2018 is getting ready to say goodbye. I'm so ready to say goodbye to it as well. I don't want to say it was a bad year. There were many good things that happened in 2018 and I don't want to minimize or dismiss those events, milestones and occasions. I do wish to clarify, however, the feeling of release I am about to feel when the clock strikes midnight.
Time is a creation. Nature has its own markings and indications of change. All those calendars, schedules and stamps are not part of nature. I'm not naïve and don't expect everything to magically disappear when the clock rolls over. But, because I am a creature of the moment, I give the numbers their due. The numbers that defined the year of 2018 will be indelibly lodged in my brain. These numbers will mark losses...and I'm not sure if there is a recovery date for those. I suspect there will not be. But seeing "2019" rather than "2018" will hold some power. Granted, the power is minimal but at this moment I'm willing to take anything I can get.
January was the month I lost my mom. I hate to say I lost her as I sense that part of her will always remain as long as I have the sense of memory. But I lost the most precious gifts that our short physical stay here affords us: human touch and verbal interaction. April brought another dramatic loss--my precious dog Eva. I had her love and companionship for close to fourteen years. A move to another city within the span of one year would be another change--newly acquired friends and familiarity with our environment was a different type of loss but a loss nonetheless.
In September, I found out that my dear first cousin--who has been at many times in my life like a sister--had stage four esophageal cancer. On a trip to Texas to visit her another of my furry companions (living with my former roommate) died. All this in the midst of my continued adjustment to physical limitations and pain related to major surgery I had to undergo in 2016. Although this surgery saved my life, it left me with another loss. The loss of one's formerly fragile but acceptable body image is staggeringly shocking. At least for me it was...and is.
There have been many times in my life where holding on was a clear and frightening requirement. But I did hold on. I did it again a few times this year. Time is a creation. It's true. But it is a reality in this life. It is responsible for the losses and gains and a distinct marker of our mortality and humanity. Perhaps 2019 will be the year when time can be kinder. Time has also been described through the years as a gift. I would like to look at it as a gift this new year. The gift will be to appreciate my present each and every day. God willing, it will be a good year.
Monday, December 31, 2018
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
She's Dead?
She's dead.
That's the thought that caused me to break down into an emotional sobbing heap on a clear, cold spring day in North Carolina. Until then, I guess it really hadn't sunk in. I hadn't truly grieved my mother's January passing. But was she?
One of the enduring legacies of my mom was her fervent belief in the power of prayer. And of course that power couldn't hold any weight if there was no belief in God--or at least a concept of God, a world beyond this one and a knowledge that we are far more than simply our bodies.
I'm just a couple days away from my belly button birth. I'll be fifty-four on November 1st--All Saints Day. It will be the first birthday without mom. Last year was chaos. I was so distraught over family matters, mom's deteriorating health and an impending move to North Carolina that I was mentally incapable of considering the things I am writing about now. I was angry. I was hurting. Mom had become my best friend in the last years of her life and I felt that people were trying to convince me that I was abandoning her. I wasn't, of course. My husband and I had weighed seriously the implications of our move. Bringing mom with us was an option we were fully willing to endeavor. Unfortunate events made the transition heartbreaking and severe. My mother was taken to Maryland to stay with my oldest sister. The intervening months would hold nothing but sorrow for the severing of our living arrangement...and for mom, an unexpected diagnosis of uterine cancer.
Last November 1st this guy was on automatic pilot. Prayer wasn't easy. But then again, prayer really isn't easy in the throes of severe emotional or physical pain. At least for me, it isn't. Aside from the occasional self-pitying cry out of "why me?" there wasn't any real connection with the God I communicate with from time to time when life seems relatively peaceful and my daily routine is fairly undisturbed. I know that one of the darkest times in my life was a time when prayer didn't come easy. Hell, it didn't come at all. I was in the hospital after three surgeries which basically saved my life. I think I tried to pray but it just didn't happen. But mom was praying fervently. So were many people of great faith who were enlisted by others on my behalf. It's not a stretch to say that I am pretty sure it's those prayers that saved my life. So...what if it had been the other way around? What if my life had ended on that operating table in March of 2016?
I don't like to think about it but it could have very easily happened. At the time, my husband and I were the primary caregivers to my mom. What would have happened? In some alternate reality, I see my mom grieving. I see her losing her baby boy. I see my husband and siblings in a state of shock. Of course, it would have subsided and life would have continued but how would mom's faith have been affected? Would that great emotional pain have altered anything? It's only speculation of course but I doubt it. Such was her faith. Such was her belief--true belief--in God. Why do I believe this? I have her words...from her prayer journal. April 12, 2016:
The past week has been very stressful but thanks to all my children we have come through a trying time as we hope and pray for Tom's recovery. Both Mary and Amy have gone the "extra mile" and Eduardo has been as faithful in his commitment. When we actually realize how close we came to losing Tom we know that God in His goodness and the many prayers of family and friends were answered. I am sure we have all learned something from this experience--that will make us better and more compassionate people.
I am comforted knowing that I come from such faith. My prayer is that I can tap into it more often as I grow in prayer and learn new ways to meditate. I miss mom each and every day. I miss the talks we used to have about the faith we shared. As long as I live, a part of her does as well.
She's dead?
When I broke down on that cold Spring day I felt her loving arms around me. I wasn't alone.
She's not dead.
(Mom and I. Pennsylvania. December, 1974)
Friday, August 17, 2018
Just The Way I Am
I've decided against surgery.
In March of 2016, after undergoing a radical surgical procedure to save my life, I was lucky to be alive and grateful for the doctor who saved my life. Of course, the medical procedure that brought me to the hospital was a fairly routine laparoscopic surgery which would have normally required about a week or less in the hospital and a longer period of convalescence in the home. It wasn't to be. Although the initial surgery appeared to be successful, a second undetectable perforation in a completely different section of my colon was slowly leaking intestinal fluids into my system--causing my organs to shut down one by one. It wasn't to be my time although death was chasing me. Thankfully, an alert nurse whose post was usually not in the surgical recovery unit was paying close attention to my vitals. The nurse, who typically worked in the ICU, was probably more responsible than anyone for my being here today. Yes, I was that close to death. Time was vitally critical. The resulting surgery required what I later found out is called an "abdominal washout" and it required my entire chest cavity to be opened and that led to a 90-day additional hospital stay, loss of 45 pounds and a much longer recovery period at home. It also gave me an impressive new appearance--and not impressive in a good way.
