Not Built Like That

This is Day 5 of the May "Open Write" on Sarah Donovan's Ethical ELA.  

Today,  Kimberly Johnson references the book by Marlo Thomas, The Right Words at the Right Time and suggests we think about when someone's words have inspired us. I immediately remembered something my father shared with me, when I was 12 years old.

Not Built Like That

Dad heard my muffled cries

in the middle of the night, and

squeezed in next to me,

on the bottom bunk,

to hear what was wrong.

He responded with conviction and comfort,

“Oh, hon, that will never happen to you,

you aren’t built like that.”

I knew instantly, he was right.

This one miserable month,

when I was twelve years old,

I witnessed both

my mother and her mother

break with reality.

Hallucinations,

delusions,

mania,

full-on psychotic madness,

followed by

911,

ambulance,

hospitalization,

sedation.

By day, I was strong.

In the middle of the night,  

as the frightening images replayed,

I crumbled.

I knew,

I was next.

Grandmother,

mother,

daughter.

Only daughter, me.

Yes, I was next.

I knew.

I had solved an enormous,

terrifying puzzle

in the middle of the night, and

Dad convinced me 

my solution was wrong.

The dots did not connect.

Consoled, I went back to sleep, and

this sweet reassurance lasted

years and years,

until I was a parent myself, and

I realized,

with both understanding and appreciation,

Dad couldn’t possibly have known

I wasn't built like that.

Right words, right time.

Apr10Poetry - The Golden Shovel

I'm trying something new, taking a risk this month - participating in
#VerseLove with Sarah Donovan,
hoping to write poetry every day this April.







Today's challenge is called "The Golden Shovel," a poetic structure created by Terrance Hayes, who wrote one from Gwendolyn Brooks' "We Real Cool." The challenge is to take a line or two of a favorite poem and use those words 'acrostic-style,' one by one, in order, as the first or last word of each line in your own poetry. I have used my favorite poem from this website, "I am not I" by Juan Ramon Jimenez, using the words from these two lines:

I am this one,

walking beside me whom I do not see

Each word, one by one, is the last word of my poem, which follows...and, poetically, I think it should be entitled "Writing Beside Me," the title of my blog.

Writing Beside Me

Isolated, together, Mom, Dad, four boys, and I

So long ago, yet all that I am,

Mental illness, oh no, don't talk about this

Shame on you, these are our secrets, every one

Don't like it here? Then get out, get walking.

Even in distance, they stayed right beside.

Through so many years, memories choked me.

I was able to share with my husband, whom

I love so deeply, but still crumbled from the pain that I

had not dealt with, didn't know what to do,

finally, exasperated with the silence that I loved not

I have tried to remember and see.

SOL19 Slice #26 So, I love

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

I woke up deep in thought about my Mom, with a profound sense that she was near. This poem practically wrote itself, as I reflected about her and listened to my thoughts.

So, I Love

Always, always, always,

love your mother.

So, I love.

I loved her instinctively, 

without much return.

She was my carrot, 

dangling on a string,

drawing me, contorting me, making me,

always distant.

So, I love.

Mother and daughter,

everyone insists on the bond. 

Especially, one daughter in a pack of boys.

It was years before I understood

the cold and the scold.

I know now,

she would have loved me deeply, 

if not for being mentally ill.

So, I love.

Mother and daughter,

there we were, 

a snapshot of togetherness,

yet, not so.

So, I love.

Sharing the news of her death has been

a re-learning

about mother's love.

One friend holds me, embraces me, says

"This will shake you to your core."

Another -

"Oh, I feel such a hole still."

A third, simply grasps and squeezes both my hands, 

eyes filled with tears, 

as she remembers the enormous pain of her own mother's death.

So, I love.

I learn a lot about people's childhoods,

when I convey this news.

I see what could have been.

This knowledge 

is a new raw,

a sudden exposure,

a blister of insight,

painful insight.

So, I love.

Always, always, always,

love your mother.

What if she isn't able to give love back?

I know now,

she loved me deeply. 

So, I love.

SOL19 - Slice #8 Response to sickness, part 2

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

I know this isn't a very upbeat topic, but I'm going to share part two of the story of my breast abscess as a teenager (see yesterday's post). Looking back, I realize this is when I began to realize how ill-equipped my mother was to handle any issues big or small in our lives, how mentally ill she truly was. It was a very painful experience, and yet it helped me to begin to stand strong apart from her. Let me share the remainder of the experience.

