That day is easy to remember; harder to move on, now that the parents of my childhood are gone.
The rest of the story will be shared. But, since it has taken 28 years for my own perspective to settle, which included pining about Exit 369 and coming to terms with a childhood that left me meagerly prepared for the world, I will divert briefly. In comparison to a lifetime, taking a few minutes for background is like the blink of an eye. Some have probably called me the family whistleblower or snitch. A whistleblower is a squealer, troublemaker, bigmouth, tattletale, stoolie, tipster... or, a talebearer. I prefer the definition of talebearer, because talebearers have a story to tell, and normally there is a meaningful purpose for telling their story. My purpose is to bring pieces together to create logical order and embrace information responsibly for closure (I could never have imagined this mission taking 6 years).
Raised in a middle-class home by parents who, honorably, tried to squelch their heritage tales, they never moved past guilt and the hurt of scandals and rejection experienced in their families of origin. Heritage issues could not be contained, and their essence oozed of opposition. When 20-year-old Dad's bricklayer father died, the family was left Depression-time penniless. Air Force years provided for Dad financially, and it also allowed him to quietly separate from his family's representation of a demanding God and the suppressed guilt associated with his rebellion. And also, a tidbit that we were, respectfully, never told... our paternal grandparents experienced a 1922 unwed pregnancy, creating childhood years of social scorn for the stoic family patriarch (our great-grandfather). Dad's older sister was the family's daily reminder. That sister was like Dad's second coddling mother; he needed spoiling because saving the family reputation was on his shoulders. All of this drama happened on what Dad called small-town Iowa's "wrong side of the tracks."
Small-church rumor mills can be brutal. It is no wonder that, beginning in late teens, Dad ran from God. The motto that best describes Dad's corporate-climbing years would be: "I have mixed drinks about feelings" (it takes a minute to really get that phrase). So, he married into a sophisticated, irreligious family. (By irreligious I mean my maternal Grandparents reacted proudly against their humble beginnings, believing they had no need for God; or at best, that God could be compartmentalized or peripheral... there was nothing that hard work, strategizing, enough money, and a sophisticated legal vice or two could not fix.)
Mom was escaping her social-climbing parents' 1940s heated divorce with misfiring consequence. She felt rejected by her Father and aimed misdirected guilt towards herself and towards her mother. So, she married an educated advocate charmed by her distant, Bohemian-style, quietly strong-willed ways... sweet, yet willed enough to help Dad continue to maneuver away from his family's strict religion. Dad failed to realize that her response to many of his ways would be similar. Raised worlds apart, it created an unbridled marital mix. Their disjointed tango-filled soap opera during the key middle 15 years of their 40-year marriage had ripple effects on most of their children. Those pivotal 15 years managed to muzzle this headstrong mule, sheltering me for years.
Now, in the midst of my "seasoned" year 63, after walking through a few complex storms of my own, instead of sounding the bullhorn of cover-up, I prefer to awaken a still small voice; the gentle hum... of heritage advocacy. The other day at work, I experienced the benefit of having an advocate. It was cold and really windy. After parking in the "back forty," I trekked at highest speed to my building. Unfortunately, our university chapel had just let out, and with it began the sea of students that flood the cross-ways sidewalk, right in front of my building. It was like an endless herd of cattle huddled and walking tightly together to keep warm, leaving no gaps. Stopping to shiver and wait outweighed being trampled. I searched for a kind set eyes to meet mine. Finally, there were two students that I knew well... she and her fiance became my silent advocates to reach shelter quicker, slowing down just enough to leave opportunity for me to begin to slip through a narrow gap and then quickly weave through a few more of the cattle, and climb the steps into my warm haven (or building). Thank heaven for haven!
Being an advocate is like rescuing someone from the cold. An advocate sees from a different perspective and at times has the ability to change the natural flow of events. An advocate stands in the gap and many times can keep in mind the higher good, taking the hit for others. An advocate provides an extra voice. Attorneys are advocates for others (maybe Dad chose that profession partly as a reaction to years of yearning to defend his belittled family of origin); and so, I meagerly attempt to follow his footsteps, through a less intellectual venue. Not through the court system's judges, but through the many blogs I have written over the past 6 years. Learning as I go. This hands-on learner sends re-worded dialogue out into the creative universe that is finally and hopefully less assumption-based than Detective/Author great-Grandfather Frederick Weber's 1920 book: "Is There A Creative Power in Disintegration?" (inspired after an astronomer's discovery of the mega-bright 1918 Nova Aquilae that occurred 100 years ago).
I strive to clearly convey my reasoning behind the creative belief: "This" Relates to "Us". Possibly the purpose and compelling reason for surviving and thriving through stage 2, virulent grade 3 of 3 breast cancer is to be an advocate, for my parents and my siblings. In 2006, it felt like a supernatural presence guided me through cancer's life-and-death, decision-after-decision, practicing the presence of God. My perspective is forever changed.
Practicing God's presence, plus some early-morning 5:30 a.m. instincts, have especially been needed for heritage blogging, as well. Critical heritage segments were hidden or out of whack, so research and blogging became compulsions. It felt like something was missing, like that annoying lost mate to a favorite pair of socks (maybe stolen by the sock fairy for her hidden stash)... or, wanting that $500 car fob, lost somewhere around the house (so many places to look)... or, needing to return home because of a stove burner or a hair straightener left on... or, missing that one annoying puzzle piece, and believing that piece is somewhere nearby... or, certainly there is something you have forgotten, but remembering what, is another matter (maybe that needed battery for the smoke detector, "This Is Us"). It has taken time to realize that some segments will always be mysteries; but, helping to combine information already known heritage-wise with information I would eventually learn, I needed the Advocate-in-the-wings. He was always there.
I strive to clearly convey my reasoning behind the creative belief: "This" Relates to "Us". Possibly the purpose and compelling reason for surviving and thriving through stage 2, virulent grade 3 of 3 breast cancer is to be an advocate, for my parents and my siblings. In 2006, it felt like a supernatural presence guided me through cancer's life-and-death, decision-after-decision, practicing the presence of God. My perspective is forever changed.