As a young man in my 20s, I suffered from what I came to find out later was called Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I had what appeared to be a mild case. I was still able to socialize but was extremely inhibited when it came to revealing my body to others. I was extremely skinny, had translucent pale skin and skin conditions ranging from acne to chronic hereditary eczema. While these issues wouldn't ordinarily cause a person to become debilitated, in my case they could determine missing a day or days of work or school. Since I'd not been diagnosed with this condition--hereafter referred to as BDD--I found ways to self medicate. These mainly consisted of massive quantities of alcohol and illicit drugs. I found particularly when I drank, it could serve to relieve me of much of the anxiety associated with BDD. Also, it enabled me to have intimate relationships...lots of intimate relationships. I would always suffer from various degrees of BDD when sober again. It was truly a viscous cycle. I was fortunate to find a therapist in 2004 who helped me tremendously with getting a grip on the source of my body anxiety and, although I would still suffer from alcoholism for the next several years, I finally had a breakthrough with BDD. I started to look at my body in a different way.
Back to 2016. I'd been alcohol free for four years and was doing okay with acceptance of myself but had a few setbacks from time to time. Therapy continued even after I moved from Texas to Virginia and I had truly wonderful help in that area. I'd been particularly blessed. That is, until I developed--as a result of a severe flareup of pre-existing diverticulitis--a perforated colon. It sent me to the emergency room and that is where I found out what my limited options were. Laparoscopic surgery sounded too good to be true. There would be approximately three or more small incisions, the offending portion of my colon would be removed, the surgeon would re-section the healthy parts and voila! Good as new! Only...that's not how it went down. The resulting invasive surgery left what were for me hideous scars. I couldn't bring myself to look at them...even months after returning home from the long hospital stay. I would clean the wound area without looking at it.
The gay male subculture, of which I am a part, can be a warm and embracing tribe. It can also be a harsh, competitive and cruel one as well. This is particularly true if a guy of a certain age finds himself single. That's where I was in 2015 when I met my husband. I'd been single for several months after a mutually ended long-distance relationship (we are talking bi-national, Mexico) that had gone on for nearly four years. In February of that year, I was lucky enough to find the one man in the here and now who not only captured my heart--but also gladly allowed me to imprison his as well. It really was love at first sight for me. I was also gratified to have my sober self hear the sweet words, "I find you very attractive." I'd long passed the stage where physical was all there is but it was still a substantial part of the overall package. To hear those sincere words sealed the deal for me. We were married later that same year. You hear the term "storybook" thrown around a lot but it's no exaggeration where we were concerned. It was a storybook romance, a storybook wedding and a storybook domestic life. We took great pleasure in both caring for my aging mother, who was by that time living with me. It was a perfect scene until that day when I had the first attack. Then, after the surgery it was fear that this severely altered appearance would cause the BDD to rear it's ugly head and I would be right back where I started from.
I've decided against surgery.
That's where the story ends. I found that these horrific (yes, I'm still calling them that) scars could be altered--along with the resultant abdominal hernias--with corrective surgery. I have been tossing the idea around in my head for months. The death of my mother, our dog and two moves to two new cities have delayed the final decision but I found myself making that decision in a doctor's office here in Atlanta. She explained in great detail the risks involved in this type of surgery. She wasn't trying to scare me--just being honest and I appreciated it. Back home with my husband Eduardo, I told him of my decision. He'd been completely supportive of whatever I would decide. His response? "I love you just the way you are."
I've decided against surgery.
In March of 2016, after undergoing a radical surgical procedure to save my life, I was lucky to be alive and grateful for the doctor who saved my life. Of course, the medical procedure that brought me to the hospital was a fairly routine laparoscopic surgery which would have normally required about a week or less in the hospital and a longer period of convalescence in the home. It wasn't to be. Although the initial surgery appeared to be successful, a second undetectable perforation in a completely different section of my colon was slowly leaking intestinal fluids into my system--causing my organs to shut down one by one. It wasn't to be my time although death was chasing me. Thankfully, an alert nurse whose post was usually not in the surgical recovery unit was paying close attention to my vitals. The nurse, who typically worked in the ICU, was probably more responsible than anyone for my being here today. Yes, I was that close to death. Time was vitally critical. The resulting surgery required what I later found out is called an "abdominal washout" and it required my entire chest cavity to be opened and that led to a 90-day additional hospital stay, loss of 45 pounds and a much longer recovery period at home. It also gave me an impressive new appearance--and not impressive in a good way.
As a young man in my 20s, I suffered from what I came to find out later was called Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I had what appeared to be a mild case. I was still able to socialize but was extremely inhibited when it came to revealing my body to others. I was extremely skinny, had translucent pale skin and skin conditions ranging from acne to chronic hereditary eczema. While these issues wouldn't ordinarily cause a person to become debilitated, in my case they could determine missing a day or days of work or school. Since I'd not been diagnosed with this condition--hereafter referred to as BDD--I found ways to self medicate. These mainly consisted of massive quantities of alcohol and illicit drugs. I found particularly when I drank, it could serve to relieve me of much of the anxiety associated with BDD. Also, it enabled me to have intimate relationships...lots of intimate relationships. I would always suffer from various degrees of BDD when sober again. It was truly a viscous cycle. I was fortunate to find a therapist in 2004 who helped me tremendously with getting a grip on the source of my body anxiety and, although I would still suffer from alcoholism for the next several years, I finally had a breakthrough with BDD. I started to look at my body in a different way.
Back to 2016. I'd been alcohol free for four years and was doing okay with acceptance of myself but had a few setbacks from time to time. Therapy continued even after I moved from Texas to Virginia and I had truly wonderful help in that area. I'd been particularly blessed. That is, until I developed--as a result of a severe flareup of pre-existing diverticulitis--a perforated colon. It sent me to the emergency room and that is where I found out what my limited options were. Laparoscopic surgery sounded too good to be true. There would be approximately three or more small incisions, the offending portion of my colon would be removed, the surgeon would re-section the healthy parts and voila! Good as new! Only...that's not how it went down. The resulting invasive surgery left what were for me hideous scars. I couldn't bring myself to look at them...even months after returning home from the long hospital stay. I would clean the wound area without looking at it.
The gay male subculture, of which I am a part, can be a warm and embracing tribe. It can also be a harsh, competitive and cruel one as well. This is particularly true if a guy of a certain age finds himself single. That's where I was in 2015 when I met my husband. I'd been single for several months after a mutually ended long-distance relationship (we are talking bi-national, Mexico) that had gone on for nearly four years. In February of that year, I was lucky enough to find the one man in the here and now who not only captured my heart--but also gladly allowed me to imprison his as well. It really was love at first sight for me. I was also gratified to have my sober self hear the sweet words, "I find you very attractive." I'd long passed the stage where physical was all there is but it was still a substantial part of the overall package. To hear those sincere words sealed the deal for me. We were married later that same year. You hear the term "storybook" thrown around a lot but it's no exaggeration where we were concerned. It was a storybook romance, a storybook wedding and a storybook domestic life. We took great pleasure in both caring for my aging mother, who was by that time living with me. It was a perfect scene until that day when I had the first attack. Then, after the surgery it was fear that this severely altered appearance would cause the BDD to rear it's ugly head and I would be right back where I started from.
