Hamburger Helper

When I was nearly 13, my brother got high. Really high. So high, he wanted to fly. He was sixteen and well versed in the most popular ways to self- medicate in the 70's. After following our older two brothers into the drug culture, he had many resources to procure his drugs of choice. It was 1976, August, quite near my birthday.

Using an exterior roof ladder on this particular steamy Oklahoma night, my brother Mark climbed to the highest peak of a local junior college, somewhere between 3-4 stories high while he was simultaneously 3-4 Quaaludes high, and he jumped.

If nobody was there to see it, did he really fly?

My four best friends and I celebrated my 13th birthday just over a week later in a large, smelly tent in our backyard. The tent smelled as a tent should smell. I just don't happen to care for the smell of tent. I understand some people do. Just a hint of freshly opened tent smell can invoke fond childhood memories, a love of nature, visions of travel with the world stopping at the entrance of that smelly old tent.

We didn't speak of my brother at all that night in the musty old tent. We had cake and ice cream and my battery operated 8-Track with plenty of KC and the Sunshine Band tapes to keep us entertained. I don't remember what I got that year. I remember wanting a record player but it was probably too expensive, like the very first VCR's, fax machines, computers and so on. I had to wait.

As a little girl, Mark was always my favorite brother. He was gentle and shy. He didn't seem to want or need to be heard and most importantly he did anything and everything I asked him to do. Mom used to call him my little puppy dog.

The best of times were the shows I made him perform with me. We would practice for hours, prepare invitations, invite anyone who happened to be in the house at the time and actually charge for admittance. He was much too introverted to sing by himself but he happily accompanied me by doing the whistling part of Otis Redding's, Sitting by the Dock of the Bay.

Somebody had to do it. I couldn't whistle without laughing.

When it came time to perform, I would intentionally make him laugh during his big whistling part. It was fun for me and the audience ate it up. "Try again", they would scream! We would rewind the tape and attempt to whistle along but the great irony and sad truth of a happy whistle is that it is silenced by the slightest smile.

Eventually Mark grew out of his boyhood and out of playing with his little sister. He turned to the business of becoming a man but first, he had to survive our household. Before he jumped, I would find him passed out in the hallway, lying in an empty bathtub with bleeding wrists or standing next to my bed while I pretended to be asleep. It is difficult to understand but there was a potent mixture of fear, embarrassment and pity that kept me from telling on him. I can only recall it happening a few times before I learned how to defend myself by lying on my stomach or stretching and yawning to mimic a person about to wake up.

A month or so after Mark jumped, everything seemed to go back to normal. Mom and Dad got up very early in the morning to have coffee, read the paper and sit in the quiet for a few hours before heading off to work.

"God Dammit Joyce, are you making that mother-fucking, dried up, shit in a box, Hamburger Helper, again", Dad screamed as he walked in the door after work.

I could hear him from the sanctity of my upstairs bedroom and knew it would be one of those nights. He was not a drinker, he was unhappy, unfiltered and quite probably bi-polar. Being the only other female in the house, I took her side against my father. I often encouraged her to leave him. "Why do you stay with someone who treats you this way?" Didn't she deserve the opportunity to steal away a few moments of relaxation by skipping a step or two and substituting powdered cheese from a box?

I want very much to think of my mother as a strong woman but I can't get the word stoic out of my head. His mental beatings extended to my brothers and eventually to me. There were regular fist fights as soon as my brothers got big enough to take him on and our house was never without a series of holes punched through drywall, doors and even the occasional window. My mother was stoic through every last excruciating moment of it.

That night, after she was berated for her supper scenario, she never stopped to acknowledge him, she didn't look up from her one-skillet dish. She didn't glove-up and grasp the handle of that cast iron culinary weapon, searing him with boiling hot packaged noodles, as I would sometimes imagine her doing.

No, she finished dinner with her characteristic unflappable determination and asked me to wake my brother and help him into his wheelchair so he could sit down and eat with the family. Mark was unquestionably the most squeamish, painstakingly fussy eater that had ever lived. During a kitchen remodel when we were all little, my parents discovered what must have been two years worth of peas stuffed into the cushion of his assigned spot at the table.

But he loved Hamburger Helper like no other.

Paths of Destruction

The New Testament speaks of the wide path of destruction we are offered in our lives versus the narrow path we should adhere to in order to reach the gates of heaven.

So simple, so clear, so much easier to walk along a wide path; though I tend to prefer narrow paths that prevent me from having to walk side by side or in large groups. I love the solitude of strolling along the edge of a beach, leaving friends behind while I drink in the sun, allow the wind to curl my hair and delight in the squish of the sand between my toes.

