of their car and drive him home.  They knew this was the only way to keep their white friend in one piece on the streets of Memphis that night.

As they drove, following every traffic signal along the way so that no attention came to them, my dad’s body compressed down just beyond the front seat row against the floor mats, heavy weights of grief seemed to be holding the car down so that the wheels were rotating through sludge.  Our little house seemed miles and miles away.  For the most part, the passengers were silent except for an occasional “I can’t believe it.” or “Killed ’em.”  Daddy was silent, maybe out of respect or maybe fear.  He never said.

When they finally pulled into our neighborhood, all white by design and ignorance of the times, mama was on the front porch with me on her hip and a cigarette in her hand.  The car climbing up the slope of driveway carefully brought her a sense of relief and eased her panicked breath.  Dad rose up in the back of the car like an old Jack-in-the-Box and was helped out of the car by his warehouse buddies.

They all sat around the kitchen table that night for hours, talking about the day’s events, eventually joined by Aunt Jane and Uncle Paul.  As the only bottle of whiskey in the house (or alcohol for that matter) was poured into juice glasses around the table, everyone shared their account of the day and their fears for the future as my sisters and me laid asleep in our beds.

Image result for martin luther king quotes

 

 

J is for Jump

I am jumping right in.  Actually, that’s not really true.  I am being pushed in with the loving hands of my sister.  Regardless of how I got here, now I am here and need to make the best of it.

My life, up until this moment, has been two parts my reality and one part my imagination-incorporated with the ideals of the life I always thought I wanted.

My reality, today, is that I don’t think I was ever happy.  I am racking my brain to come up with a happy memory or two to focus on, to begin figuring out who I really am, and I can’t. Honestly, the only thing popping into my mind is my good friend, Anne, sprawled across my sofa after we had put my kids to bed and had our usual celebratory glass of wine marking the end of another day.  We were talking about someone commenting on how sweet I was, just so happy all the time.  Anne looks at me and says, “I don’t think you are as nice as you try to be.  I think you are actually pretty void of joy.”  This was jolting, sickening and possibly the truth.  I think.  And here lies the problem.  I have no idea if she was right.  This wavering back and forth between she said and I think is ultimately my doom.  I am sure of that.  Maybe I am really a sad soul, the kind of person who doesn’t care at all for humankind, cute little puppies or whether or not we are globally screwed.

So who am I and how do I figure out where it all went downhill, to hell in a handbasket, or just plain wrong?  I was advised to start at my beginning and this journey would bring me to my true self.

So here it goes.  My deconstruction.

My story begins, according to truth and legend, as I slid right out between two legs that were being held up by my father and a nurse, like suspension wires of a bridge.  This was due to my mother’s mental state being controlled by substances that induced a twilight sleep, so anything needing to be lifted had to be supported by others.  This relaxed, detached state also made it almost impossible to aid in my delivery since the words, “Push, push,” floated like soft marshmallow clouds into my mother’s brain and then disbanded into little white dots of pastel green, pink and blue until finally dissolving into the humming darkness near her ears. This cycle began again with the next urges from the nurses who were waiting for the drop.  That’s when I made my first appearance.  It was 1967.

When my mom finally came to and was aware of my existence, she instantly had to have her sinus cavities flushed out due to all the pain she was having before I was born and after. The misery of such a headache caused her to have great waves of nausea as well, so holding me was out of the question.  Instead, I was passed from nurse to nurse as one shift ended and another began.

My daddy used to tell me that the nurses and doctors described my birth as one of the easiest deliveries they had ever witnessed.  “She just popped right out,” one said.  “And so serious, too.  Not even a little whimper of a cry,” said the other.  And this was true.  I was born without any consequence at all except for my mom’s sinus issue.  I was on time, took only a few pushes from my mother and was as healthy as could be.

As I was tended to by the nurses there,  I was told stories of their mothers, fathers, boyfriends, and coworkers with a sing-song voice of sweetness that is suitable for infants and old people who can’t understand normal speech patterns, so words go up and down hoping to soothe and supplicate.

“…and when she comes into work late, I have to cover for her.  She doesn’t think about how that affects the rest of us, that selfish slut.”

or

“My mother died when I was born, so you are a lucky little girl.  You have a mommy and a daddy.”

or

“My father is in prison for killing my uncle, his brother.  You don’t ever want to go to prison, sweet Janey.  You’ll be a good girl, won’t you?”