I've decided against surgery.
That's where the story ends. I found that these horrific (yes, I'm still calling them that) scars could be altered--along with the resultant abdominal hernias--with corrective surgery. I have been tossing the idea around in my head for months. The death of my mother, our dog and two moves to two new cities have delayed the final decision but I found myself making that decision in a doctor's office here in Atlanta. She explained in great detail the risks involved in this type of surgery. She wasn't trying to scare me--just being honest and I appreciated it. Back home with my husband Eduardo, I told him of my decision. He'd been completely supportive of whatever I would decide. His response? "I love you just the way you are."
I've decided against surgery.
Saturday, July 7, 2018
Sister Jude Marie
It would take a special kind of teacher to make me feel good about school after the unexpected death of my 5th grade homeroom teacher, Mr. Mattivi. (see my blog titled "Peace, Denny") The sixth grade at Holy Rosary Grade School would find me in a classroom staffed by a short, energetic nun who sometimes did and often didn't wear a habit. It was autumn of 1975. The nation was gearing up for the celebration of the Bicentennial the following year. I was still into dinosaurs but my newer fascination was with all things "monster"--especially monster movies. I was an avid fan of the 1933 movie "King Kong" (well, it had dinosaurs in it, of course) and found myself on most Saturdays in front of the television set watching "Science Fiction Theater" or scouting the local newsstand for monster movie magazines. It was there I discovered that "King Kong" was being re-made in 1976 and I was thrilled to follow all the news on this. Not much else was going on in my little world despite the fact that, as a nation, we had just emerged from the scandalous Nixon years and were living with Gerald Ford as our President. I wasn't politically aware enough to realize that a Georgia peanut farmer was making a promising run for President into reality. No, my political involvement wouldn't come until years later. But this new homeroom teacher, Sister Jude Marie, made sure that we were aware of everything happening in our world. And she did it with a style and grace that I was only able to appreciate years later.
Vatican II had made it's mark--even on tiny little Johnsonburg, my Pennsylvania hometown. Our local Pastor at Holy Rosary had stripped away all of the ornamentation of our turn of the century brick church and replaced the grand altar with a single cross depicting the risen Christ. As a child artist, I was appalled. All that ornamentation and beauty stripped away for this? Sister Jude Marie was not only the homeroom teacher, she was also the Religious Education instructor. To say that she was unconventional was an understatement. During Lent of that year our class listened to the entire soundtrack of the movie version of the Broadway smash "Jesus Christ Superstar." It was my first time hearing any of these songs with the exception of one that had made it onto the pop charts and had been given some radio airplay. That song was "I Don't Know How To Love Him" sung by Yvonne Elliman--who later had a top ten hit with "If I Can't Have You" from the "Saturday Night Fever" motion picture soundtrack. Sister Jude Marie made contemporary music an integral part of our religious training. Each week, the Diocesan newspaper, Erie Pennsylvania's "Lake Shore Visitor" had a column which gave a spiritual lesson on a contemporary song. We would discuss the lyrics (printed and handed out to the class) and how they might apply to our own spiritual lives. I can remember the song "Rich Girl" by Hall & Oates as being one of the songs we listened and read the lyrics to. The "Lake Shore Visitor" did not print the word "bitch" but just put a dash where the word would have been. Sister Jude Marie didn't hesitate to say the word and wonder aloud why it wasn't printed. I always looked forward to her interpretations of the song's meanings each week.
I think Sister Jude Marie liked me although she did not play favorites--at all. She could be a gentle disciplinarian when it was called for. Still, there was absolutely no meanness as one so often hears or reads about from others who reflect on nun experiences from their Catholic grade school years. Sister Jude Marie was fair. I was able to detect this as a wary 6th grader. There was no doubt she was fair.
One assignment she had given our religion class was to share a place that was special to us. A place where we could contemplate or pray. I remember well what I shared. I often took walks to a clearing at the top of a hill a little distance from our house. It was a heavily wooded area and the clearing gave an impressive view of the surrounding hills and forest. It was there that the strange kid that I was arranged rocks into a small grotto and placed a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary as well as another of Jesus with the Sacred Heart. I shared this thinking that it would most certainly impress Sister. All I can remember from the A grade I got back was a note that said "WOW Tom" and I was never quite sure if she believed I'd actually done such a thing. But it was true. I actually did.
I missed Sister Jude Marie after my stint at Holy Rosary. I'd completely lost touch with her but always had fond memories of her unconventional classroom. With the advent of Facebook, I decided to take a chance and look her up and--lo and behold--there she was with a profile. I "friended" her and took great pleasure in allowing her to see what I'd made of my life. She and her classroom will always have a special place in my heart.
Vatican II had made it's mark--even on tiny little Johnsonburg, my Pennsylvania hometown. Our local Pastor at Holy Rosary had stripped away all of the ornamentation of our turn of the century brick church and replaced the grand altar with a single cross depicting the risen Christ. As a child artist, I was appalled. All that ornamentation and beauty stripped away for this? Sister Jude Marie was not only the homeroom teacher, she was also the Religious Education instructor. To say that she was unconventional was an understatement. During Lent of that year our class listened to the entire soundtrack of the movie version of the Broadway smash "Jesus Christ Superstar." It was my first time hearing any of these songs with the exception of one that had made it onto the pop charts and had been given some radio airplay. That song was "I Don't Know How To Love Him" sung by Yvonne Elliman--who later had a top ten hit with "If I Can't Have You" from the "Saturday Night Fever" motion picture soundtrack. Sister Jude Marie made contemporary music an integral part of our religious training. Each week, the Diocesan newspaper, Erie Pennsylvania's "Lake Shore Visitor" had a column which gave a spiritual lesson on a contemporary song. We would discuss the lyrics (printed and handed out to the class) and how they might apply to our own spiritual lives. I can remember the song "Rich Girl" by Hall & Oates as being one of the songs we listened and read the lyrics to. The "Lake Shore Visitor" did not print the word "bitch" but just put a dash where the word would have been. Sister Jude Marie didn't hesitate to say the word and wonder aloud why it wasn't printed. I always looked forward to her interpretations of the song's meanings each week.
I think Sister Jude Marie liked me although she did not play favorites--at all. She could be a gentle disciplinarian when it was called for. Still, there was absolutely no meanness as one so often hears or reads about from others who reflect on nun experiences from their Catholic grade school years. Sister Jude Marie was fair. I was able to detect this as a wary 6th grader. There was no doubt she was fair.