Practicing God's presence, plus some early-morning 5:30 a.m. instincts, have especially been needed for heritage blogging, as well. Critical heritage segments were hidden or out of whack, so research and blogging became compulsions. It felt like something was missing, like that annoying lost mate to a favorite pair of socks (maybe stolen by the sock fairy for her hidden stash)... or, wanting that $500 car fob, lost somewhere around the house (so many places to look)... or, needing to return home because of a stove burner or a hair straightener left on... or, missing that one annoying puzzle piece, and believing that piece is somewhere nearby... or, certainly there is something you have forgotten, but remembering what, is another matter (maybe that needed battery for the smoke detector, "This Is Us"). It has taken time to realize that some segments will always be mysteries; but, helping to combine information already known heritage-wise with information I would eventually learn, I needed the Advocate-in-the-wings. He was always there.
In a larger group there is usually an odd duck; and of the 6 siblings, I am that duck. Maybe even the rigid Asperger's-spectrum child, who bristled at being nurtured; unable to express love to others and my parents. Like a Cracker Jack box that requires digging to discover the prize, it takes motivation to find love somewhere inside my "box." In other words, thoughts and ideas easily zip-lined from point A to D, gliding past B and C. As second daughter and middle child, tightly sandwiched between two energetic brothers, I was alone and emotionally clueless... the invisible, serious sibling. Did I steal ice cream treats out of the basement freezer? Or, attend Brownies, play softball, and run the streets with my older sister at Halloween? Did I play brother BB-guns, participate in boy body noises, plan how to scare the wits out of neighbors like Debby, and tease frogs? Did I twin-dress and participate in endless outdoor Barbie activities with my younger sisters? Very seldom, if once, but I do remember.
Ever the peace-seeking "crumb-snapper" in a home of dysfunctional love with underlying mismatched tensions, I believed that problems could have easy solutions. I noticed unnoticeable things when I should have been pre-occupied with childhood play. It would have been impossible for me to write this perspective until now. I am finally able to assume the circular and complex grandparent ↺ parent perspective, partly because our long-distance daughter is blessed with three beautiful and energetic children. We have tried to be there for her in a variety of ways, and when we are there physically, it is 24/7 (foul breath, eye boogers) togetherness.
Ever the peace-seeking "crumb-snapper" in a home of dysfunctional love with underlying mismatched tensions, I believed that problems could have easy solutions. I noticed unnoticeable things when I should have been pre-occupied with childhood play. It would have been impossible for me to write this perspective until now. I am finally able to assume the circular and complex grandparent ↺ parent perspective, partly because our long-distance daughter is blessed with three beautiful and energetic children. We have tried to be there for her in a variety of ways, and when we are there physically, it is 24/7 (foul breath, eye boogers) togetherness.
So, the argument to figuratively slip into Mom's "Cinderella" casual footwear is snug, but hopefully logical and convincing (my size-10 foot's sandal size is almost Mom's size 8). They loved us; they loved each other; but overarching it all, as young parents they were overwhelmed; and to survive, they reacted to most challenges blindly. Both sets of grandparents were, for one convoluted reason or another, absent for support. Young-parent Mom and Dad basically sought for little help-structure; and few, if any, were available for them to closely observe who had strongly "gone before." Tensions snowballed with each additional child. Dad also had two nearly-destitute widows-in-the-wings (our two grandmothers); and for a while, Mom's nearby struggling widowed sister-in-law; and a few times, Dad needed to legally "be there" for his elusively-charming baby brother (17 years his junior).
Emotional and financial "fail-safes" were out of the picture. All money was brought in by, and blood-sweat-and-tears earned by, Dad. Imagine having minuscule help, 6 stair-step children, a sporadic and irrelevant church life, and a somewhat isolated day-to-day existence. Dad was "on his own" financially and Mom was "on her own" regarding the kids. They were in the 1960's low-tech age with no Internet, texting, or email; no Dr. Dobson or "This is Us" time-travel family therapy television programs; and, charges for every minute of a long-distance phone call were high. It was a world that, these days, most of us can barely remember or conceive.
Throughout courtship and as a younger couple, Mom took the lead family-wise, with Dad's blessing. Strict religion was rejected and interference from mother-in-law was on high alert (I possess Dad's summer 1948 letter, written to Mom before their marriage). They compromised by sporadically attending a tame Presbyterian Church. My parents each had their marital and parental instincts, and as their children matured, areas like managing hormonal teens caused Mom's irreligious-raised instincts to seriously clash with strictly-raised Dad's. He sought for tighter boundaries for his daughters, and after a major hiccup, he constructively won that battle. In high school years, we girls were paid to work in Dad's office after school, in a waybabysat "teen-sat" by his understanding secretaries (Madge and then Judy). The youngest two also participated in high school dramas like "West Side Story." The boys somersaulted into afternoon gymnastics.
Years later, around age mid-40s (why so long? unfortunately, they were headstrong blinded) Mom felt maritally desperate enough to face irreligious pride. At a legendary Billy Graham crusade, she FINALLY learned of a relational Jesus and asked him to be the Lord of her life. Dad balked at religions like the Baptists (he intellectually categorized them as "strict," like his Mother's religion). Then, through their 6-month separation, Dad learned of the same Jesus and whole-hearted followed suit. Each of their 6 children also eventually accepted Jesus into their hearts, and we lived happily ever after. At least, I naively thought we should have.
I typed and re-typed as Dad attempted to piece together his aged-50, logical-argument testimony. Continued heritage covered-up and alcoholism morphed to palatable... workaholism. From my teenage perspective, his testimony merely skimmed the comfortable surface. He had tunnel-vision. Aged-50s, I began to sense a need for the full panoramic, and the "why" ingredients, to finally seek heritage closure. I felt compelled to step back and survey more than a century of family dynamics (1918-2018). Discovering their history provided background to compose other writings and finally this one. I learned that my parents spent a lifetime attempting to stuff feelings, which ended up handicapping their relationship with each other, and ultimately negatively effected many of their 6 children.