But gheez, we all know, I have not walked the narrow path as set forth in the book of Matthew.  I walk the path my mama always told me to walk.  She would say just start walking and if you find a bunch of big boulders and shit, nay stuff in your way, then turn around. But if the path opens up to you without a lot of obstacles, six-pronged forks, hairpin turns and perilous falls to your certain demise, then by all means, just keep on walkin'.  Didn't matter how wide or narrow.  Didn't matter if it appeared to be the high road or the low road, for deception lies in preconceived notions.  Just walk.

With that said, actually walking that narrow path between the vast, scary ocean and the solid ground beneath my feet literally summarizes my existence.  If I step too far into the water, then I am solidly screwed for I can't swim and I do not like sea creatures of any kind, not even the little Nemo clown fish.  I don't want to be there but once I'm in, it is very difficult for me to get myself out.  However, if I stay put, on the solid yet sandy side - I will prevail.  I may not last very long as we all know what happens with castles built in sand but I will remain on my journey and wake up each day to move closer to the purpose for which I am here.

First order of business then - figure out my purpose.

Last week, while in Oklahoma City, I was able to visit with a wonderful friend from my long ago past.  She and I started out in the corporate world together, both hired around the same time in our late twenties, both naive and green, both single mom's to little boys who were the same age and both ready to set the world on fire. 

We didn't realize it back then but we were smart.  Really, really smart.  During our visit, we remembered words we used to teach each other, plans we made to change the direction of our company (which never materialized) and choices we made to change the directions of our lives (which did materialize, in the seemingly most interesting and fascinating of ways.)

She married a wonderful man who had two boys of his own.  They built a life together, raised those boys, had financial security and did all they were supposed to do to be good parents.  She rose to the top of her industry and is close to retirement with her handsome man complete with a place in Arizona and a family chalet in the mountains of Santa Fe.

I married a wonderful man, later divorced him out of boredom then married another man, had three more kids, moved to Wisconsin, got another divorce and am now raising the whole brood while the ex is serving time at federal camp "good time" for felony fraud.  I rose to the top of my career as well but retirment is not a word I will entertain for many, many years to come.  I struggle with the burdens and sometimes I breakdown from the sheer load of it all. I told her of nearly losing my second son, The Commando, after his dad went to prison. And I have no handsome man or mountain chalet anywhere near or far, not even with a telescopic lens.

She understood the agonizing story I told her of watching as they took The Commando from me and she lauded my bravery in not stepping in to snatch him up and take him home.  She knew how deep I had to dig to go through with this measure of intervention on a child who was raging, creating his own rath of destruction.

Then she told me how her son, the one who is the same age as my #1Son is strung out on drugs, committing crime, jobless, nearly homeless and still hasn't hit rock bottom. All three of their boys went down the same path of destruction my brothers chose.  She knows, just as I knew with my brothers, this will likely end in death or jail for each of them.

One would think my son would have been the one to fall into the deep end with the crazy life I created for him. Instead he is centered and good, thoughtful, hard-working, loyal and kind.

One would think her son would have benefited from a loving relationship, financial security, all the trappings of a solid, centered life.

But one can never know how these things turn out.

Just as it has been for my life, the edge of that water is always so close at hand, or at foot as the case may be. It is quite easy to fall in, to fall out, to fall over until you find yourself going down the road too wide. Wrong choice of friends, basic wiring of the brain, just a tiny slip and you are cast out into the raging currant.  Especially when it comes to drugs.  Drugs are as vast as the ocean and every bit as deep.  The longer you try to keep your head above water, the more drugs you will need to stay above sea level. Then you are caught in a whirlpool of sharks, waves, wind and three-headed sea monsters from the deep that will pull your ass under and keep you there until you grow fins and gills and breath it in just to survive.

I drifted off, into the analogy of the deep as my friend was sharing her heartbreaking news. I asked all the questions I could ask from someone who had experienced this many times over. But there was one question remaining. One that had never been asked, not even of my parents.

I asked if she knew what happened to him?  Could she tell me what went wrong?

It was then this beautiful soul, who gifted me so often in our times of abandoned youth, deliberately placed the most powerful gift of all in my hands, in my heart and in my mind. It was wickedly deliberate, because she is brilliant enough to know exactly what I needed to hear. She lit her words and then set back to watch the fuse burn until she could see the shrapnel, tearing through my brain and systematically removing all of my fears of being a single parent with a crazy life.  She obliterated my doubts and uncertainty for what the Commando and I went through.

She told me she could look back and see the exact moment when she lost her son to drugs.  She said she hadn't been strong enough to do what I did when she had the opportunity, when he was young enough still, to save.

And just like that, I remembered my purpose.

Green is the Grass

I'm generally not one to post random thoughts or idioms. I like to write with meaning and purpose - a beginning, a middle and an end. But tonight my mind is cluttered.

I am dancing, ever so lightly on my feet, like Ginger Rogers - backwards and in high heels.  I have opened up the channels and dialed up the frequency, not so much intentionally but I think more as a result of not having had a sip of alcohol for two weeks now.