So I began my life between the legs of my mother, the walls of the Methodist Hospital,  the names of two aunts, and the many stories that were whispered to me as I was swaddled and fed by nurses in starched white hats.

There is a picture of my mother and me in the hospital the day we were leaving.  Whether it’s the picture quality or the cigarette smoke lingering in the air, it’s hard to see me all bundled up in my mother’s arm, but you can see my mom’s face clearly.  Her dark short curls are teased upon her head a bit, she has a light blue house dress on, and there is a very stern look on her face, either from pain, exhaustion or both.

As we left that day, it occurred to my parents that I did not have a name, so I was named after two aunts, one on my mother’s side and one on my father’s side.  On hearing this news, Aunt Jane and Aunt Gillie gave nods and looks of approval as I was presented to them sitting in the living room of our little house on Kingston St. It was decided right then and there that I was to be called JG, short for the two names. My mother later explained this decision to me, that having a nickname would clear up any confusion when someone hollered for Jane or Gillie from the yard or downstairs rooms. My father disagreed completely, refusing to call his third daughter “letters” of any sort. So Janey was what my dad called me and JG is what the rest of the world called me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear God

Dear God,

It’s me,  Jane.  When I was a young girl, I would read books about famous scientists, soldiers, girl detectives and girls like me—middle class kids who wore hand-me-downs, ate Campbell’s soup and Frosted Flakes, watched Scooby Doo on Saturday mornings, and who needed your help understanding the world around them.  I would dream of being that girl detective, Nancy Drew, with her blond hair, flipped perfectly in place behind the headband in her hair.  I imagined myself as her; standing behind the wheel of the speedboat she was in as she quickly sped off to solve a mystery.  Her hair still in place as she darted around the lake, her dress ironed and perfectly fitted to her perfectly fit body.  It was the kind of fantasy that seemed so close to reality and there was a part of me that truly thought if I wished hard enough, imagined hard enough, I could be that girl.  Or maybe I would find a cure for a disease, like Madame Curie, or become a martyr for a cause, like Joan of Arc.  I would have the respect of everyone around me, be famous and, most of all, not be me.

Then there were the other books, of girls like me who had regular lives.  Their hair would get messy, they had fights with their brothers and sisters, and they got their periods.  I never really wanted to be like these girls, except for the part of their lives that ended up working out for the better.  I suppose these stories were meant to give me hope that I would be okay.  In a way, I guess they did.

My childhood heroes from all those books that I loved have inspired me to ask for your help.  Somehow, some way, I need you to swoop in and help me.  If you have been paying attention, you would know that this would be a great time to show me you are here.

I will be waiting.

Sincerely,

Jane

 

 

 

Dear God II

Dear God,

I hope you got my last letter.  Maybe you are having trouble finding me?  A little background information might be helpful, in case you don’t have time to look me up.

I will start when I was four years old.  This is an important year for me, as you probably know.  This was the year that I was molested by two teenage brothers.  Now that I think about it, I am not sure why you would allow something like this to happen to me.  Surely this was not part of any plan you have for me.  In any case, it happened, and not only to me, but to my sister as well.

Although the memories of this fade in and out, the one memory I do have that is so vivid is me screaming and crying, pounding my hands against the metal storm door that locked me inside this house where I was to stay.  Through my tears and my screams for my mother, I watched her pull out of the driveway, backing into the street lined with split ranch houses that all looked the same.  I can see myself standing there, begging for my mom to save me, feeling so alone and afraid.

My sisters and I were brought to this house often so that my mom could go to work or church or somewhere else besides here.  The house, compared to our simple brick house, was huge in my young eyes.  The front of the house was a clean, crisp white, with windows that opened sideways, which, at the time, I thought was so amazing.  The porch was small, with only about five steps leading up to the door, but it was perfect with a red front door that sat behind the storm door, a little  bench you could sit on if you were small like me, and some ceramic pots of flowers and plants that lined the steps as you went up.  As you drove into the driveway, there were two big trees that sat to your left that, early in the morning, shaded the house in a way that made you feel fresh and new, with just enough sun shining through its branches and leaves, a breeze moving them slightly, so that it looked like dancing shapes against the white house.  Somehow, this made the hot southern morning seem cool and serene.

