...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...
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.
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?
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.
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?
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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) |
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.
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.
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
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