Once I finally got my mother to actually look at my body and see the swelling and infection on my breast, we began the pursuit of a doctor. Mom did not want to take me to Navy doctors, because she’d have no control over who would see me. She wanted me to see a female doctor, but we did not know of any. She called her friend, the mother of my classmate from my elementary school days – a civilian friend. The friend insisted her doctor – although male – was the very best, and, somehow, her advice reigned. The next thing I knew (day four or five?) we were in downtown Norfolk (Virginia, where we lived at the time) at the male gynecologist’s office – Mom, the friend, and I went together to this appointment. 

I remember a nurse (female) telling me to change out of my clothes and put a gown on. I remember vague tension at my mother staying in the room, how I turned my exposed breasts away for modesty as I undressed, averting her eyes. I still see my mother standing there, purse in hand. The exam room was pretty spacious. I laid down on the examining table, at the nurse’s direction, and the doctor came in, to the side of the table. He acknowledged my mom and said,

“Mom, you can wait in the waiting room. Your daughter is 14.”

She snapped, “I am staying right here.”   

The doctor, with a more insistent voice, said, “Ma’am, I need to examine your daughter alone. The nurse is here to assist. Please go to the waiting room.”

Mom’s voice raised, “I have no intention of leaving this room. That is my daughter.”

And he, the doctor, was miffed.

I whispered to him, “Please, let her stay, it’s okay.” I had had years of practice at placating my mother, recognizing her escalating moods, how to broker peace and calm.

He declared, “I cannot examine your daughter with you in the room.”

Mom, to me (ignoring him!), angrily said, “Maureen, get your clothes on right now, we are leaving.” How dare he think he was going to paw over her daughter! Under no circumstances would she leave the room. Under no circumstances were we staying.

I remember commotion...the friend rushing in, to placate my mother, to convince her to leave the room and let the doctor examine me (to which Mom snapped at her, derisively, “Like hell I am letting that man paw my little girl!”)...the nurse helping me at the examining table, to find my clothes, to re-dress; she, having seen my breast – unlike the doctor - dared to insist to my mother, “You must let your daughter be seen by a doctor, it is urgent that she get help,”...and the doctor – first – making a fast and angry exit, as if this had been a ridiculous waste of his time.

[Sidebar -Why did that doctor refuse to compromise? Refuse to allow my mother to stay? What was that? Ego? What was the real problem? Did he suspect abuse and wanted to talk to me privately? How did that help me, to not be seen at all? Or did he sense a woman ‘on the edge,’ and feared allowing her to stay in the room? Really odd! All these years later, I wrestle with thoughts about that doctor.]

I did as I was told, and we left right away,...through the waiting room, faces looking up at me and she exiting; Mom, head held high in righteousness; me, eyes lowered, absolutely and totally mortified. There had been anonymous witnesses to this painful scene, outburst, resulting in stunned faces on all.

There I was, with swelled, inflamed, and reddened left breast, a huge, obvious, golf-ball size sore  - ‘the abscess’, so uncomfortable, with non-stop hurting, feeling worse wearing a bra than not (I had outgrown the dang cup!), and, yet, I was dressed and going home, unseen, undiagnosed, uncared for.

What the hell?

Back in our car, I burst into tears and yelled at my mother. Yes, I lost my cool. I felt so miserably stuck and trapped. “Mom, what are we going to do now? I am in real pain! I must have this looked at! I need a doctor! You must let me see a doctor!”  I cried. 

“Well,” she explained, “if we are going to just let some male doctor put his hands on you, we might just as well do it for free with the Navy.” And without further ado, we drove to the Little Creek emergency room. To avoid any possible scene, I quickly insisted to the Navy doctor that he let my mother stay in the room with me, that I needed her to be with me; thankfully, he was fine with that. Probably, as the wife of a Navy Captain, she was entitled to insist on this. Other than this initial interaction, I have no real memory of the doctors or nurses who worked with me, just a sense that everyone was kind, conciliatory, giving. Mom remained very tense, but no one reproached her or argued anymore. Rank does have its privileges – when you are somewhere where rank matters. The civilian doctor, obviously, didn’t care one bit.