One assignment she had given our religion class was to share a place that was special to us. A place where we could contemplate or pray. I remember well what I shared. I often took walks to a clearing at the top of a hill a little distance from our house. It was a heavily wooded area and the clearing gave an impressive view of the surrounding hills and forest. It was there that the strange kid that I was arranged rocks into a small grotto and placed a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary as well as another of Jesus with the Sacred Heart. I shared this thinking that it would most certainly impress Sister. All I can remember from the A grade I got back was a note that said "WOW Tom" and I was never quite sure if she believed I'd actually done such a thing. But it was true. I actually did.
I missed Sister Jude Marie after my stint at Holy Rosary. I'd completely lost touch with her but always had fond memories of her unconventional classroom. With the advent of Facebook, I decided to take a chance and look her up and--lo and behold--there she was with a profile. I "friended" her and took great pleasure in allowing her to see what I'd made of my life. She and her classroom will always have a special place in my heart.
Friday, June 22, 2018
2010 (Part 2)
As my visit progressed, mom and I had a chance to visit quite a bit. I was shocked that she'd been caring for dad at her age--with the grueling schedule. Even with the home health care nurses, the demands of his physical care when they weren't around was truly unbelievable. It was a wake-up call that something had to be done. We made a decision that was extremely difficult. We began to talk about transferring dad to a full-time care facility. I know it crushed mom to do this but it was either this or the continuation of her gradually killing herself. My journal entry:
6/28/10
Mon. 7:12 AM
6/28/10
Mon. 7:12 AM
Dad's care is grueling. It's really a 24-hour a day job. If mom feels trapped, I can see why. Today, I woke at 6:30 because my stomach was bothering me. I have diarrhea. I took something for it but I feel generally pretty bad. I've a cough that won't go away. This has been going on for the past several weeks.
I can see why mom gets so depressed. Frankly, however, I don't see how a week in Maryland will solve the ongoing dilemma--it's just too much work. It really is as though mom is working a full-time job at 87 years of age. It's just crazy.
I'm not sure if dad's case is unusual but it appears he is in great "internal" physical health. He takes all of his medications on schedule (mom sees to that) and he eats well. His ambulatory and memory skills, however, are another story altogether. How this is dealt with every day is just amazing. It takes a great deal of patience. At times, I can see mom getting short with him. This is understandable given the day-in, day-out grueling chore that is his full-time care. He does not respond to her in a thankful way which really irritates her. I've reminded mom that this is still dad's personality we are dealing with here. He's never been a person inclined to such behavior. In this respect, dad behaves no differently than he has all his life.
11:30 PM
Mom and I spent a good deal of time going through family photographs this morning. It was a real pleasure to revisit some of the memories we barely scratched the surface of last visit. One of the great things about doing this is are the wonderful stories I hear about all the family members and friends. Also, seeing dear departed relatives is a bittersweet part of this ritual. The photographs are a way for me to tap my memory bank as well.
Seeing dad losing more of his memory every day gives me a great deal of anxiety when I think of how this appears to be genetic. Physically, I am so much like dad. I've the same skin, same features. It's all kind of frightening when I think about living to old age. But...who knows? I've no guarantee of living to a certain age. I don't even have a guarantee of outliving my parents! Wouldn't that be a shocker?
As I read all of these journal entries, I'm transported back to that summer. My personal life was in upheaval. The stress of my life in Texas was exacerbated by my increasing dependence on alcohol to numb the reality. This visit to Pennsylvania strengthened my resolve to put in motion my eventual relocation to Virginia to be closer to my parents. What I didn't know is that we would be losing dad in January of 2013. The last nearly two years of his life would be spent in a nursing facility about seven miles from the home that he loved. Mom diligently drove each day to be with him. She never wavered in her support for the man she loved and she took the vows of her marriage very seriously. I do think that if we hadn't taken the steps to get dad into the facility, mom would have eventually suffered physically. She was already quite worn down from the demands of his care.
7/1/10
Thurs. 5:05 PM
Today was a challenging day. We were to take my dad to a town called Phillipsburg to get new hearing aids. We got a late start because he went to the bathroom in his pants before we left. The plus on this is that he didn't do it after we left. I was disturbed with a few things watching the events of the morning unfold. First, it is both unrealistic and dangerous to just assume that mom can handle this role anymore. It is an untenable situation. In this morning's case, the nurse (who had performed an excellent job in getting him ready) was already gone. If I hadn't been here, there is no way she could have done it on her own. How she has thus far is a huge mystery to me. Secondly, she is increasingly fragile in the mental sense. I can see not only a short temper, but a pervasive depression interspersed with signs of resignation. I feel it should be a number one priority to get her some professional help as soon as possible to deal with the overwhelming pressure that she is under. Third, I am concerned about mom's physical health. Though she continues to have stellar check-ups, she seems tired and weak at times. I'm having a hard time recognizing if these are physiological manifestations from all that she is doing or perhaps just normal signs of aging. Whatever the case, it's alarming to see her this way. The resentment toward my father is building, while at the same time, her fears that he will need to go to the nursing home are valid and need to be discussed. We can't move ahead until these issues are dealt with. I am also concerned about my physical health. I'm so tired since I've been here that I honestly am worried. I can barely keep my eyes open as I write this. I'm sitting in the sun on the patio. The weather is absolutely gorgeous. It's been in the 70s and there is a cool breeze.
While mom was in Maryland with my sister during a week of the visit, I got a much clearer idea of what it took to care for my father each day. My sister eventually had the talk with mom in which it was decided that we move forward with his move to Elk Haven. It was a sad and emotional time for all of us. But it afforded me a new respect for my mother. She was simply amazing. I think this is one of the major reasons it was so easy to finally make the decision to move from Texas to eventually take care of her. I honestly think I was preparing for that even before we lost dad. To this day, I'm glad I made that decision.
Mom walking toward the patio of her beloved home. Elk Avenue, Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. July, 2010.
Tuesday, June 5, 2018
2010 (part 1)
2010 was an incredibly stressful year for me. Oh...who am I kidding? Every year since birth has been incredibly stressful. But...2010 gets special credit for being extra stressful. Of course, I was still drinking.
In late June of that year I flew to Pennsylvania (I was still living in Texas) for a three week stay with my aging parents. My visit the previous September concerned me. Dad's dementia was getting worse and my nearly daily phone conversations with mom were downright depressing. I was convinced she was killing herself taking care of my dad. I dreaded going back to the town of my youth. My alcoholic behavior included a great deal of selfishness. I would have been much happier--I figured--vacationing in a place where I could continue the big party that was my life in my mid-forties. I was journaling extensively however and this trip would be an added bonus as dad shared that he would like to have me record his story for posterity--particularly the story about his time in the Air Corps and his 1950 near-fatal car accident. I was happy to comply. Just keep the drinks coming.