Emotional and financial "fail-safes" were out of the picture. All money was brought in by, and blood-sweat-and-tears earned by, Dad. Imagine having minuscule help, 6 stair-step children, a sporadic and irrelevant church life, and a somewhat isolated day-to-day existence. Dad was "on his own" financially and Mom was "on her own" regarding the kids. They were in the 1960's low-tech age with no Internet, texting, or email; no Dr. Dobson or "This is Us" time-travel family therapy television programs; and, charges for every minute of a long-distance phone call were high. It was a world that, these days, most of us can barely remember or conceive.
Throughout courtship and as a younger couple, Mom took the lead family-wise, with Dad's blessing. Strict religion was rejected and interference from mother-in-law was on high alert (I possess Dad's summer 1948 letter, written to Mom before their marriage). They compromised by sporadically attending a tame Presbyterian Church. My parents each had their marital and parental instincts, and as their children matured, areas like managing hormonal teens caused Mom's irreligious-raised instincts to seriously clash with strictly-raised Dad's. He sought for tighter boundaries for his daughters, and after a major hiccup, he constructively won that battle. In high school years, we girls were paid to work in Dad's office after school, in a way
Years later, around age mid-40s (why so long? unfortunately, they were headstrong blinded) Mom felt maritally desperate enough to face irreligious pride. At a legendary Billy Graham crusade, she FINALLY learned of a relational Jesus and asked him to be the Lord of her life. Dad balked at religions like the Baptists (he intellectually categorized them as "strict," like his Mother's religion). Then, through their 6-month separation, Dad learned of the same Jesus and whole-hearted followed suit. Each of their 6 children also eventually accepted Jesus into their hearts, and we lived happily ever after. At least, I naively thought we should have.
I typed and re-typed as Dad attempted to piece together his aged-50, logical-argument testimony. Continued heritage covered-up and alcoholism morphed to palatable... workaholism. From my teenage perspective, his testimony merely skimmed the comfortable surface. He had tunnel-vision. Aged-50s, I began to sense a need for the full panoramic, and the "why" ingredients, to finally seek heritage closure. I felt compelled to step back and survey more than a century of family dynamics (1918-2018). Discovering their history provided background to compose other writings and finally this one. I learned that my parents spent a lifetime attempting to stuff feelings, which ended up handicapping their relationship with each other, and ultimately negatively effected many of their 6 children.
Mom's year 63 (too few for her healthy premature death) is where I am today. To some degree, I identify with her and I "get" them. We are now in our 42nd year of marriage (in 1990 my parents had just celebrated their 42nd). Our anniversary date is August 13th (their mirror anniversary date is August 31st). Like Dad, my husband is responsible, loyal, and gifted; neither of their strengths include political- or EQ-savvy. We have experienced a few challenging career ruts-in-the-road. Like Mom, kindred experiences include the empty-nest syndrome, menopause, thinning eyebrows and Mr. Magoo weak eyesight, finding mischievous gray hairs on clothing and everywhere (mine), and depression. For over a decade, my husband's nearly-destitute widowed Mom has lived close-by; and, career change and looming retirement have been on our minds, with ever-changing purpose and eventual fixed income. It is becoming the norm to think things like, our next car purchase could be one of our last. I have also experienced loneliness and confusion regarding my own hands-on involvement as a grandparent. Don't misunderstand. I feel the amazing wonder and blessings of grandparent-hood. But long-distance, and our relational dance, is vague and looser than I ever expected.
And now to the after-effects of a dysfunctional childhood home, with sober parents approaching their mid-60s, looming 1990s retirement years. They survived parenting. They stuck together, despite 15 years of clashing wills and addictions, with two or more separations. Their savings and investments were acceptable, but Dad didn't feel financially safe. His greatest fear was to be placed into sub-standard nursing home care for his last months and days due to meager finances, so he attempted to place hope in a healthy stock market to guard against that. I heard second-hand they never discussed the deeper relational issues of the past. Defenses remained high, their marital communication skills were weak, but they genuinely loved each other, as best they knew how.
And now to the after-effects of a dysfunctional childhood home, with sober parents approaching their mid-60s, looming 1990s retirement years. They survived parenting. They stuck together, despite 15 years of clashing wills and addictions, with two or more separations. Their savings and investments were acceptable, but Dad didn't feel financially safe. His greatest fear was to be placed into sub-standard nursing home care for his last months and days due to meager finances, so he attempted to place hope in a healthy stock market to guard against that. I heard second-hand they never discussed the deeper relational issues of the past. Defenses remained high, their marital communication skills were weak, but they genuinely loved each other, as best they knew how.
In 1990 Mom was a devoted follower of Jesus, yet she dealt with various lingering catch-22s; many of the catches were linked to their before-Christ years and marital drama, as well as deep-seated rejection and its continuing effects:
One of Dad's retirement outlets was preparing for regular Air Corps reunions. Mom, as always, kept busy delving into painting and other creative outlets like rock gardening, and she cherished photo albums of their travels to Israel and other destinations. She dealt with the ramifications of their aging home, with its plumbing and other issues. Dad was no handyman, and he ignored handyman issues as well as the idea of moving. But, they were planning!
Mom once seriously stubbed her little toe on one of Dad's many briefcases that lined the narrow entry hallway, but otherwise rarely shared her physical complaints (my plethora of mystery ailments were enough for the two of us). Yet, on our August 1990 walk together, she did say her eyes were having brief flashes of light from time to time. So, her eyes concerned her enough to mention it. I failed to connect how that issue could effect her ability to drive for the upcoming vacation she wrote me about... a month-long September road trip with Dad, to Pueblo, Colorado, with a last stop of miles-away Portland, Oregon. There would be miles and miles and miles of driving for Dad and Mom to share. I should have cautioned them to not go!