Inside the house, there were three floors.  When you went in the front door, there were stairs that led you up to the main floor or down to the bottom floor.  On the main floor, there was a spiral staircase that led up to a room that was once the attic but was changed into a bedroom.  This was the daughter’s bedroom.  Although I was only allowed to see it once or twice, I recall lots of pillows with flowers on them that had ruffled seams and beads hanging in front of the doorway.  It was a mix of 60s flower power meets colonial ornate.  This was the place I wanted to stay when I was in this house—a tower that was protected and safe, guarded by the beads and the sister.

The main floor was nondescript, really, with a kitchen that had a table in the middle, a dining room with tall chairs with gold velvet padded seats and a living room that had a two chairs and a sofa, all three with wooden arms and legs and cushions covered in plastic.  All of this was centered around a television that sat in its huge encasement of veneer on the floor in front of a giant picture window.

The bottom floor was for the kids.  They called it the game room because it had a pool table in the middle of it, but that was about it except for an old scratched up dart board on the wall with no darts and a mutilated Twister box on a shelf.  The pool table was covered with red felt.  There was a stained glass Coca Cola pendant light hanging above it with a chain covered cord that scalloped away from the light and eventually plugged into an outlet somewhere.  The walls were covered in dark wooden paneling and were lined with old plaid covered sofas that were frayed and torn around the arm rests and pilled everywhere else. Sitting there, pulling the little pieces of pilled fabric off the seat cushions was one of my favorite past times when I was in that basement.

As a shy, scared four year old, I thought being placed up on the red felted pool table was one of the games I was supposed to play.  After all, my sister was playing the same game, sometimes before me and sometimes after me.  As I stared up at the bright bulb of the Coca Cola lamp swaying above my face, the boys pulled down my panties, poked and prodded, and told me to be still or I would get in trouble.  I would focus on catching the letters of stained glass as they moved back and forth, feeling triumphant when I could recognize C or an A in the word.  I can feel the tears running down my face into my ears as I quietly played the game.

My sister was older, by a few years, so she was much better at their game than me.  She was forced to play longer than me, and that is when I was placed on the old sofa to wait and watch.

As you know, God, this went on for years without anyone realizing that my sister and I were playing this game in the basement with two boys who were supposed to be babysitting us.  The irony is that were our “god brothers”, sons of my baby sister’s god parents.  But I don’t think you knew them.

At some point we stopped going to the beautiful white house to stay while my mom was busy.  I am not sure why, but I am sure there was great relief from my sister and me.

When I finally remembered my time at this house, I was a woman.  When I finally asked my sister about the nagging memories I had of a pool table with a stained glass lamp swaying back and forth, the memories came back to her and then me, like a tsunami hitting a watchful village who did everything they could to avoid the disaster.

That’s enough for now.  I will be back in touch soon.

Jane

Dear God III

Hello, God.

It’s me again.  This is hard to write after my last letter, since I am now almost convinced you do not care about me.  I wonder why things happen the way they do.  Why certain people are “tested” more than others.

When I was about 7 years old, it was my turn to sleep with mom.  Sliding into those cool sheets, on daddy’s side of the bed, is one of my favorite memories, one I try to capture in my own bed now, searching endlessly for that exact texture of sheet and weight of quilt.

Daddy traveled during the week, selling glass to people all over the south.  When he was gone, my sisters and I would take turns sleeping with our mom.  I was always so happy to get my turn because mom would scratch my back for a few minutes before I fell asleep.  That was the best.  Sometimes I would even read in bed like a grown up, propped up on a pillow with a reading lamp on beside me.  This made me feel very important.

The night the phone rang changed everything.  I remember it well:  Mom sitting up in bed saying a very hushed hello to the person on the other end of the line.  I pretended I was asleep so I wouldn’t get in trouble.  I just listened as my mom stood up and pulled the phone from its spot next to the bed into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.  All I could see was the yellow cord stretched across the room, like a tightrope at the circus, right above our heads at the top of the tent.  I imagined myself able to walk right across it, no problem at all, with the audience cheering below and everyone wanting my autograph.  I would just say no, no, it was nothing.  Then I heard my mom, crying in the bathroom.  Deep, guttural sobs that scared me to death and told me that something bad had happened.