I recently received my wake up call and I'm proud to say I picked up the phone and I listened with the ears of a woman who had been broken.  Hello, do you realize you are it for your kids now?  Do you understand it is all up to you? All of it. Everything they need for the next two and half years is on you. There is no family, no sugar daddy, no benevolent aunt - you are it baby.

I thank God, the universe, my dead mother, my dead father, my dead brothers, aunts, grandmothers and grandfathers for getting together to remind me that I am loved enough to be broken.  I am leaning into the pain, into this bitter wind, the winds that bring forth change, washing away the old. I am not resisting.

The bible says, do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, with the measure of faith God has given you. Done. (The bible didn't say 'done', I said that.)

I am becoming. I am not being. It is a life long journey to become the me that I was made to be.  And guess what?  God doesn't want me to be anything else than what I was created to be. Glory hallelujah!  But that implies I also have to be everything he created me to be.  Shit.

On the other side of death is freedom. Death of a lessor self is essential to allow a more noble intent.

I know what my intent is now and I will not fail to thrive.

The Talmud says, "Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'grow, grow'". If  you believe that, then you begin to comprehend how much we are loved.  Not to say we are more important than a blade of grass, for I can't really speak to the that. In the end, it may be explained to me how a single blade of grass served its purpose better than I did, but I am hoping that is not the case.

Call it low expectations but I'm fairly certain I can one-up a blade of grass.

Geesh, now I'm really asking for it.

I warned you this was random.

The Nobility of the Mundane

As I sit to write this, I've just received a series of messages from my soul mate. She resides in a castle in the Hills of Nichols, yet she intuitively knows when I need her.  She has produced the softest tears in me. They are flowing steadily but without the twisted, painful emotion that would usually accompany them. I've been beaten and broken and left for dead in so many ways; yet, this water running from my eyes, down my neck and into my clothing feels as if it could be cleansing me.

I wipe my neck and then notice I have soaked the keyboard with my fingers. The thought occurs to me, are  my tears being transmitting through this post?

When I awoke this morning, I wasn't sure where to begin. What do I do now? Should I be working on the large trees that fell into my house or should I be working on me.  Should I write, should I walk, what should I do to begin to feel human again?

Then her first message arrived, in a Jacob Marley-esque manner, forewarning me she would be sending three thoughts to me today. They began to arrive at slow, thoughtful intervals.

Message One:  Keep waking up.  Many would be in more pain than you feel now without you.

Message Two:  This time, suffering and pain brings a lesson.  Be with it, ask it questions. Listen. Learn. Pain is the crucible that brings peace.

Message Three:  While you are 'being' with the pain, remember the repetitive meditation of the ordinary. Start a load of laundry, clean the kitchen sink. Watch Nemo or Top Gun. Find the comfort and nobility of the mundane.

I sometimes wonder if it's easier to find nobility in the mundane when you live in a castle and not a house with trees in it but I must believe the universe has gone to great lengths to bring these lessons to me. The sharp popping, cracking sound at 2am that split one tree in half and hurled it into my house, and then the fifty foot tall, majestic hickory tree that was pulled from it's roots, leaving not so much as a stump of evidence that it once stood there came thundering across the fence line at 3am. I sat up in bed when I felt my house shake, looked up to the sky and said one word to God, "Seriously?".

You see, the trees were not the worst thing that happened to me this week. By contrast, it was minor.

She may reside in a castle but it's really just a fancy nest. She made it that way by always being able to find the nobility of the mundane. She found it while staring down the same demons that have possessed me. She found it while standing strong against the storms of family turmoil and gail force winds that try to take you down when you watched loved ones dying. She found it when trees were falling, not on her home but in her mind. And she brought these reminders to me today.

That was an hour ago, and the tears haven't stopped. It makes so much sense. All I have to do is start with a load of laundry, or perhaps take a shower to wash the smell of quiet yet anguished desperation off my body. Then I will simply accept and be with my lessons until the tall trees in my mind have been stripped of their leaves, branches and bark in order to make way for new growth, tiny buds of hope and the promise of a new life.

Strip me bare, cut me down to size and then let me grow into the direction of the sun this time, for I have grown weary of the dark.

If Not For Our Addictions - Part Three

You know, you really don't have to give me that look, I tell the figure staring back at me on the other side of the big yellow teeter totter, I know what you're thinking. You must think you're real smart, figuring me out like that. But if you're so fucking brilliant, then tell me why you're stuck up there at the top of this ride.  Your feet can't even reach the ground. You're hopelessly suspended at my will.  Only I decide when you get to come down.

"I can jump off".

Shit.  I hadn't thought of that. Oh, the memories of those days on the John Glenn Elementary playground from years gone by. Nothing, and I mean nothing was worse than placing your full faith and trust in your teeter totter pal, only to have them jump off and send you flying like the ugly second cousin (twice removed) in a Romanian circus act.