This is the backdrop when a zinger hits her, on the heels of my family's August departure. She already had regrets as a mom (many of us do when we hit our 60s, trying to know the healthy balance of supporting our adult children who bristle at our interference or roll their eyes at our vintage way of doing things). The non-nurturing, nurturing dance with our adult children takes time to acclimate ourselves with. Our own stubborn insecurities many times cloud our perspective. Ever the mom, in her letter to me dated August 27, 1990, and postmarked September 4th (that I still possess), her final two paragraphs share briefly about her Sister Nancy's hysterectomy, and also: "Nancy Ann is back home again and feeling better, but still needs your prayers for healing." At the time, I did not fully understand what that meant, except that in August when her husband and children joined us at the zoo, she was absent.
- One close in-town friend, Mrs. B., visited regularly, but her emotional challenges were serious. She was the mother-in-law of Neighbor Debby's brother, and I knew of her deep issues. I was there for one of her unannounced, brief visits. Mom could somehow identify with her challenges.
- In 1989 Interstate-355 opened which cut suburb travel times for Mom to visit family. For years, Mom attempted to emotionally "be there" for her brilliant and kind-hearted nephew, but his bouts of depression were deep.
- Oldest daughter's family just moved 5 hours away, a destination for Mom and Dad to visit 2 of their 10 grandchildren; but no more monthly daughter-lunches would occur.
- Mom was trying to learn to "be there" for her nearby son's family, but it was through trial-and-error.
- Middle daughter's family with 2 grandchildren lived a 14-hour drive away, in the warm destination Texas. But, she was the family hypochondriac with mysterious gum burning, ever-sneezing, or migrainy. Her visits caused Mom to face her meager housekeeping skills (Mom wrote apologies in her personal correspondence).
- Second son lived nearby and worked in Dad's law office, but his career choice and the father/son work relationship seemed to be less than ideal.
- Pride-and-joy talented two youngest daughters brought Mom many years of needed companionship, but they were now experiencing serious physical and emotional challenges; PTSD-like-effects of being the two youngest raised in an alcoholic home.
- With Mom's input, Dad's career decision to not pursue a judge-ship was finally finalized, but she mentioned to me several times Dad's looming retirement, wondering what day-to-day interests would occupy the ever-workaholic.
Approaching Milford Exit 369, But Not There Yet
One of Dad's retirement outlets was preparing for regular Air Corps reunions. Mom, as always, kept busy delving into painting and other creative outlets like rock gardening, and she cherished photo albums of their travels to Israel and other destinations. She dealt with the ramifications of their aging home, with its plumbing and other issues. Dad was no handyman, and he ignored handyman issues as well as the idea of moving. But, they were planning!
Mom once seriously stubbed her little toe on one of Dad's many briefcases that lined the narrow entry hallway, but otherwise rarely shared her physical complaints (my plethora of mystery ailments were enough for the two of us). Yet, on our August 1990 walk together, she did say her eyes were having brief flashes of light from time to time. So, her eyes concerned her enough to mention it. I failed to connect how that issue could effect her ability to drive for the upcoming vacation she wrote me about... a month-long September road trip with Dad, to Pueblo, Colorado, with a last stop of miles-away Portland, Oregon. There would be miles and miles and miles of driving for Dad and Mom to share. I should have cautioned them to not go!
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MOM, IN THE MIDST OF FULLY LIVING YEAR-63 ↺ AND MY YEAR-36
A rare hand-holding photo op for Mom & Dad. Professionally trained to sense Kodak moments, Mom took most of the photos August 1990's panoramic, sailing with maternal kindred-genealogist, Mom's Uncle Bub (brother to Hazel Rose) |
My parent's fall road trip began September 10th, headed to their first main stop of Pueblo. Dad was looking forward to his Air Corps reunion. Mom received some news shortly before the trip, but she pressed on. Her thoughts had to be on those packing details, but probably also elsewhere. Sharing those "elsewhere" cares with Dad would cause his fragile blood pressure to seriously rise (that was always a concern). And, I imagine she encouraged Dad to attend his reunion, so she needed him to remain positive about that. Mom was trying to cover all of the bases before their departure, which included recovering and reminiscing our August visit (a major league ball game, Brookfield Zoo, the beach, family times, etc.). I assume this because within 2 weeks time, I received not just one, but two sentimental follow-up letters from her (still have them).
I imagine that clothing choices and the many details before a month-long fall road trip were all-consuming (a sitter for Dog Jeremy, stopping their mail, laundry, and Dad always packed into the car everything but the kitchen sink!) I speculate that Mom still hadn't taken time to relax nor time to process her thoughts. She was the queen of managing much, plus secrets (wives of alcoholics hone the art of secret-keeping)... all of our secrets and hers. More than most, Mom knew that her words contained power. It took just one nightmare at age 16 for her to feel years of down-the-road generational backlash. None of us ever knew until months following her death that her Father's 20-year itch and wandering eye were the real reasons for our maternal grandparents' divorce. I was never made aware of it being a heated divorce, but should have figured that out since I met my maternal grandfather only once, soon after my Uncle's 1966 untimely death. How could Mom hold her father's secret from me to the grave?
I speculate that Mom's honed secret-keeping skills began at that tender age of 16. A viable source told me that "silver-spoon," mid-1940s Mom verbally threw an angry ultimatum to her unfaithful father, the night before he fled to Florida. She later erroneously believed that her words gave permission for her father to leave the family, causing family shame plus down-the-road generational abandonment issues and feelings of rejection. Divorce is never a child's fault. WWII business concerns, her mother's endless spending, plus her father's helpless brother (paternal great-Grandfather Frederick's death in 1939 left nearby mentally-challenged Uncle Freddy vulnerable and alone)--all of these factors and more created "The Perfect Storm." Frivolous Depression-time spending on "toys" and trips for years glossed over the marriage's deeper relational issues.
If Mom actually carried and suppressed those deep feelings of rejection, guilt, and regret (arrested development normally occurs after tragically and suddenly losing a father at an immature age, and in an emotionally-charged way), she may have passed down and modeled to at least half of her daughters that tendency. Daughter number two is thankful that for years, Asperger's shielded her from internalizing those feelings (guilt could have overshadowed any clear writing perspectives).
