The Fractured & The Fingers

Random writing thoughts early Good Friday morning: Five fingers represent five siblings… the hand is me. How do I type or write with just one hand? And dictating it on my phone, I don’t know if my brain can write speaking? Maybe, if God is in this and He is helping me….slow…everything takes longer… I am ever late…. Something's in the way and inside the brain, all the time. I am learning first-hand the effects of the fractured.

During this past month, I am learning many things about the fractured. After one odd half-spin and fall in my home, all is not well. Specifically, I have a fractured wrist, and it affects everything. At first I felt unsafe. Like I could fall at any time and hurt myself again. Then, I quickly needed to move past that feeling and learn to do things independently and on my own, like cooking, driving, and dressing. Because my temporary caregiver, my husband, would depart in 10 days for an already-planned-and-impossible-to-re-schedule 11-day group overseas missions trip.  

I feel the need to protect myself and try to walk cautiously, always. It seems that not only is the use of my right wrist physically immobilized because of the cast, but my brain is fractured. Everything takes longer... getting dressed, showering, typing, cooking. I drop things, clumsily. And again, not just because of the fractured wrist, but if medical technicians were to take a brain scan, I am certain the x-ray would show a fracture somewhere inside my brain. There is something in my brain, always, that was not there before the fracture. Because all is not well with my wrist and hand. "It" (whatever the brain's "It" is) gets in the way. 

The five fingers can individually move and bend, and on command they can attempt to pick things up; but overall, the fingers as a group are weak for tightly grasping to use things like a fingernail clipper, and unscrewing lids, and skillfully picking things up... ultimately hindered by the injury and the cast. Even though the fingers individually appear to be fine, the cast's job is to immobilize wrist movement so that healing will take place. I am literally hand-icapped, and at my age there is no guarantee that full wrist mobility will ever return.

And so it is with my family-of-origin who experienced a tailspin 28 long years ago. Since then as a group we have not been the same. Full mobility has not yet returned. Some of us have not seen each other in 25 years. Like the way a wrist fracture hinders my fingers and my hand, our overall relationship is emotionally fractured. Family.Fractures.Immobilize. My 5 long-distance siblings always have been and always will be a part of one cast; they are permanently a part of injured "Righty." Even though we are all still here, something in the inner-workings and in the brain is fractured. We are handicapped.

"Lefty" clumsily takes over and composes and types. "Righty", with its physical (and emotional) fracture and its cast, copes and moves-on. 

  

Advocate aRose, Final Petal 3

...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 babysat "teen-sat" by his understanding secretaries (Madge and then Judy). In a variety of ways, that job spared the trouble that unsupervised idle time could have invited into my teenage world. 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, Mom FINALLY felt maritally desperate enough to face irreligious pride. Why did it take so long? unfortunately, they were headstrong blinded. At a legendary crusade, anointed Billy Graham was able to skillfully present to her and thousands of others a relational and loving Jesus. She asked Jesus 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, after his overbearing Mother passed in December 1972, and through my parents' 1973 February-August 6-month separation, Dad felt motivated to embrace the idea of accepting the same Jesus. He whole-hearted followed suit. Each of their 6 children (ages 11-21) 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 alcoholic morphed to palatable... workaholic. And Mom's role (at times passive-aggressive) was the quietly skilled innocent by-stander. From my teenage perspective, information was lacking and Dad's testimony merely skimmed the comfortable surface. He had tunnel-vision. Aged-50's, 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... crazy obsessive, I know). 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. It has taken years, but I have the pieces and a peace.

Approaching Lethal Milford Exit 369

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 annoying briefcases that lined the front door's narrow hallway, but otherwise rarely shared her physical complaints (my plethora of mystery ailments were enough for the two of us). Yet, on our last walk together August 1990, 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. Did she mention it so I would caution them to not go?