So, it is to be a power play, is it?  Touche.

With a quick thrust, I bring myself to center while locking my gaze upon my adversary. I have been waiting for this moment my entire life. We are here, we are now, we are both steadfast and firmly planted with our feet on the ground. None can move unless the other decides to let go.  Unless the other recklessly loses balance, or abandons focus or falters or physically exhausts themselves beyond reprieve or mentally checks out or just to be clear, simply lets go and walks away.     

And so begins the dance. I recognize this person now, the one holding my life here in this balancing act. I have dreamed of her, painted vivid pictures of her in my mind, envisioned her life in such intimate detail I even have a book with pictures of her home, her patio, her vacations, the grand piano that sits in front of the large picture window.  Her home is warm and inviting, full of friends and kids and her kid's friends and their friends and on an on. I have never been there but I know it exists because she is me.

There is a light surrounding her - it is bluish in color.

She is the one who finally gets it. She has grasped for all that should be hers and it came to her. She is healthy, at peace and strong enough to withstand all that life wishes to teach her. She is that which she is. She is me and I am that. And together, we can stand in the center of our life - not on opposing ends, fighting against one another.  I will not stop her out of fear or ignorance or complacency, not even for a big ol' plate of enchilatas.

And with this, a new journey begins.

If Not For Our Addictions - Part Two

As far as alcohol goes, this should have been enough for me - right? We all survived, we didn't get caught with the whole underage drinking thing and we, or at least I, certainly had been subjected to an all night barrage of compelling reasons why drinking can suck, or more appropriately.... blow.

I didn't drink with any significance again for many years. Oh sure, we had our parties in high school as the Leaders of the Free World will tell you. Those parties have become legend, the parties at Shelley's house, the raiding of our hotel room on a band trip in Daytona Beach, my surprise 18th birthday party at the Holiday Inn banquet room.  I drank beer with the best of 'em. But I never really enjoyed alcohol. That is, until I moved to Milwaukee, where required drinking may be a city ordinance.

I'm pretty sure if one can find a silver lining to the fact that I removed myself from my friends in order to obsess over my high school boyfriend who would later become my husband, the gambler and murderer, it would be this.  I never drank much during those years. I skipped the college parties in favor of Mr. Personality who was much too busy with all his other addictions to involve alcohol. Plus, it was part of his sociopathic disorder to maintain a squeaky clean persona in order to perpetrate his many crimes. He would flash that beautiful smile of his and proudly denounce drug and alcohol use while simultaneously betting our home and belongings on college basketball games.

We all have our addictions, i.e., that which makes us feel high or numbs our pain. Some can be healthy like an addiction to tennis while others can destroy our lives and devastate our loved ones. I spent some time with a girlfriend earlier this week who has recently divorced after a ten year marriage to an alcoholic. She shared some of her more shocking stories with me. Like the time her husband showed up after a night of drinking looking like Telly Savalas. Someone had shaved his head completely bald, then threw in the eyebrows for good measure.

Or there's the man who traded in a twenty plus year marriage, a blessed life with a beautiful woman and two successful young boys for a crystal meth addiction. His life now consists of double wide trailers, a real life crack whore and what will ultimately end up being an early death or jail.  Oh, and did I mention, he's a small town doctor?

Tobacco, alcohol, drugs and gambling used to be the primary scourges of modern society. Now there is much attention directed at sex and porn addicts, shopaholics, tv-internet-video game addicts, success junkies and risk jockies who get their fix through life threatening pursuits. Many times, we carry more than one of these monkeys on our backs. For example, the eyebrow missing man mentioned earlier also gambled away $100,000 during the early years of their marriage.

Then there's the food addict. The addiction to that which also happens to keep you alive. Tell me those people on The Biggest Loser didn't get there because food was their drug of choice.  Go ahead, tell me.  I dare you.

I've been gaining weight as I get older. Yes, it's partly a function of slowed metabolism but primarily, at least in my case, it's more a matter of comfort. Attack of the perimenopause hormones? No problem, make a large chocolate sheet cake, insert fork and viola - you can fall into a sugar coma and wake up hating yourself for doing it, but now if you cry, it will be because you have a valid reason to do so.

Stressed out over work, kids, money, ex-husbands going to jail? That can all go away with a large plate of Mexican food or a fat burger smothered with bleu cheese and fried onions. If that doesn't work, then I pull out the big guns -  some good ol' southern deep fried soul food.  I swear fried okra can cure what ails you. Unfortunately, it can also get you a stern warning pertaining to the potential onset of hypertension, which I received yesterday while at the doctor for a nasty sinus infection.

I have a friend who has the opposite relationship with food.  During times of high stress, she cannot eat.  She has to will herself or literally be reminded to eat. She has been under an enormous amount of stress lately.  At the peak of it, we were all begging her to eat. But secretly, I was wishing I had her particular brand of coping mechanism instead of my own. 