She finally came out of the bathroom, holding the phone on its base and placing it back on the nightstand next to the bed.  She was quiet, but was sniffling a little.  I didn’t move, still playing asleep as she got back in bed, her back to me.

I guess I eventually fell asleep that night, and the next morning was typical of all our mornings.  We all got up to get ready for school.  This day was especially exciting because I had a field trip to the zoo. The happiness I had about this consumed all my thoughts so I did not think about my mom crying in the bathroom, and seemed to be okay, so all was good.

The trip was over, and as the school bus pulled up to the school, my eyes searched for our baby blue VW bus, the only car that could carry five daughters around town.  I loved this bus.  The door that slid open on the side, the tall stick gear shift that my mom and dad maneuvered like race car drivers, and the way back—the best place to sit if you were a little kid, like me.  My youngest sisters and I would end up here a lot if there were extra kids in the car, which there seemed to be often.  Although the black felt under our knees and bottoms was slightly scratchy and itchy, we loved feeling all the bumps and dips in the road.  It was like a ride at an amusement park.  Seat belts were unheard of, so we were bopping all over the place in that way back.

As I stepped off the school bus, I saw our neighbor waiting on me.  She was standing there, next to her car, waving and calling my name.  Slightly confused and afraid, I slowly walked over to her as she quickly directed me into the back seat and closed the heavy door behind me.  The only thing she told me was that my mom needed her to pick me up today.  As usual, I was too shy and embarrassed to ask questions or get more information.  I just sat in the big backseat, staring out the window, as we drove home.

My shyness was my undoing many times in my life, as you have probably seen.  Besides the whole molestation thing and the phone call with my mom, there are many more examples of the painful anxiety and shyness I had as a child.  There was one time, in elementary school, when my teacher sent me to the office to hang pictures on the bulletin board.  I was sent because she knew I would be well behaved and get the job done perfectly, the pictures hanging evenly on the board.  While I was stapling the pictures up, I accidentally stapled my index finger.  I did not make a sound.  The ladies working in the office continued to type, answer ringing telephones and chat with each other as I sat there, looking down at the silver staple planted right into the flesh of my finger, just like it looked on the corners of the papers I’d been hanging.  Fighting back tears and pain, I decided this would call way too much attention to me, so I finished the job I had been sent to do, and then I went back to class.  The day continued, the staple still sitting there, but my finger slowly turning to a shade of purple with hints of red and blue mixed in.

When I finally got home that afternoon, I burst into the house in tears, screaming and crying my mother’s name, telling her the terrible story while she pulled the staple out of my finger.  Why didn’t you tell anyone?  What were you thinking?  You have to stand up for yourself!  A mother’s mantra when her child does a stupid thing.  I have heard this many, many times in my life, and not just from my mom.  Friends, teachers, sisters, and virtual strangers have said the same thing to me on occasion.  My shyness is my undoing.

I remember getting into the backseat of a friend’s car on a hot, sweaty day.  I was probably seven or eight years old.  We tried to get in without our bare legs touching the vinyl seat that had been cooking in the sun for hours.  All was good.  My somewhat chubby thighs were held high as I slid in.  Looking down, I could see the sweat and dirt streaked like rivers around all the freckles that dotted the flesh.  What had I been doing to be that filthy?  Not like me at all.  I reached over to close the big, heavy door, slamming it shut.  I rolled down the window under the demands of my best friends, twins who lived next door.  As their mom began the drive home, warm wind came rushing into the car, thankfully, to give us some relief.  Beginning to relax, I sat back on the mammoth seat, resting my arms at my sides, not realizing that a wasp had landed there.  The sting was horrific, sending sharp pain mixed with panic all over my body.  I frantically swatted the wasp off of arm, killing it in the process, and then peeked over at my friends to make sure they had not seen this or the tears puddled in my eyes.

So here I was again, letting my shyness take over as I sat quietly in the backseat of the car being driven home from school.  I was so afraid to ask why my mom was not there but deep down I knew why:  something terrible had happened. Something that made my mom cry in the bathroom with the telephone in the middle of the night.  I finally gathered up enough nerve and volume to ask where she was, my mom.  In a kind, southern way I was told that my mother was at home.  Oh, great.  Now I was really scared.  Why on earth would my mom be at home? If she were home, she could have come to get me!  Someone please help.