                                  MY YEAR-36  ↺ AND MOM, IN THE MIDST OF FULLY LIVING YEAR-63  
         A rare hand-holding photo op for Mom & Dad, captured. 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 (dapper brother to Hazel Rose)           

This is the backdrop for their trip. I am so grateful we were with her in August 1990, one last time. She already had quiet 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. In her letter to me dated August 27, 1990, and postmarked September 4th (that I still possess), she gushes about our visit and, because of my allergies, apologizes for her meager housekeeping skills. She was ever the mom. 

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 hushed news shortly before the trip, and 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 tragic and untimely death. How could Mom hold the secret of her father 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 (mom's 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.

Now, sadly, back to September 1990's unforgettable Milford Exit 369. Like I said in Petal 1, it has taken 28 years for me to grasp all that happened because of that exit. I lost the one female on this planet who unconditionally loved me the way only Mom could. And, I just realized that the loss probably effected my brothers differently... their male role model lived. On the other hand, "lost-puppy" wandering and miles-apart sisters and I gained a premature lifetime membership to a club of which no one chooses to be a part... the (disenfranchised, paralyzed) Motherless Daughters Club. Clubs are out there, and there are no Motherless Sons Clubs. Maybe because mother-loss feelings run deep for young, unprepared females.

Sentimental Dad later shared with me that one of their road-trip's early brief stops was to 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, back in Dad's late-30's, that same enchanting humility and quietude surfaced insecurities and manhood tensions, as deep-seated paranoia and unsubstantiated suspicions about his beautiful wife's loyalty came to a boil. (My childhood home's mold and airplane toxins mixed with alcohol may have triggered or exaggerated Dad's feelings of paranoia. And, too, it was a natural response, especially when both sides of their families-of-origin contained hushed soap operas, with many carnal bubbles that acted out).

Because of September 11th 1990's "mixed cocktail" of diabetes and digesting lunch (no alcohol), Dad nodded off at the wheel. He initially accidentally 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 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, with a microscopic spleen puncture.

Mom outwardly looked to have no injuries; the internal spleen issue was sneaky and 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 could not be reversed, with the beginnings of organ failure (similar to why people die 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 initially assured that everything was 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, Hazel Rose (as a side note, I now know that idea would have annoyed Mom to no end.)

Because of the breathing tube, Mom was unable to speak as we surrounded her bed. But I vividly remember that she found a non-verbal 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, with her body. Her leg and arm twitches under the blankets stood out visibly, to the extent that some of us mentioned it. She didn't do that when I or others arrived. Her reaction always perplexed me, as well as other things already eluded to. That, and a few other haunting secrets went with Mom to the grave.

I have finally wrestled long enough to embrace a peace regarding my childhood and the tragedy, and can share their story in a balanced way, with the advocate perspective. On September 17, 1990, 6 days after the accident, my family and I experienced bewilderment and devastation as septic shock sneakily took Mom's healthy body. The following description of grief is spot-on for my experience: "After the first death, there is no other"  (Dylan Thomas). "The first [close] death is one that punches your soul's passport...Welcome...to a different country than you woke up to this morning... your knees don't work so well; in fact, you may want to fall on them [and I did]" (Larkin Warren).

Mom's year-63 (too young for her healthy premature death) is my age today. Knowing the parent and grandparent perspective, to some degree, helps me identify with her, "get" them, and I can adore their dramatic and beastly love story. In the end, it finally actually warms my heart; because even though they demonstrated it in unorthodox ways, they deeply loved each other, and they gritty-style stuck it out together. I hold to their mysterious love. And, in their grandparent roles, they brought depth to my children's lives.

My husband and I 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 was August 31st). Thankfully, our marriage relationship is opposite, or mirror-imaged, as well. In a lifetime, most can handle only a certain quota of drama... my internal emotional responses to childhood (over-due, over-empathetic, over-kill, and now over-done in writings) maxed out the drama flask to overflowing, containing more than its fair share. My husband and I experienced very little drama. We survived parenting. Then, 7 years ago, I embraced my ultimate purpose in life. To gratefully grasp the reason why I was placed on this planet: To grandparent as DeDe, non-meddling-as-is-deemed-beneficial.