Sometimes I feel like Elizabeth Gilbert in the first section of her book, Eat Pray and Love. She had come to Italy "pinched and thin", in desperate need of sustenance to feed her body and her soul. She immersed herself for four months in two things - Italian language and Italian food. In the end, she recognized that she had put on weight but not just in terms of numbers on a scale. She had expanded and magnified her life. She grew to love herself just a bit more. She allowed the pure pleasure of a decadent slice of pizza paired with the perfect bottle of wine to minister to her; yet, she also recognized one cannot live like that forever. There must be balance. In all things, there must be balance.  And there's the rub.

At present, I feel as if I am stuck at the bottom end of the big yellow teeter totter from the playground of my youth. I am holding myself here with food, wine, stress, uncertainty and to a certain degree, comfort. I am expanding my body to keep it down here because I know this place. I am afraid of what will happen if I push hard against the earth and rise up from the ground.  What if I push too hard and I end up at the top? What if the top of the teeter totter is in reality, the full manifestation of my addictions?  Or what if I'm not on the teeter totter at all.  What if I'm really on the rainbow colored merry-go-round, spinning out of control in a viscous circle of self destruction?

Hello, my name is fear.

I have to find a way to push up from within, to find that center place where I can remain because the other half of my life is holding me flush, perpendicular to the ground, not too high or too low but happy to be suspended in the middle with my legs dangling in frivolous freedom, trusting my journey while perched in this peaceful place of purpose.

Meanwhile, what is that siting on the other side of the teeter totter and why is it looking at me that way?

(To be continued.....)

Who Are We, If Not For Our Addictions?

I had my first taste of alcohol at the tender age of 14. I had been invited to a sleepover at a friend's house. Her parents let all the other parents know they would be there but instead they blew out of town, leaving us with unfettered and pre-approved access to the freakishly large bar which inhabited approximately two-thirds of their family room.  It was stocked with a veritable cornucopia of liquor, in mass quantities.

We took turns behind the bar, taking orders, mixing drinks, pretending like we knew what we were doing. Most of the girls were drinking the ever popular slow gin fizz or Texaco tanker sized glasses of Reunite White Zinfandel, the signature drink for young girls on the south side of Oklahoma City. I opted for a blend of Coke and Jim Beam Bourbon. Boys were there too. My friend was new to the school but apparently had wasted no time in getting to know people. She was, shall we say, experienced beyond her years.

By 8:30 in the evening, people were puking in her front yard, boys and girls were kissing in closets and our hostess was, I kid you not, calling local radio DJ's and asking them to come over when their shift ended to have sex with her.  She promised them sex and a box of donuts, you know, just in case the sex wasn't enough.

As was usually the case for me, I placed myself in the parental role. It was an inebriated version of a parent, doing the best I could to make sure my friends were all safe and protected. I had witnessed first hand what drugs and alcohol can do to an already fucked up kid and I wasn't about to let anything happen to my group of unsuspecting friends.  When the boys introduced drugs and fights to the evening's itinerary, I took steps to remove the boys and the drugs from the property. I can't remember if I threatened to call the police or my three bad ass big brothers but suffice it to say, the boys left.

One by one, we all piled into our girlfriend's bedroom and systematically passed out. By the time I got there, it looked like a scene from the civil war.  Bodies were thrown about, contorted into unnatural looking positions as if they had  been gutted and left to die. I found an open spot in her bed, crawling in and burying myself under the covers, hoping I too would be blessed with the gift of unconsciousness. But it was not to be.

The room began to spin out of control, closing my eyes made it worse. I tried to focus on an object across the room.  "Make it stop", I pleaded with God - promising to never, ever allow liquor to pass across my lips again.  Just make this go away so I can get some sleep.  Then the wave of nausea hit me so hard, I barely had time to react. Like one of  those cartoon characters who turn to gel and ooze across the floor, I made my way to the bathroom where I would spend the rest of the night with my head propped against the cool, white surface of  my new best friend.

At some point, the wrenching did stop but to this day, I can't smell Jim Beam without feeling a little queasy.

(To be Continued.....)

There is a House

There is a house on an ordinary street in an ordinary city. It looked just like most of the other houses on that southwest street with its composition shingles and its masonry veneer.

It was built one year after my birth but I would not come to know it until the age of 16.

From its slab foundation to its gable style roof, it has seen much. Its drywall is saturated with devastating loss and unspeakable pain; forbearing through the years, providing a fortress for all who were lost and in need of shelter. They returned one by one to live there until they died. It remains the last stop before death even until this day.

He points the loaded shotgun inches from her face. It is cocked and he is ready. She pleads with him to shoot her, unwilling to take her own life. He is imagining her head splattered across the living room walls and he is salivating, wanting it more than a starving dog wants fresh meat. He is calculating the end game. The police will arrive, perhaps he will brandish his weapon, forcing them to shoot him as he too is unwilling to end his own miserable life.