I imagine that clothing choices and the many details before a month-long fall road trip were all-consuming (a sitter for Dog Jeremy, stopping their mail, laundry, and Dad always packed into the car everything but the kitchen sink!) I speculate that Mom still hadn't taken time to relax nor time to process her thoughts. She was the queen of managing much, plus secrets (wives of alcoholics hone the art of secret-keeping)... all of our secrets and hers. More than most, Mom knew that her words contained power. It took just one nightmare at age 16 for her to feel years of down-the-road generational backlash. None of us ever knew until months following her death that her Father's 20-year itch and wandering eye were the real reasons for our maternal grandparents' divorce. I was never made aware of it being a heated divorce, but should have figured that out since I met my maternal grandfather only once, soon after my Uncle's 1966 untimely death. How could Mom hold her father's secret from me to the grave?
I speculate that Mom's honed secret-keeping skills began at that tender age of 16. A viable source told me that "silver-spoon," mid-1940s Mom verbally threw an angry ultimatum to her unfaithful father, the night before he fled to Florida. She later erroneously believed that her words gave permission for her father to leave the family, causing family shame plus down-the-road generational abandonment issues and feelings of rejection. Divorce is never a child's fault. WWII business concerns, her mother's endless spending, plus her father's helpless brother (paternal great-Grandfather Frederick's death in 1939 left nearby mentally-challenged Uncle Freddy vulnerable and alone)--all of these factors and more created "The Perfect Storm." Frivolous Depression-time spending on "toys" and trips for years glossed over the marriage's deeper relational issues.
If Mom actually carried and suppressed those deep feelings of rejection, guilt, and regret (arrested development normally occurs after tragically and suddenly losing a father at an immature age, and in an emotionally-charged way), she may have passed down and modeled to at least half of her daughters that tendency. Daughter number two is thankful that for years, Asperger's shielded her from internalizing those feelings (guilt could have overshadowed any clear writing perspectives).
Sentimental Dad shared with me that one of their road-trip's early brief stops was Drake University, their first time back on that campus since college days decades ago. They met at a school dance, and he treasured their Memory Lane self-tour with photo ops. In October 1990 he wrote: "If only she could have accepted her worth. On second thought, her humility was a part of her appeal." Unfortunately, that same enchanting humility and quietude surfaced Dad's insecurities and manhood tensions during his middle-30's, as deep-seated suspicions and paranoia came to a boil. (A natural dynamic, especially when both sides of their families-of-origin contained hushed soap operas, with many of the bubbles being irreligious people who were running from God).
Now, sadly, back to September 1990's unforgettable Milford Exit 369. Because of a "mixed cocktail" of diabetes and digesting lunch, Dad nodded off at the wheel. He initially took the exit, but quickly attempted to recover. He drove straight rather than taking the curve of the exit, into a grassy and pine-interspersed field. He showed me (and I think our middle brother) the tracks in person; and, later pictures reveal tire tracks of how he successfully steered between pine after pine, but then hit one that forever changed all of our lives. His side of the car actually took the brunt of the hit instead of Mom's side, because the driver's side of the car received the head-on impact. His side of the car compacted like an accordion wedging him in and potentially taking his life immediately. But actually the steering wheel wedged him in perfectly, like an air bag, keeping him from jolting forward and back. The seat-belt was all that spared Mom (there were no air bags), with a strong jolt that caused the belt to dig into her frail 100-pound frame's stomach area.
Now, sadly, back to September 1990's unforgettable Milford Exit 369. Because of a "mixed cocktail" of diabetes and digesting lunch, Dad nodded off at the wheel. He initially took the exit, but quickly attempted to recover. He drove straight rather than taking the curve of the exit, into a grassy and pine-interspersed field. He showed me (and I think our middle brother) the tracks in person; and, later pictures reveal tire tracks of how he successfully steered between pine after pine, but then hit one that forever changed all of our lives. His side of the car actually took the brunt of the hit instead of Mom's side, because the driver's side of the car received the head-on impact. His side of the car compacted like an accordion wedging him in and potentially taking his life immediately. But actually the steering wheel wedged him in perfectly, like an air bag, keeping him from jolting forward and back. The seat-belt was all that spared Mom (there were no air bags), with a strong jolt that caused the belt to dig into her frail 100-pound frame's stomach area.
Mom outwardly looked to have no injuries; internal wounds were detected too late. After 2 days lying quietly (as usual, never the complainer, and no one could ever read her mind) on a hospital bed next to outwardly injured Dad, stealth-like sepsis started a cascade of symptoms that were noticed too late, with the beginnings of organ failure (similar to why people today are dying, suddenly, from the current outbreak of flu). It happened fast, so she was transferred to a larger hospital.
The second hospital is where we siblings entered the picture (why did I wait 3 days to secure a last-minute flight to the middle of nowhere?) None of us arrived sooner to be a voice for our parents because we were assured everything would be fine, partly because my helpful in-laws lived nearby. Also, we and the doctors initially believed both of their injuries to be non-life-threatening. So our focused and earnest prayers were for healing and wise settling of accident details (sadly, hindsight is better than foresight, because everybody was wrong).
Mom lay helpless on an intensive care bed. Most still believed that she had a chance to pull through. A breathing tube filled her throat, and other sustenance-providing tubes entered her body. She became swollen, and she strikingly resembled her mother. Because of the breathing tube, Mom was unable to speak as we surrounded her bed. But I vividly remember that she found a way. Three hospital days were a blur, but I remember the moment a sister first arrived into the intensive care room. Mom's entire body reacted to her arrival, like she was trying to convey her excitement and love for that daughter, non-verbally. Her body twitches stood out visibly, to the extent that some of us mentioned it. Mom didn't do that when I or others arrived. On September 17, 1990, 6 days after the accident, I and others experienced devastation as septic shock sneakily took her healthy body.
According to Uncle Bub's hand-typed genealogy sheet, in the same year, 1990, Mom's same-age (kindred) cousin also died in a car accident. Audrey's children were Diane Lee (1954), Scott (1957), and Nancy Ann (1959).