The Hallmark channel, "This Is Us", and Disney movie... parent-orphaned, and now my-sad-clincher-story-line is shared. Year-63, after spending 6 recent years on-and-off researching, finally... it feels like my heritage knows that "I'va" found peace. Firm and French [paternal] Iva Cordelia plus detailed and Danish [maternal] Hazel Rose (my favored), observe the last and final delicate rose petal separate from its stem. It peacefully floats and settles. So, to those two estrogen-packed, forces-of-nurture-with-whom-to-be-reckoned; the widowed, striving, struggling, and lovelorn family matriarchs, I share these three closing words: I forgive you.

And most importantly: God, please forgive me.

Winter turns to spring; famine turns to feast...  La fin / Le début

Advocate aRose, Petal 2

Petal 1's intro was yesterday. Now, for today's Petal 2...

...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 my 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.

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. Mom's family was at best a 45-minute suburb drive or long-distance phone call away, and Dad's family lived a 6-hour drive away.

Hillary Clinton is right when she says, "It takes a village." Mom's village and her children's was intentionally kept at arm's length. My parents lived in the 1960's low-tech age with no Internet, cell phones, 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 rotary-type phone call were high. It was a communications world that, these days, most of us can barely remember or conceive. As a 10-year-old, I would slip away, barefoot, for hours to the nearby park, railroad tracks, or small swamp and never be missed...

Advocate aRose, Petal 1

Eleven years before New York City's September 11th Twin Towers nightmare, my unforgettable September 11th occurred. In 1990, my parents were on day 2 of a month-long road-trip. Some friends called the two of them "Love birds." In public, Dad could especially be quite the Prince Charming. They stopped for lunch, near Lincoln, Nebraska. Diabetes normally caused Dad to become extremely drowsy soon after a meal. So, after eating Dad said he asked Mom to drive and she replied, "I need to close my eyes for a few minutes, then I can take the wheel" (she had been experiencing eye issues). She never followed through with that promise. About 15 minutes later, before Milford Exit 369, Dad said he began to nod while driving. He mistakenly veered to the right, following the exit's yellow line...

That day is easy to remember; harder to move on, now that the parents of my childhood are gone.

September 11th's braking, and interspersed pines, are in Petal 3. 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 disordered 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 whistle-blower or snitch. A whistle-blower 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 for logical order, to embrace information responsibly for closure (who could have imagined this mission taking 6 years!)

Raised in a middle-class home by parents who, honorably, tried to squelch their heritage tales, they could never moved past guilt and the hurt of scandals and rejection experienced in their families of origin. Heritage issues would not be contained, and their essence oozed of opposition. Dad was just 20 when his bricklayer father died. It left his already-poor Depression-time family penniless. Air Force years met Dad's needs financially and education-wise. 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, an important tidbit 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 paternal great-grandfather). Dad's older sister was the family's daily reminder. Small-church rumor mills can be brutal. That sister was like Dad's second coddling mother. He was pampered and encouraged to learn, because education meant saving the family's reputation and providing for his widowed Mother. It was on his shoulders to become the next Washington, Lincoln, or Roosevelt. All of this provincial life happened on what Dad called small-town Iowa's "wrong side of the tracks."

It helps me understand the intense pressure Dad felt; and why, 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, a successful suburban business owner during The Depression. She aimed misdirected guilt towards herself and towards her perfectionist 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 tension and an unbridled marital mix.

Their disjointed tango-filled soap opera during the key middle 15 years of their 42-year marriage and my childhood had ripple effects on most of their 6 children. Those pivotal 15 years managed to muzzle this headstrong mule, sheltering me for years. In 1978 I cut the cord. At age 23, I gladly moved with my husband for a job opportunity, a thousand miles away from home-fragile-home's simmer. Now, in the midst of my "seasoned" year-63, after walking through a few mosaic storms and realities of my own, I better understand the intricacy of relationship. And the miracle that two really can become one, with the help of something that neither of my parents successfully experienced in their own home-fatherless-homes: Deep and vulnerable communication.

That understanding is why, 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!...........