Our lady of addiction resides within this otherwise innocuous parcel of real property. She carries with her the demons that torment the troubled soul, inhaling the life from their eyes until there is nothing left but a bare frame, floors you can see through to the floor below and remnants of the dreams that will never be.

No one will ever hear the music from those lovingly crafted instruments for they too shall be covered with blood.

And once again, addiction wins.

Visitors in the Night

I try to pay close attention to my dreams.  I am one of the lucky ones who not only has the experience of wild, vivid dreams but I can generally remember them the next day. My mom used to look forward to dreams where she was visited by dad or my two brothers after they had passed. She truly believed they were communicating with her from the great beyond, bringing her a message or just spending time with her because she missed them so much.

Last night, I received such a visit.  Mom, Dad, Robby and Mark were all there. There were others who are very much alive; thus, for much of the dream, it hadn't occurred to me that anything was unusual. I had forgotten they were all dead. One by one, they began to be called back.

Each was called in the order they had died. The manner in which they had to go was viscerally brutal. They had to have their hearts removed, then go through a series of painful procedures only to finally be placed into what could only be described as a casket sized, ominously terrifying  ironing press. Once they were placed in the press, the giant lever would come down and squeeze them until they disappeared into nothing but hot vapors.

By the time I witnessed Dad and Mark go, I knew Robby would be next. They had enjoyed their time here, it was comfortable and happy. They communicated with their thoughts and expressions; no spoken words. Each had a countenance that told me they were delighted to see me, yet pained to go. Each one looked at me and I heard the words in my head......I'm sorry. They didn't have to say why, I simply knew and each time, I forgave and accepted.

Then I turned to my mom.  She was the only one left. At first, I was relieved for in my sub conscience mind, I thought she was still part of the living. In the dream world, she was still with me. Thank God I still have her, I thought to myself.  Then she stood to go, to prepare to have her heart removed. I screamed and fought and pleaded with her to stay. Not you too, I need you. Can't you see that?  I need you now more than ever.Why did you do it, why did you give up and let yourself die? But within minutes, she was nothing but a hot vapor.

The next thing I did was lie down in the surgical bed where they had all had their hearts removed and waited for my turn.

A Time to Die (Part Two) - Unraveling Addiction

The first brother, Mark, who was actually the youngest of the three and the closest to my age was already gone. The  oldest brother stood with us in the hospital room during one of the more brutal moments of Mark's slow and painful death slide, turned to the remaining brother and said, "I will never let this happen to me, but if it does, please put a gun to my head and kill me before I have to suffer like this".

Within three years, he too was gone.

I have struggled with writing these words because I can offer no reasonable explanation for it. There are two beautiful girls who lost their father; in spite of the fact I know he would have given his life to save theirs. He couldn't save his life to give to them. The pain he had endured was much too great to overcome the demon possession, known as addiction.  

Just a few short years before their deaths, we had all endured the loss of our father. After weeks of waiting and woodstocking in the pseudo concentration camp conditions beset by the hospital, we knew he had left us. We could easily tell the difference between a body with life and a body that was void of it, an empty shell.  My brother and I gave them the okay to shut off the life support.  Mom couldn't do it. She could not issue the  order; yet, she knew he moment he had slipped away because she had "felt him pass through her body".

Unless you've been there, and witnessed it first hand - you may not be able to fully grasp the certainty of it but there is no doubt as to when the spirit leaves the body.  I have seen it three times now with dad, then Mark, then mom. I have previously written of my mother's death experience. She was afraid, yet she was not alone. Her people had come to get her. She asked them where they were going. It would be her last words.

After dad died, Mark began to escalate his drinking. He had married a dentist and followed her to a real life "Northern Exposure" assignment in the furthermost outreaches of Alaska.  He was isolated, saddened and without any means to brighten his day; literally no sunshine.  He could not wander around on his own as transportation was limited and exposure to the elements was deadly.

The people of the area still participated in traditional Eskimo customs. Outsiders, white people with green eyes, especially were not welcomed. He had chosen not to return home for dad's funeral. We didn't understand why but would later learn he had relapsed from 12 years of sobriety. Another thing we didn't know is that his wife was a long time, practicing alcoholic.

He began to get sick and the sickness escalated remarkably fast. He came home with drunk wife in tow and sought medical attention immediately. Unfortunately, he was already too far gone when he was told he was carrying the Hepatitis C virus. All three of my brothers had participated in serious drug abuse in their younger days. They had gone as far as sharing needles and they would later learn, they all carried the incurable and potentially fatal disease.

I was on bedside duty the night Mark passed away. I sat in his room, watching the monitors. We knew the end was near but he had surprised us so many times before. This time seemed different. I didn't grasp it fully then, what had happened or why I reacted, but I knew I needed to call for the rest of the family camped out in the waiting room.