Mom lay helpless on an intensive care bed. Most still believed that she had a chance to pull through. A breathing tube filled her throat, and other sustenance-providing tubes entered her body. She became swollen, and she strikingly resembled her mother. Because of the breathing tube, Mom was unable to speak as we surrounded her bed. But I vividly remember that she found a way. Three hospital days were a blur, but I remember the moment a sister first arrived into the intensive care room. Mom's entire body reacted to her arrival, like she was trying to convey her excitement and love for that daughter, non-verbally. Her body twitches stood out visibly, to the extent that some of us mentioned it. Mom didn't do that when I or others arrived. On September 17, 1990, 6 days after the accident, I and others experienced devastation as septic shock sneakily took her healthy body.
According to Uncle Bub's hand-typed genealogy sheet, in the same year, 1990, Mom's same-age (kindred) cousin also died in a car accident. Audrey's children were Diane Lee (1954), Scott (1957), and Nancy Ann (1959).
December 1990, 3 months after Mom's death, Widower Dad visited me in Texas. During that time (before I ever knew anything about the mid-1940s confrontation between Mom and her Father), I clumsily shared unsettling information with him. New allegations relating to our alcoholic childhood. He had never previously confessed his drinking to us, for closure, so I did not know what to expect. (I suspect he was introduced to vices during his mid-1940s WWII Air Force years, to help keep fear at bay. Vices and honing his denial skills helped for military survival 404. He joked that as a teen, if he had realized how dangerous those flights were, he would have known to be afraid. The 2nd Photo Reconnaissance Squadron, led by a gifted 19-year-old, my dad, in 1944 received a written commendation for their 33,000 linear miles of mapping photography over enemy-held Southwest Pacific islands.)
I will never forget his reaction to the new 1990 allegations, and the way his entire expression and body deflated. Like a punch in the gut, a shot to the heart, or a shocked deer-in-the-headlights. He initially said no words. Simultaneously, his eyes sunk and his cheeks and mouth flapped wordless air pockets, like a balloon's collapsing neck as it loses air. Alcoholics are pros at denial, but the drop of his jaw and helplessness were genuine enough to cause him to be physically weak. I think he had to sit down. I sensed disbelief and shock, but my EQ skills are colored with Asperger's.
In my naive year-36, it was hard to even verbalize the word "alcoholic," because I still did not understand how that word so accurately labeled Dad. His years-earlier over-drinking sprees were sporadic and he was responsible work-wise. But, I now realize that for years he emotionally depended on alcohol. And Mom, being the classic alcoholic's wife, enabled him and for years kept the secret. I asked for his "take" or feedback. Dad briefly said he knew nothing of the new allegations and was unable to defend himself--I mentioned the possibility of black-outs. The next 2 days were uncomfortable.
I am forever grateful that Dad did not cut short his visit. He stayed with us; still deflated, but he remained (unlike mom's father who fled). Dad did something that only his changed and renewed man could give him strength to do: He did not emotionally scar me by rejecting me. I still felt my Dad's love! I encouraged him to go to the library if he needed space (as a gifted yet poor child, the library was his escape, reading encyclopedias there for hours). With the cushion of our Arkansas aunt's arrival plus activities with our young children, we were somehow able to make the best of his remaining visit with us.
I will never forget his reaction to the new 1990 allegations, and the way his entire expression and body deflated. Like a punch in the gut, a shot to the heart, or a shocked deer-in-the-headlights. He initially said no words. Simultaneously, his eyes sunk and his cheeks and mouth flapped wordless air pockets, like a balloon's collapsing neck as it loses air. Alcoholics are pros at denial, but the drop of his jaw and helplessness were genuine enough to cause him to be physically weak. I think he had to sit down. I sensed disbelief and shock, but my EQ skills are colored with Asperger's.
In my naive year-36, it was hard to even verbalize the word "alcoholic," because I still did not understand how that word so accurately labeled Dad. His years-earlier over-drinking sprees were sporadic and he was responsible work-wise. But, I now realize that for years he emotionally depended on alcohol. And Mom, being the classic alcoholic's wife, enabled him and for years kept the secret. I asked for his "take" or feedback. Dad briefly said he knew nothing of the new allegations and was unable to defend himself--I mentioned the possibility of black-outs. The next 2 days were uncomfortable.
I am forever grateful that Dad did not cut short his visit. He stayed with us; still deflated, but he remained (unlike mom's father who fled). Dad did something that only his changed and renewed man could give him strength to do: He did not emotionally scar me by rejecting me. I still felt my Dad's love! I encouraged him to go to the library if he needed space (as a gifted yet poor child, the library was his escape, reading encyclopedias there for hours). With the cushion of our Arkansas aunt's arrival plus activities with our young children, we were somehow able to make the best of his remaining visit with us.
The figurative "$500 missing car fob" section of the story is here. It is impossible to know the whole truth, after years of allegations. Due to sporadic alcohol use to cope as a striving attorney, young parent, spouse, and the sole bread-winner (with at least one or two black-out episodes), "a puzzle piece is missing" and there is a cloud of mystery. Denial runs in the family, like the Nile is long. The missing replacement battery for the smoke alarm still effects us today because most of us for years blocked out the past. It was too complicated to process (for some, it was too painful). But blocking out means suppressing, and a smoke screen lingers. Most of my siblings cannot emotionally handle the contents of this blog. Sadly, it is more than they can face, and I get it.
Fast-forward about 15 more years to a cherished memory that I don't recall sharing in detail before. It is a February 2006 holy moment. The entire family had already been called to Dad's bedside after another stroke with bleeding on the brain occurred, believing he was taking his last breaths. Instead, he hung on, surviving 2 extra days. Everyone was weary, but the thought of Dad dying alone was unbearable. So, my supportive sister-in-law and I spent the night in his hospital room, trading shifts resting on the room's other twin bed and what I called the creaky "recliner from hell." My 2006 journal indicates that Sunday evening he began loud and heroic breathing [which lasted All.Night.Long.] Finally, at 7:55 a.m. Monday morning we stood on either side of his bed. My sister-in-law and I began to pray in tongues. At 8:00 a.m. Dad's eyes suddenly opened for the first time in days, very wide. It was unexpected. He fought for a deep breath... 30 seconds later he breathed deeply again... and again. This went on until 8:04 a.m., when his eyes closed and he died. The first words we tearfully spoke to each other were, "Mom and Dad are finally together again."