Shortly after I arrived, I wrote this:
6-24-10
...I look at my dad and see me forty years from now--if I'm lucky enough to survive that long. He is in terrible shape. The dementia, Parkinson's Disease, fragile skin...all of it will be mine if I can survive into my eighties. I certainly don't want to live my life depending on others. I think the incontinence is the worst. The inability to control one's own bowels or bladder has got to be the most humiliating part of it all.
There's a lot to unpack there. But I'm packing right now. So this is just going to be part 1.
In late June of that year I flew to Pennsylvania (I was still living in Texas) for a three week stay with my aging parents. My visit the previous September concerned me. Dad's dementia was getting worse and my nearly daily phone conversations with mom were downright depressing. I was convinced she was killing herself taking care of my dad. I dreaded going back to the town of my youth. My alcoholic behavior included a great deal of selfishness. I would have been much happier--I figured--vacationing in a place where I could continue the big party that was my life in my mid-forties. I was journaling extensively however and this trip would be an added bonus as dad shared that he would like to have me record his story for posterity--particularly the story about his time in the Air Corps and his 1950 near-fatal car accident. I was happy to comply. Just keep the drinks coming.
Shortly after I arrived, I wrote this:
6-24-10
...I look at my dad and see me forty years from now--if I'm lucky enough to survive that long. He is in terrible shape. The dementia, Parkinson's Disease, fragile skin...all of it will be mine if I can survive into my eighties. I certainly don't want to live my life depending on others. I think the incontinence is the worst. The inability to control one's own bowels or bladder has got to be the most humiliating part of it all.
Later, same entry:
Mom's mind is as sharp as it's been since as far back as I can remember. She is active (very much so in regards to caring for dad) and with the exception of moving more slowly and some depression, she does surprisingly well for her age. I've been enjoying the time I spend with her and I'm sure we'll never see eye-to-eye on some things--but my relationship with her is solid and good. Of course, I love her. She's a good soul. More importantly, she's my mother. The only one I'll ever have. I really can see myself living on after she's gone but I feel that there will always be a void. Same holds true for dad. But with dad, I already feel it now. Dad's presence now is a shadow of what it used to be. Sometimes, when I'm talking with him, I can see his mind wandering to another place. I wonder where that place is. I wonder if he's aware of how much he's already slipped away. It makes me very sad. And of course, sometimes angry. Angry that I can't do anything about it.
Mom would be leaving in few days to spend a week with my sister and her husband in Maryland. I would be alone with dad--taking care of him. It would be the last time I would visit with my father while he was living at the house on Elk Avenue. Subsequent visits would take place in a nursing facility in a nearby town and a couple very brief visits to his beloved home at holiday time. It was disappointing that I couldn't get more of the "story" out of dad during this heart wrenching visit but I had some of the most wonderful conversations with mom. They were a precursor to the conversations we'd have when we would eventually live together just four years later. Reading about those visits gives me strength now as I reach out to her and hope for messages through the spotting of a cardinal at the birdfeeder or get lucky reading something she'd written years ago that just happens to speak to me today.
Three weeks in June and July.
Friday, June 1, 2018
Kathy & Marilyn & Me
There were two pivotal events that stand out from 2001. One, of course, were the events of 9/11 and the total upheaval and sadness that enveloped the nation and permanently scarred our national psyche. The other was obscure to most of the rest of the world but wounded me permanently on a personal level. Almost a week to the day--and almost to the exact time--I lost a dear cousin to cancer. She was so much more than my first cousin, however. She was my friend--and oftentimes, my surrogate mother.
We had drifted apart in the intervening years. She married and divorced during that time and although we kept in touch by phone and reconnected at various family functions, we weren't as close as we'd once been. I always knew she was just a phone call away, however. Her name was Kathy and she was an angel.
Being gay in a small town in the 1970s wasn't easy. When I first moved to Texas after graduating high school, I thought I could live a bit more "openly" but quickly found out that the world wasn't as accepting as I thought it would be. Also, the age of AIDS was dawning so any coolness that a gay identity may have had for me during the disco days of the 70s had evaporated like precious drops of water on asphalt in the hot Texas sun. I lived with an aunt and uncle in a suburb of Fort Worth and began to attend a small community college within walking distance. That aunt and uncle were Kathy's parents. Although I confided what was then my dark secret with my aunt, things unraveled quickly when my uncle found out. I was ordered out of their house when the semester was finished. Of course they knew that it meant I would need to move back to Pennsylvania as I had no real means of supporting myself. I was--at that time--working at a fried chicken shack, the kind one finds on just about every street corner in north central Texas. When the semester was over, I changed course. I found a roommate and a new job and, much to my aunt and uncle's and parents disgust, decided to stay on in Texas. That only lasted until November, when my crazy roommate and I parted ways and I found myself in a predicament. Tail between my legs, I went running home to mom and dad and the small town from which I had so desperately wanted to escape. I was by that time eighteen and my future didn't look very bright at all.
I stayed on with mom and dad with no real direction and, after a brief flirtation with joining a religious order in New York, accepted an offer to go back to Texas and try again--this time with a dear friend who was about to be married. She offered for me to stay with she and her soon-to-be husband. I jumped at the chance. In June, I was back in Fort Worth and my friend Natalie was happy to have me there. With an almost gleeful attitude, I drove her car over to my aunt's house and, with my new Madonna cassette blaring on the car stereo, expressed how happy I was to be back. We were still quite a bit at odds and the look of disgust on her face pleased me. It just so happened that my cousin Kathy, who lived in the neighboring town of Arlington, was visiting her mom at that moment. "Tom," she said, "why don't you come live with me? I've got an extra room. You'd get a job in Arlington in no time!" Aunt Bernice looked disapproving and that inspired me. Well, it sounded good. I knew she'd go easy on me regarding money until I found a job and my friend Natalie didn't mind. About a week later, Natalie and Dave were dropping me off at the little house on Pilant Street where my cousin and her teenage son lived. It wasn't long before I did in fact get a job flipping burgers. I was happy to have found a new home. Kathy was about as open and accepting as a person could be and she embraced me just as I was.
What followed were some of the happiest memories I have of my early years in Texas. Of course, none of it would have been possible if not for Kathy. She supported me emotionally during that time and all the while doing a damn good job of being a single mother to a teenage boy as well. I came of age in that little house. I can picture it perfectly just closing my eyes. I met my first (what I thought) "true love" while living there and Kathy comforted me after the inevitable breakup. I can't possibly forget her wise advice. "Tom, I know it hurts. Believe me, I've been there. But you'll get through this and you'll be happy again. Just wait." She was so fucking practical. Her cheerfulness just added to it. Everything she said was both practical and cheerful at the same time. One couldn't help but be infected by it. We both loved Marilyn Monroe. We shared deep conversations about everything under the sun--very often infused with the deep contemplation that comes from good weed. Yes, we shared that too. I think she may have been the coolest confidant I ever had.