I sat on his bed and spoke to him as he passed.  He was peaceful, he did not appear to be afraid and he too, was not alone.  He was gone before mom and the others could make it down the hall.

It was after Mark's death when  Mr. Sunshine offered up the possibility of a move to Wisconsin. I knew my oldest brother, the one who swore he would never let himself succumb to the disease, was already well on his way.  My mom and remaining brother were determined to heal him, to find a liver for him, to save his life. I couldn't take anymore.  I ran as fast as those infamous Oklahoma winds could blow me.

This one was by far the most difficult to understand. Robby was the home coming king, good looking, athletic, a talented musician and  family man. To look in from the outside, one could say he had the world at his feet. I didn't know him very well as our age difference had taken him out of the house when I was young, but I adored him from afar.

He had the same sweet gentle spirit and quiet reflectiveness as Mark. His senseless death angered me. I wanted to make him responsible for everyone else because he was the oldest and I wanted to wake him up from his death and scream at him because he had so much to live for.

My oldest brother drank himself to death.

When the question arises as to the forces of addiction, the truth of disease vs. lack of willpower, I know the answer. It is a heavy burden, a rope tied around your neck, a nightmare that suppresses you until you can no longer see beyond its walls or hear the cries of your loved ones as they struggle to pull you from the fire.

But what is the reason some will succumb to this antagonistic tormentor while others treat it like a bully on the playground--running away screaming or choosing to fight back and win the right to have their lives back?

Is it a hereditary trait as most would suggest or does it run through families because one fucked up generation fucks up another? I suspect it is both. It is tied to pain. When we are hurting, we take things to make our hurt go away. We place band aids over open wounds, we massage sore muscles, we fight off illness and treat infections. But some infections cannot be treated with antibiotics.  Some infections run so deeply within us, they infiltrate our spirit.

George Carlin was famously quoted as saying, "Just cause you got the monkey off your back, doesn't mean the circus has left town". I am afraid the monkey has jumped back on for a wild ride on the back of my remaining brother. He and I are a lot alike. I would think that damn monkey would be tired of trying to hang on by now.

What is this bizarre, unexplainable three-ring circus full of people whose strongest desire is to temp fate with a death wish?  The lion tamer, the man shot from a cannon, the addict?  How did I manage to avoid becoming the high-flying, death defying trapeze artist in the center ring?

I do not know the answers to these things but I do know, more than most, the lessons we learn.

I know if one generation does not seek to heal themselves, to not only face their bully but to kick its ass, they will pass the proclivity for addiction on to the next.

I know that some do not have the knowledge, understanding or awareness to do this. This does not make them weak, just disadvantaged. They are or were engaged in an unfair fight.

Most importantly, I know the next generation can overcome the burden as well as the gifts of inheritance because I have done so, or have I?

The Little White Cloud

My mom passed away in March, 2007 from breast cancer. In the ten years leading up to her death, she endured the loss of her youngest son Mark, her beloved sister Lila who was also her best friend, the love of her life (my dad) and finally, her eldest son, Robby. In the immediate days following her passing, I poured through her photos and writings, discovering a woman I barely knew. I was dramatically swept into the formative years of the woman that would one day be my mother.

Her later years were defined by grief; though you never saw her outwardly mourn. You could see the hurt in her eyes. There was a dullness to them letting us know that a considerable part of her spirit had died along with her loved ones. She wrote this poem on January 27, 2003, just one month after losing Robby.

Footsteps on the carpet
Loud and Clear
They are mine
No one else is here

Squish, squish, squish
Rings in my ear
The constant reminder
No one else is here

Where are they now?
Where will I be?
Unanswered questions
Wish I were free.

Free from the pain
What have I done?
Loved them too much?
Need the sun.

We all take a great deal of solace knowing that she is free from the pain, with those she dearly loved, and that she has once again found the sun. I was estranged from my mom for those last few years leading up to her death. In my eyes, she was so consumed with caring for the dying, she forgot she still had someone in her life who was living. I left Oklahoma in large part to escape the death march that stampeded through our family. After being with both dad and Mark as they passed on, I couldn't handle one more and I knew Robby was already on his way. Mom always understood this and assured me that we all have our "thresholds of pain". For instance, she wasn't able to sit with dad when the life support was shut off because it exceeded her threshold. She waited in the family room and later told us she knew when his spirit left his body because she felt him pass through her.

Looking back, it is clear to see she never recovered from the enormity of her losses. She was depressed and unable to embrace joy in her life. To this day, I feel a sense of being robbed for not having a mom in my adult life. When I see other women my age shopping with their mother's, my heart hurts. I know she allowed herself to die, perhaps she even wished it upon herself. What other reason could account for her ignoring the lump. Why else would she refuse to tell the doctors about it even after all other tests had been exhausted and no cause for her symptoms had been found? The cancer had metastasised into her bones. She was literally aching to her bones with pain so intense she could barely breath but she still wouldn't tell them she had a lump, a very large lump, visible to the naked eye. She had been living with the dying for so long, she was now dying to live with them again.