Dad's brave advance directive caused his last days and moments to be speechless and difficult. The experience still mystifies me, because it was nothing like the deaths I see in movies and on television. There was no tender last-minute dialogue. It did, however, feel like a supernatural work of God's grace; a grace that met and overtook Dad's grandfather's strong-armed strict religion. Years earlier, Dad lightly joked about long Sunday afternoons as a boy, in the tiny home that he and his extended family all shared. His grandfather's personal quiet-time with the Bible was spent sitting in the living room rocker. It required that everyone, including one energetic little boy, be as silent as church mice. When Dad's holy moment arrived, ushered into God's freeing presence, I suspect he was more than ready to shout and run through his favorite childhood garden, re-enacted in a new Realm, snatching a ripe and juicy-hot tomato straight from the vine to bring to Mom.
Too soon afterwards, I could have joined Mom and Dad in heaven. A month following Dad's death, aggressive breast cancer was diagnosed. I experienced the fight of my life; and, the literal fight for my life. A few harpoon-sized needle draws were taken, a 2-hour surgery was performed, with follow-up chemo treatments. Cancer changed me in more ways than one. The experience took away two of my literal body curves; softened a few of my figurative harsh edges; and most importantly, increased my determination to live. Doctors stated there was a strong chance that cancer could return, and if it did, it would be with virulence that would take my life. I did not want my aged-20s children to be left pre-maturely motherless without heritage information, like I was. So, blame it on a needed work sabbatical plus information from two of my aunts and my daughter's encouragement... 2014 blogging began that provided a needed outlet. Blame this particular blog on a recent chat with a tearful sister, still rehearsing the accident.
Fast-forward about 15 more years to a cherished memory that I don't recall sharing in detail before. It is a February 2006 holy moment. The entire family had already been called to Dad's bedside after another stroke with bleeding on the brain occurred, believing he was taking his last breaths. Instead, he hung on, surviving 2 extra days. Everyone was weary, but the thought of Dad dying alone was unbearable. So, my supportive sister-in-law and I spent the night in his hospital room, trading shifts resting on the room's other twin bed and what I called the creaky "recliner from hell." My 2006 journal indicates that Sunday evening he began loud and heroic breathing [which lasted All.Night.Long.] Finally, at 7:55 a.m. Monday morning we stood on either side of his bed. My sister-in-law and I began to pray in tongues. At 8:00 a.m. Dad's eyes suddenly opened for the first time in days, very wide. It was unexpected. He fought for a deep breath... 30 seconds later he breathed deeply again... and again. This went on until 8:04 a.m., when his eyes closed and he died. The first words we tearfully spoke to each other were, "Mom and Dad are finally together again."
Dad's brave advance directive caused his last days and moments to be speechless and difficult. The experience still mystifies me, because it was nothing like the deaths I see in movies and on television. There was no tender last-minute dialogue. It did, however, feel like a supernatural work of God's grace; a grace that met and overtook Dad's grandfather's strong-armed strict religion. Years earlier, Dad lightly joked about long Sunday afternoons as a boy, in the tiny home that he and his extended family all shared. His grandfather's personal quiet-time with the Bible was spent sitting in the living room rocker. It required that everyone, including one energetic little boy, be as silent as church mice. When Dad's holy moment arrived, ushered into God's freeing presence, I suspect he was more than ready to shout and run through his favorite childhood garden, re-enacted in a new Realm, snatching a ripe and juicy-hot tomato straight from the vine to bring to Mom.
Too soon afterwards, I could have joined Mom and Dad in heaven. A month following Dad's death, aggressive breast cancer was diagnosed. I experienced the fight of my life; and, the literal fight for my life. A few harpoon-sized needle draws were taken, a 2-hour surgery was performed, with follow-up chemo treatments. Cancer changed me in more ways than one. The experience took away two of my literal body curves; softened a few of my figurative harsh edges; and most importantly, increased my determination to live. Doctors stated there was a strong chance that cancer could return, and if it did, it would be with virulence that would take my life. I did not want my aged-20s children to be left pre-maturely motherless without heritage information, like I was. So, blame it on a needed work sabbatical plus information from two of my aunts and my daughter's encouragement... 2014 blogging began that provided a needed outlet. Blame this particular blog on a recent chat with a tearful sister, still rehearsing the accident.
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| Twin-year-63... I plan to tower and treasure many more years (The always-crook in Mom's left arm was from a teenage fall off a horse) |
One thing I know for certain is that Mom told me she hoped her children would always be friends. Mom knew that as time ticked on, only a few would share the same memories of maroon station wagon rides to far-away Iowa and to the Saybrooke pool, and Mensching's Grocery store, and sledding on one amazing park hill, and Washington School's ice skating times, and art fairs at City Hall, and Dogs Tikko and Jeremy, and two stunning rock gardens, and Mom, and Dad. So, I pray this information creates peace rather than divide.
No one had time to receive closure with Mom, because her loss was tragic, sudden, and pre-mature. She was healthy. We thought she would be with us for many more years. She survived the deadly crash; made it to the smaller hospital mostly for Dad's and partly her recovery. But then she unexpectedly became the focus as her body began to take a sudden tailspin and dive. Maybe that "tease" made it even harder for us. I could have never predicted that August 1990 would be our last walk together. Most (including Dad and the doctors) believed her injuries were at worst bruising after the accident. Dad was the one dramatically cut out of the car with the jaws of life.
Sadly, with her death came an element of mystery and second-guessing. People love the workings of a riveting mystery... except when it hits close to home. The road trip and circumstances surrounding Mom's death could be used as a metaphor for their 40 years of marriage: The stop at Drake represents the first blissful years; the crash represents 15 years of mismatched wills and addictions; and, the hospital their salvation and coming to Jesus. Then, sepsis represents the effect of suppressed guilt and rejection; and the 1990 panoramic picture in this blog with Uncle Bub represents heritage panorama, with hopes for healing advocacy. That panoramic was taken with a disposable camera, and developed 11-months later, after my August 1991 business trip to guess where... Portland, Oregon (the ultimate destination to which my parents never arrived).