Of course, it had to end. I finally got serious enough about a guy to try a place of my own with him. It ended disastrously and Kathy was right there...helping me pick up the pieces. Years rolled on with the usual ebbs and flows of life. Mine seemed to thrive on drama while Kathy finally found what seemed like contentment in a relationship with a guy she married--who would eventually break her heart. In the intervening years, when we'd visit, we'd always pick up right where we'd left off. I'd bring her a copy of the latest find from a bookstore--usually Marilyn related. We'd catch up and be on our separate ways. Then...
It was my mother who called me. From Pennsylvania. Kathy was in the hospital. Her cancer had returned and it didn't look good. She told me that I needed to be with her. Yes, even mom knew how important Kathy was to my life. No current drama could obscure that fact. I needed to be with her. I went to the hospital and there she was...looking like a concentration camp survivor--but with that incredible smile and infectious cheer. "Tom, you need to go over to the house and get that Marilyn statue. I want you to have it." I never did get it. At that point, all I cared about was being there with her. She eventually went back to that same house where I'd had it out with her now deceased parents all those years ago--to their old bedroom where my relatives and hospice cared for her until she died.
I'll never forget you, Kathy. You made a difference in my life.
We had drifted apart in the intervening years. She married and divorced during that time and although we kept in touch by phone and reconnected at various family functions, we weren't as close as we'd once been. I always knew she was just a phone call away, however. Her name was Kathy and she was an angel.
Being gay in a small town in the 1970s wasn't easy. When I first moved to Texas after graduating high school, I thought I could live a bit more "openly" but quickly found out that the world wasn't as accepting as I thought it would be. Also, the age of AIDS was dawning so any coolness that a gay identity may have had for me during the disco days of the 70s had evaporated like precious drops of water on asphalt in the hot Texas sun. I lived with an aunt and uncle in a suburb of Fort Worth and began to attend a small community college within walking distance. That aunt and uncle were Kathy's parents. Although I confided what was then my dark secret with my aunt, things unraveled quickly when my uncle found out. I was ordered out of their house when the semester was finished. Of course they knew that it meant I would need to move back to Pennsylvania as I had no real means of supporting myself. I was--at that time--working at a fried chicken shack, the kind one finds on just about every street corner in north central Texas. When the semester was over, I changed course. I found a roommate and a new job and, much to my aunt and uncle's and parents disgust, decided to stay on in Texas. That only lasted until November, when my crazy roommate and I parted ways and I found myself in a predicament. Tail between my legs, I went running home to mom and dad and the small town from which I had so desperately wanted to escape. I was by that time eighteen and my future didn't look very bright at all.
I stayed on with mom and dad with no real direction and, after a brief flirtation with joining a religious order in New York, accepted an offer to go back to Texas and try again--this time with a dear friend who was about to be married. She offered for me to stay with she and her soon-to-be husband. I jumped at the chance. In June, I was back in Fort Worth and my friend Natalie was happy to have me there. With an almost gleeful attitude, I drove her car over to my aunt's house and, with my new Madonna cassette blaring on the car stereo, expressed how happy I was to be back. We were still quite a bit at odds and the look of disgust on her face pleased me. It just so happened that my cousin Kathy, who lived in the neighboring town of Arlington, was visiting her mom at that moment. "Tom," she said, "why don't you come live with me? I've got an extra room. You'd get a job in Arlington in no time!" Aunt Bernice looked disapproving and that inspired me. Well, it sounded good. I knew she'd go easy on me regarding money until I found a job and my friend Natalie didn't mind. About a week later, Natalie and Dave were dropping me off at the little house on Pilant Street where my cousin and her teenage son lived. It wasn't long before I did in fact get a job flipping burgers. I was happy to have found a new home. Kathy was about as open and accepting as a person could be and she embraced me just as I was.
What followed were some of the happiest memories I have of my early years in Texas. Of course, none of it would have been possible if not for Kathy. She supported me emotionally during that time and all the while doing a damn good job of being a single mother to a teenage boy as well. I came of age in that little house. I can picture it perfectly just closing my eyes. I met my first (what I thought) "true love" while living there and Kathy comforted me after the inevitable breakup. I can't possibly forget her wise advice. "Tom, I know it hurts. Believe me, I've been there. But you'll get through this and you'll be happy again. Just wait." She was so fucking practical. Her cheerfulness just added to it. Everything she said was both practical and cheerful at the same time. One couldn't help but be infected by it. We both loved Marilyn Monroe. We shared deep conversations about everything under the sun--very often infused with the deep contemplation that comes from good weed. Yes, we shared that too. I think she may have been the coolest confidant I ever had.
Of course, it had to end. I finally got serious enough about a guy to try a place of my own with him. It ended disastrously and Kathy was right there...helping me pick up the pieces. Years rolled on with the usual ebbs and flows of life. Mine seemed to thrive on drama while Kathy finally found what seemed like contentment in a relationship with a guy she married--who would eventually break her heart. In the intervening years, when we'd visit, we'd always pick up right where we'd left off. I'd bring her a copy of the latest find from a bookstore--usually Marilyn related. We'd catch up and be on our separate ways. Then...
It was my mother who called me. From Pennsylvania. Kathy was in the hospital. Her cancer had returned and it didn't look good. She told me that I needed to be with her. Yes, even mom knew how important Kathy was to my life. No current drama could obscure that fact. I needed to be with her. I went to the hospital and there she was...looking like a concentration camp survivor--but with that incredible smile and infectious cheer. "Tom, you need to go over to the house and get that Marilyn statue. I want you to have it." I never did get it. At that point, all I cared about was being there with her. She eventually went back to that same house where I'd had it out with her now deceased parents all those years ago--to their old bedroom where my relatives and hospice cared for her until she died.
I'll never forget you, Kathy. You made a difference in my life.
Kathy in 1985. Hurst, Texas
Me with friend in the only photo I have of Kathy's kitchen. July, 1985.
Kathy's wedding announcement. Found among my mother's things.
Friday, May 18, 2018
Peace, Denny
"An Elk County man was killed by lightning Wednesday while painting the Convent of the St. Boniface Church. Dennis was studying to become a priest. He was a teacher at Holy Rosary School in Johnsonburg also in Elk County, and was a student at Christ the King Seminary in Erie." (newspaper report, July 10, 1975)
I found out about his death at my uncle's camp. Mom and dad would usually take me there for a week each summer during my youth to give my skinny pale ass some much needed exercise and to give them a break. I was only a couple days into my week at the Hemlock Lodge when I spotted mom and dad's green Nova pulling into the stone driveway. Strange, I thought. What are they doing here? Before I even had a chance to greet them they were speaking in hushed tones with my Aunt Laura and Uncle Andy. Soon, they greeted me and, with sorrowful expression, mom broke the news: "Your teacher died."