When I walked into our house, there were people sitting ahead in the den, ladies from church who were always working on things with my mom—flowers for the alter, Sunday school class, vacation bible school, coffee hour.  Basically, all the things a good episcopal church does.  It was easy to walk through them, their cigarette smoke filling the air, and going straight to the kitchen where I knew my mother would be.  But she wasn’t.  I ran to her bedroom.  Her bathroom.  My sisters’ rooms.  Nothing.  And then my oldest sister found me in the hallway crying and told me, like it was a fact of life, that our mom had to drive to be with our daddy, who had a major heart attack in the middle of the night and was having triple bypass surgery.  A what?  That’s all I could think or say, for that matter.  By then, several ladies were trying to explain this in a way I might understand, but none of that mattered to me.  All I knew was my mom was gone and my dad was sick and I was here with people I didn’t really care for.

As I look back on this time, God, I like to think you were around since my dad survived this major, relatively new for the time, surgery on his heart, although you tested this theory many times over the years.  More on that later.    This has been exhausting, so I will end here.

 

Jane

Happy Anniversary

Today, November 27, 2016, I would have been married for 23 years.  So, in theory, this is my wedding anniversary, since I have only been married one time.  It was supposed to last forever, like all good things that are made in fairy tales, dreams, wishes, yadda yadda.  And this is where I can honestly say, thank God it didn’t.  Last.  Here’s the thing, I am a big fan of fairy tales and wishes.  In fact, I spend most of my days fantasizing about things that will never happen, as if I am almost a delusional, idealistic child lost in Neverland.  I am convinced I will win the lottery someday. I am sure that Publishers Clearing House or HGTV’s Dream Home Giveaway will actually pick me.  I was also sure, twenty-three years ago, that I would be married until the end of time, my death, or his death.  That said, I am not so sure that is what I wanted.  I wanted the fairy tale, for sure, but I am starting to think I wanted a different prince in the picture.  But since I am very good at living in dreams, I walked right down that aisle to the prince of that day–the man who was to be my husband.

Twenty-three years ago, I woke up on my wedding day unable to swallow.  It’s true.  Every time I tried to swallow, even the littlest bit of saliva or water, I experienced incredible pain. I had to take my fingertips and press on my throat just to get anything to go down at all.  This was a sign.  Of course, it was.  There are signs in fairy tales!  Why wasn’t I paying attention?  The answer is simple.  There was a wedding to be had, a celebration, a party!  And there was a dress, bridesmaids, tuxedos, groomsmen flying in from all over the country, flowers, caterers, and my stuff had already been moved to New York!  The only sign I could see was GO.  Wait.  STOP. There was also my cousin, Mark, who very sweetly took me on a drive the day before the wedding, and as we drove along the downtown streets, he very calmly said, “You don’t have to do this.”  The this he was referring to was the wedding.  He was ready to save me if I wanted to be saved, but being the good southern girl who would never disappoint her guests, I laughed it off.  Ha. Ha. Ha.  Really?  I had my chance and I blew it.  And this was more than a sign.  This was a straight out call it like it is slap in the face.  The sting of it lasted through the wedding day and got worse with every year I was married.

Signs.  Slaps.  A week earlier, before my cousin tried to rescue me, a very close friend at my church, a deacon, asked if we could talk.  She was worried about me and my pending marriage.  She could “sense that something wasn’t right” between the groom and me.  You think?  Yes, we had blowout arguments, and yes, he had a tendency to become verbally abusive, and yes, I was often concerned with his behavior during these fights.  Dinner napkin thrown in my face in a restaurant, calling me sometimes twenty, thirty times on the phone before I would finally pick up, throwing things at me when I was asleep, trying to humiliate me in public by raising his voice until I submitted, or becoming so enraged with me that his face would be two inches from my face as spit and venom from his mouth hit me with every word.  These were just minor things I could fix.  In fairy tales, everything can be fixed.

So, after many more years of the same,  I now have a new anniversary.  The anniversary of the end of my marriage.  July 2, 2015.  Happy Anniversary.

happily-ever-after