If Mom had survived the crash, maybe her presence would have made resolution even more complicated. Only God knows. Our experiences could break most families, but somehow we still deeply care about each other. We all communicate through our various sibling networks and/or technologies. We each have our frame of reference, partly influenced by stair-step birth order, specifically: The eagerly anticipated and most hands-on early-nurtured oldest two; the invisible middle two; and Mom's one-in-two. Our maturity when critical events occurred still color our memories as well. Each sibling's experiences during Dad's drinking years were different. In 1961, when heck broke loose and Dad's sporadic over-drinking chaos episodes first surfaced, I was 6 and the younger three were aged 5, 2, and newborn. Traumatic experiences embed into imaginative and fearful toddler and pre-school minds, forever larger-than-life. It is hard to feel safe.
A decade later, we were all scattered during our parents' separation. I don't recall receiving any communication from my siblings. The oldest two were already out of the house during the increasingly heated events prior to and throughout Mom's 1973 get-away and 6-month separation from Dad. The quiet middle two managed invisibly: My friend's Mom requested, so I was permitted to live with her my last semester of high school and graduation while still working in Dad's office, and my brother remained at 200 East. The youngest two felt the brunt of the chaos, cooperatively and secretly moving away from friends and everything familiar. They accompanied Mom (who might have needed their support a bit more than they needed hers) to far-away Galena, for 6 long months.
That final temporary separation notably began about a month following our paternal grandmother's death, within months of Mom's re-birth. Over-meddling letters from Iowa no longer arriving, with no more suppressed overly-internalized responses of super-sensitive Dad, helped Mom believe in a stronger chance for Dad to permanently give up his raging vices. Mom's attorney advised that the only way the drinking would stop was for Dad to believe that divorce was imminent; in other words, Mom strategically timed the separation so Dad would not receive biting correspondence from his strict-religious French mother (I secretly read one of her disturbing letters when I worked in Dad's office). Mom did not want a divorce; and, until his last breath, Dad adored Mom. They somehow gritty-style modeled to their children the marriage vow: " '...til death do us part." And, to date, amazingly and only because of God's mercy, their lineage has experienced no divorces.
So, I hope that our birth order differences won't create barriers. I hope I have been a respectful talebearer, and not French-like frank and snubbing ("Beauty and the Beast" with French Gaston and his snubbing community cleverly re-create French over-the-top arrogance). I hope my siblings can one day separately digest years of condensed information, shared in a narrative and panoramic way for perspective, and come to their own conclusions (because questions will never be answered with 100 percent accuracy). It is similar to our country's current political climate with cover-ups, where because of CNN and Fox News, even close people's differences strikingly and openly contrast, more than ever before. I hope we can each embrace heritage experiences re-told that are believable and verifiable enough to move past the mystery; forgive (ourselves and others); and if necessary, agree to disagree. I hope we can face what we know for certain (a daily sublingual B-12 tablet melted under my tongue, spit out, and rinsed out three times afterwards, has for years helped strengthen my outlook--B-12 deficiency runs through our maternal grandmother's bloodlines).
This grueling heritage autopsy, with my take on major events, is complete. I am too old to play dodge-ball and run from the uncomfortable or to live in denial (I was never creative enough to do that). Time is too short. Now, IF the surreal opportunity to ever visit a random place near to one estranged family member were to come, I feel prepared. I certainly do not understand everything. I could only write what I know combined with what my gut senses. I would love to fix relationships and make everything ideal, but finally understand how unrealistic that is. Presenting this bigger picture can at least bring hope for the beginnings of closure and healing.
This particular writing began 2018, over MLK weekend (interestingly, King's birth name Michael was changed by his father to Martin Luther King, Jr., because of admiration for Martin Luther's impacting message of grace and liberty). So, like a Pollyanna / MLK dreamy mash-up... I have a dream. I believe we can identify and slay the unnecessary guilt and regret that some of us have carried for far too long. Instead of denial, I believe we can face the good and the not-so-good of our heritage and then move on, and maybe even laugh together, for our sake and for the sake of future generations.
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All it took was hitting one pine, behind these two, hidden past a couple of others
Air Force piloting helped Dad skillfully thread through 3-5 pines Mom's exit sign from the world says it... 36 ↺63, month 9... or, writing mission: Mine. NOW. |
Maternal great-Grandfather's 1918 Nova-inspired astronomy writings (potentially the brightest. Nova. ever... sighted 100 years ago, beginning June 7 - 8, 1918... just 5 months before Billy Graham's November 7, 1918 birth and the November 11th end of WWI)... expressed this foretelling belief, and I now firmly grasp it: There IS a creative power in disintegration. We sibs experienced the ripple-effects of disintegration, and we 6 survived our heritage of felt-rejection. In our own uniquely-neurotic ways, like the renewed rose-whammyed "Beauty and the Beast" kingdom, we shine... and our heritage can shine even brighter. However, it continues with a condition attached: Only through God's saving love. It provides continued renewing; His amazing grace keeps us humble; and, practicing His presence guides us. Link to brief info about 1918 Nova Aquila
Faintly observing the ways of famed Brother Lawrence (a quiet Monk learning to serve God by practicing God's moment-to-moment presence, earnestly and meaningfully picking up seemingly insignificant literal "twigs" for God's glory)... my arrested-development writing practices morph into seemingly insignificant "twigs" which finally fit back... into the pine that took Mom's life. Those "twigs" also fit into our family tree.
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| The driver's side accordion-effect |
I conclude my "pining" with pictures of that surreal 1990 accident...
Conveying liberty with as much love as a recovering-Asperger's person can feel - Diane ♥
Maybe Graham's message that Mom heard at a years-ago crusade resembled this 1973 message in St. Louis: Billy Graham, True Love, Song of Solomon
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