At ten, I had experienced death in my family three times. All of them before I was even six years old. My Grandma Muroski (mom's mom) died from cancer in 1969. A year before that, mom's twin sister--my Aunt Bow--died, also from cancer. She was only 45. Grandpa Muroski rounded out the trio--dying also of cancer--in 1967. My memories of these family members are vague, rare and increasingly hazy as I get older. And, while I have plenty of pictures of these deceased relatives to remind me of what they looked like in better days, I have nothing of Dennis. Yet I have the most wonderful memories...and they are getting hazy as well.
Dennis Mattivi was my 5th grade homeroom teacher at Holy Rosary Grade School in the small town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. Sister Mary Agnes Clare--our Principal--made a point of introducing him to the class at the beginning of the school year as a gifted young man who was studying to become a priest. We should be very grateful to have him as our homeroom guardian for the year. I immediately liked him. He was much different from previous teachers--kind, handsome, young and with a smile that simply lit the room. He was also the first really enthusiastic teacher I'd had. He taught science, music, art and, even though I loved the art and music classes I really wasn't too fond of science. The only thing about science I liked was anything that had to do with the study of dinosaurs. This is because I had a huge interest in prehistoric animals and I loved to draw them. In fact, I spent a great deal of time in every class drawing dinosaurs. Of course, this didn't sit well with most of my teachers but when Mr. Mattivi caught me working on one of my masterpieces in pencil, he paused--first scolding me for drawing when I should have been taking notes, then saying, "Wow, this is really good!" as he raised my drawing closer to his face.
Dennis was so impressed with my "artwork" that he asked me if I had more of my drawings and could I bring them to him. Of course I was ecstatic that someone else was showing such enthusiasm for my work! Up to that point, it was mainly my mother and a delightful college friend of my sister's who'd actually praised my dinosaur drawings. I was happy to comply. From September to December of 1974, I brought drawings, little booklets I created and various other creations of dinosaur stuff to Dennis--each time garnering praise until one day, he gathered the various booklets and drawings I'd created and marched me downstairs to the office of the stern nun who happened to be his boss. It was there in Sr. M. Agnes Clare's dark office that Dennis publicly praised my artwork. I couldn't have been more proud! "Just look at these!" he said, "Can you believe this kid's talent?" The stoic nun expressed indifference. She acknowledged the talent but would probably rather have had me drawing pictures of Jesus, Mary and the Saints.
The school year progressed, with my average to below average grades holding steady. Dennis continued to take special interest in me and I appreciated it as much as a 10 year-old was capable. Dennis taught our class beautiful new (to us) songs and we sang them in church. One of them happened to be a song I can still hear in my mind called "Come to Me" based upon a verse from the Gospel of Matthew. He complimented me on my voice. He complimented me period. He always made it a point to praise me when warranted--but never holding back when a scolding was the appropriate response to my behavior. I loved him.
At some point during the year, Dennis confided in me that he was thinking of leaving the seminary. I could--even at my age--sense a bit of confusion or conflict in him. I think he was discovering himself. I mean, he was only 24. So young. I think that way now but as a 10 year-old, he was just another adult. But one that I liked for some reason.
At the end of the year, we were gathered as a class and something happened. I'm not exactly sure what it was but some of the more rowdy boys in the class were very mean to him--you know, the typical classroom instigators. I wasn't one of those. He was a sensitive guy and was clearly hurt by whatever it was they did. It actually brought him to tears. I felt so bad and so helpless. I couldn't protect him but I wanted to. He gave small parting gifts to all of us--the "Irish Blessing" prayer on a wooden plaque. I still have it. On my report card sleeve, he wrote "From Denny" and I still have that as well. I kept a short note he wrote to me at the end of that 5th grade year. In it he writes:
Tommy,
Just a note of thanks and a small gift of my appreciation. Thanks for all your help and for all those pictures of dinosaurs. Keep drawing and keep smiling. May God grant you many blessings!
Peace,
Mr. Dennis Mattivi
P.S.
Please write.
I'm writing now, Denny...peace to you wherever you are.
Dennis E. Mattivi
1951-1975
At ten, I had experienced death in my family three times. All of them before I was even six years old. My Grandma Muroski (mom's mom) died from cancer in 1969. A year before that, mom's twin sister--my Aunt Bow--died, also from cancer. She was only 45. Grandpa Muroski rounded out the trio--dying also of cancer--in 1967. My memories of these family members are vague, rare and increasingly hazy as I get older. And, while I have plenty of pictures of these deceased relatives to remind me of what they looked like in better days, I have nothing of Dennis. Yet I have the most wonderful memories...and they are getting hazy as well.
Dennis Mattivi was my 5th grade homeroom teacher at Holy Rosary Grade School in the small town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. Sister Mary Agnes Clare--our Principal--made a point of introducing him to the class at the beginning of the school year as a gifted young man who was studying to become a priest. We should be very grateful to have him as our homeroom guardian for the year. I immediately liked him. He was much different from previous teachers--kind, handsome, young and with a smile that simply lit the room. He was also the first really enthusiastic teacher I'd had. He taught science, music, art and, even though I loved the art and music classes I really wasn't too fond of science. The only thing about science I liked was anything that had to do with the study of dinosaurs. This is because I had a huge interest in prehistoric animals and I loved to draw them. In fact, I spent a great deal of time in every class drawing dinosaurs. Of course, this didn't sit well with most of my teachers but when Mr. Mattivi caught me working on one of my masterpieces in pencil, he paused--first scolding me for drawing when I should have been taking notes, then saying, "Wow, this is really good!" as he raised my drawing closer to his face.
Dennis was so impressed with my "artwork" that he asked me if I had more of my drawings and could I bring them to him. Of course I was ecstatic that someone else was showing such enthusiasm for my work! Up to that point, it was mainly my mother and a delightful college friend of my sister's who'd actually praised my dinosaur drawings. I was happy to comply. From September to December of 1974, I brought drawings, little booklets I created and various other creations of dinosaur stuff to Dennis--each time garnering praise until one day, he gathered the various booklets and drawings I'd created and marched me downstairs to the office of the stern nun who happened to be his boss. It was there in Sr. M. Agnes Clare's dark office that Dennis publicly praised my artwork. I couldn't have been more proud! "Just look at these!" he said, "Can you believe this kid's talent?" The stoic nun expressed indifference. She acknowledged the talent but would probably rather have had me drawing pictures of Jesus, Mary and the Saints.