Mark Twain once said, "Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." I do not suffer any grudges against my mom. I miss her but I am not angry with her. On the contrary, I have journeyed back in time to meet the woman I barely knew. This is the woman I have come to know and love. She was vulnerable and innocent and yet fiercely strong and protective of her loved ones. She had to work extra hard on me, her only daughter, to "make me a lady" when all I wanted to do was act like my brothers. Morals, honesty and integrity were as much a part of her fiber as the love of her children and family.

She was a stunning beauty with piercing blue eyes. She played the guitar, the violin and the steel guitar. Her extended family members enjoyed coming to their small, white house behind the school every Friday night for a family hoe-down. They nearly all played an instrument. She dreamed of playing the cello but her family could not afford to purchase one. It was during this period of time she discovered what she called the “neverland of music lovers”. She had also heard it referred to as “another time and place”. She writes, “I was able to transport myself to this place with various artists. It has gotten me through many hours of intense pain”. Music was her salvation.

At the age of 17, she used to tag along with her sister, Lila, to a club called The Little White Cloud. The sisters enjoyed dancing and were known to be quite good at it. Mom marveled at her older sister’s ease and grace on the dance floor. They loved taking the free dance lessons to learn the hot new Latin dances of the time. It was during one of these outings, when her life would take an unexpected turn.

I convey this in her words: “The chemistry between us could not be denied. He was 24, tall, slender, tan and had the most beautiful hair styled in a duck tail. He was wearing blue suede shoes. He was, to use 1950’s terminology, ‘a cool cat’. He had hands that totally fascinated me and over the years I came to the conclusion they were a little magic. From the time of our first meeting, he became the center of my life. We eventually married and of this union, four children were born.”

Now of course, legend has it that Grandma Bea attempted to shoo this ‘cool cat’ right off her front porch when he came a callin’. After all, she was only 17. We have never been able to get a confirmation on this but after seeing the photos of dad during those years, we’re fairly certain it is an accurate historical account. In spite of Grandma Bea’s wishes, mom loved him. As we have come to know, when Joyce Macdonald loves somebody, there ain't gonna be no stopping it.

I wish I had a little more time with mom now so I can ask her more questions about those early years. I want to know what she was thinking in every picture. Did she realize how beautiful she was? Doubtful, she was too humble to think much about her looks, but she was indeed quite eye-catching. I want to know what color her dresses were in all those black and white photos. I want to ask her how she managed to curl her hair like that and what color of lipstick was her favorite. I want to see her again with these new eyes of mine. But most of all, I wish I could help her see herself through my eyes. The eyes that now see clearly the wonder of this woman.

As she was slipping away from us, we all gathered around her to give her our love. Earlier that morning she had whispered, “where we goin’, where we goin’?” We imagined she was talking to dad or Lila or one of the boys. We knew she was scared so we assured her and gave her our permission to go. As she drew in for her final breath, I asked her to look for Lila on the dance floor. I told her they would be dancing together soon. I pictured them standing under a sign reading, The Little White Cloud. I want to imagine it is Lila who first greets her as they find themselves on a dance floor, listening to the heavenly music, feeling once again transported from her pain………when in walks a tall, slender, tan man with beautiful, messy hair and magic hands.

Just as he had done so many years before, he immediately captures her, taking her in his arms. They are dancing. She is home. With a gentle spin on the dance floor she becomes aware of another person in the midst. It is Mark. He is healthy, strong and handsome with that beautiful smile on his face and a camera in his hand. With the second turn, she notices the heavenly melodies, stirring at her heart are being played by Robby. He is backed up by her daddy and the long line of musicians from which she came. One generation to the next, it is an entire orchestra of forefathers. She’s not immediately certain who they all are but she instinctively knows they are clan, her tribe, her people. Each new turn brings more family, more friends, more understanding of just how significant her time on this earthly plain was. Her nurturing spirit and gentle caring soul is now at peace.

Overwhelmed and slightly breathless, she feels she can dance no more. The divine harmonies are drawing her near. When she arrives at the foot of the orchestra, she notices an empty spot has opened up between Robby and Grandpa. She takes her seat and skillfully presses her delicate fingers of one hand to the strings of her instrument. It is a cello. With her other hand she smoothly caresses the strings with her bow.

She is once again beautiful, made whole, with the man she loves and those she had once lost. The light has returned to her eyes. They are together forever in a heavenly grace, free of physical and emotional pain, where souls are renewed and love endures for all eternity.

Rock on gypsy soul.

Let your soul and spirit fly

Into the mystic.