It turns out that I had a breast abscess. I was checked into the hospital, and scheduled for anesthesia and surgery immediately the next morning. I know that doctors often do a simple in-office needle aspiration for this same problem [I know because I had one just recently - yes, this returning drama is what sent me down memory lane in the first place]. Perhaps breast abscesses weren't handled this way back then? Or did the doctors think it would be too traumatizing for a 14 year old girl to have this procedure? Or maybe it was because the abscess had progressed to near rupture? Not sure. I know I spent a couple days at the hospital...at least two nights. There I was on the women’s floor, by myself! Honestly, it felt like a gift. I was – until this medical emergency – constantly under my mother’s watchful eye and paranoid supervision. I thoroughly enjoyed the independence of the hospital.

I know both the civilian doctor and the military doctor asked why it had taken so long to bring me in. I believe I made excuses – “I didn’t show her, I didn’t tell her.” I knew how much my mother hated being wrong about anything, how insulted she felt by such questioning.

My father returned from travel (sea trials) by the time my surgery was complete – he and Mom came to visit me at the hospital. Did he come home sooner because I was in the hospital? Doubtful. Would Mom have been able to get word to him? I doubt it. Dad never spoke to me about what was going on – this was ‘women’s stuff.’ He just breezily commanded, “Get better!” and that was that. 

And so, I did. Get better, that is!

SOL19 Slice #7 Response to sickness

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

Since my mother's death in October, my mind has been sifting through all kinds of memories of my childhood years. This is a story of me learning to advocate for myself...

It was 1975, I was fourteen, and it was the spring of my sophomore year of high school. My Dad, an engineer in the Navy, was gone on sea trials (one month?). My Mom was stressed and anxious, as she always was when Dad was gone. I woke up one morning with my left breast hurting and what appeared to be a red, itchy, rash-like spot. I knew NOT to mention it to Mom...I wasn’t about to mention it to her. Or anyone. The thing was, she and I were the only females in the house; there really wasn't anyone else to ask or share about this personal issue. The day passed, with the pain continuing, and me trying to put it out of my mind. 

The next day, I woke up to much worse pain... and there was a slight swelling, as well.  I decided I had better tell my Mom. I waited until she was in her bedroom, so that I might speak to her all alone. I remember barely having the courage to speak to her, finally whispering that I had to ask her about something kind of private. I squeaked out the words, “Would you look at my breast?  It is red and hurting.” She immediately looked at me with disgust. She admonished me for speaking about this - “No, I will not look at your breast! Shame on you!" She went on to explain that women’s bodies have changes that happen throughout the month and I simply had to leave it alone. I remember being kind of stunned – but, she had to know more than me, right? Perhaps she was right? Maybe this was just a side effect of my menstrual period? So, I ignored it as best I could, though it weighed heavily on my mind all day, literally and figuratively, with the pain steadily increasing. I had a long, uncomfortable day at school.

The third day was so much worse – I could hardly put my left breast into my bra. The swelling was the size of a golf ball, the area was blistering red and warm. I started to cry, first thing in the morning, as I looked down at it. I didn't see how I could even go to school. I went into her bedroom and I insisted she come into her bathroom with me. 

I remember saying, “I’m sorry, Mom, but you must look at this!  You must!” 

She admonished, “This is ridiculous, Maureen Alice! You are always so dramatic!” She was really pissed at me, her lips tightly closed, her head shaking ‘no,’ but she followed me into her bathroom. 

I took off my shirt and undid my bra, facing my petulant, irritated, annoyed mother, who took one glance and immediately burst into tears, declaring, “What did you do to yourself! Holy Mother of God, be with us now!” she cried out. “What are we going to do?! Oh, dear Jesus, help us please!”

Through tears, I responded, “Mom, I didn’t do anything to myself – it just happened, and it really, really hurts. What do I do?” 

I'll spare you the story of finally seeing a doctor*...it turns out that I had a breast abscess – inexplicable, no cause or reason.  Just what my body did.

Honestly, it was years before I realized how screwed up this whole interaction with my mother was. Yes, this is the role of the child with a mentally ill parent; the child takes on the adult role because the adult simply cannot cope.

*maybe this should be tomorrow's slice? hmmm.