The school year progressed, with my average to below average grades holding steady. Dennis continued to take special interest in me and I appreciated it as much as a 10 year-old was capable. Dennis taught our class beautiful new (to us) songs and we sang them in church. One of them happened to be a song I can still hear in my mind called "Come to Me" based upon a verse from the Gospel of Matthew. He complimented me on my voice. He complimented me period. He always made it a point to praise me when warranted--but never holding back when a scolding was the appropriate response to my behavior. I loved him.
At some point during the year, Dennis confided in me that he was thinking of leaving the seminary. I could--even at my age--sense a bit of confusion or conflict in him. I think he was discovering himself. I mean, he was only 24. So young. I think that way now but as a 10 year-old, he was just another adult. But one that I liked for some reason.
At the end of the year, we were gathered as a class and something happened. I'm not exactly sure what it was but some of the more rowdy boys in the class were very mean to him--you know, the typical classroom instigators. I wasn't one of those. He was a sensitive guy and was clearly hurt by whatever it was they did. It actually brought him to tears. I felt so bad and so helpless. I couldn't protect him but I wanted to. He gave small parting gifts to all of us--the "Irish Blessing" prayer on a wooden plaque. I still have it. On my report card sleeve, he wrote "From Denny" and I still have that as well. I kept a short note he wrote to me at the end of that 5th grade year. In it he writes:
Tommy,
Just a note of thanks and a small gift of my appreciation. Thanks for all your help and for all those pictures of dinosaurs. Keep drawing and keep smiling. May God grant you many blessings!
Peace,
Mr. Dennis Mattivi
P.S.
Please write.
I'm writing now, Denny...peace to you wherever you are.
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
Fooled Around And Fell In Love
(This content has been edited from the original version)
One such event happened just a week ago as I was sorting through yet more "things" and listening to 1970s top 40 tracks. The song was by a one-hit "wonder" by the name of Elvin Bishop and the title was "Fooled Around and Fell in Love." It immediately transported me to the summer of 1976 and a trip we took to attend the graduation of my sister's then fiancée, Doug as he completed his studies at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. It was the summer of our Nation's Bicentennial celebration and Gerald Ford was President. I was 11 years old and had just completed my 6th grade year at Holy Rosary Grade School. The song peaked at #3 on the Billboard charts in May of that year and by June it was in heavy rotation. It was on the radio quite frequently (when dad couldn't find a suitable "oldies" station) on that long road trip.
The trip turned out to be our summer vacation as my sister Amy and I were carted from destination to destination including a skin pickling humid Washington D.C. and Colonial Williamsburg as well as the obligatory diversion to Bordentown, New Jersey to see my Grandma Collier and her husband--my step grandfather John. Of course, the main point of the journey was to attend the graduation at Annapolis. Naturally, there are lots of individual memories of this trip but the singular memory I associate with this particular song happened in Annapolis. Why? I can't say. Perhaps the song was playing in the background on someone's radio. Perhaps it had just recently played and was still stuck in my head. We were at a little gift shop--the kind that tourists frequent--on one of the main streets in historic Annapolis. It was hot. Not as hot as it had been in D.C. but still hot. I wandered off on my own and looked at a few of the overpriced trinkets. One of these was a very tiny miniature reproduction of a military cannon. It came in an equally tiny box with a picture of the canon on the front. I was, for whatever reason, simply fascinated with this tiny thing made in Japan. Being a souvenir shop it was ridiculously overpriced. Mom, who usually gave in to my demands, was not budging on this one as she told me "no" repeatedly. Of course, I'd made an art form out of persistence so eventually she gave in and bought the thing for me. I still have this little "toy" in it's original box. I have no idea where it is amongst all these boxes but I'll eventually come across it and, just as the song from so many years ago triggered the memory of that moment in time, the souvenir will do the same--perhaps evoking another memory.
Looking extremely "happy" in this photo most
likely taken by mom at the Smithsonian Institute
Museum of Natural History. June, 1976.
Washington, D.C.
Mom and dad looking snazzy on the trip!
(Pictures of the "miniature hand painted antimony cannon." I finally located several months after this entry. I may have actually been more attracted to the colors on the box than I was to the contents!)
Friday, April 27, 2018
Up On The Roof
I often found myself needing a place of refuge as a restless and anxious youth in my small town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. Growing up there in the 1970s was a mixed bag... wonderful memories interspersed with memories of sadness and isolation. We lived in an old house completed at the turn of the Century and modified extensively through the years. A couple named Earle and Elizabeth Rank were the owners of the house at the time they sold it to my parents. The Ranks purchased it in 1945 after a series of owners including the Armstrong Realty Company at some point during the Great Depression. It was Mr. Rank who completed the most extensive renovations attesting to his skills as a carpenter. According to mom, he also had a brother in the linoleum industry which was clearly reflected in his generous use of linoleum in all the renovations. After demolishing the garage facing the alley, Mr. Rank constructed an attached garage--one of the few on our street--Elk Avenue. He also designed a unique wood latticework to the slightly sloped roof--which appeared flat from the street. The window of my bedroom opened onto the roof of this garage.
At some point in my early teenage years, I discovered that simply opening the window to this roof offered a place where this particular child could claim ownership and, without permission of course, begin to spend a great deal of time there. A blanket often provided all that was necessary as a shield from the often hot asphalt shingles. In the heat of summer, enjoying a night in a sleeping bag in this personalized space was the ultimate. I found one of my few escapes from everything on this roof. Later, I discovered that strategically placing a ladder against the side of the garage would allow me to actually escape without ever having to exit any of the doors. It was ideal for those summer nights when I would steal away to watch old black and white movies with the elderly widow who lived next door. I could climb the ladder again at 2 or 3 in the morning without any concern for waking mom and dad. The roof would also ultimately assist me when I attempted to run away from home at fifteen. In the dead of winter, I tossed a suitcase into a snowdrift against the garage to grab on my way out the door to "school." The next morning I grabbed that suitcase and headed to the nearest highway to hitchhike my way to freedom.*
What I remember most about this roof was that it was my place to think. It was the place where I could imagine a future outside of the town. I could also write and draw with very few interruptions. I found that I actually enjoyed being alone. Unfortunately, I couldn't take my dog Barney out onto the roof. That would have truly completed the idyllic setting. I loved that roof.
Years later, after I'd been living in Texas for some time, I returned to Pennsylvania one summer to find that my father had removed the latticework from the roof of the garage. When I questioned mom she told me that the wood had rotted extensively and had to be removed. Even though this never truly served a utilitarian purpose it did kind of act as a "fence" around the perimeter of the garage roof. I went up to my old room and opened the window to revisit my old escape. It felt a little less safe as I leaned over the edge to see the home of the widow next door--now dead for several years. I looked down where Barney used to have his doghouse and runner. I looked across the street to our longtime neighbors and friends--the Fabiano's. I took it all in. It was definitely a good memory.
That was the last time I walked outside on the garage roof at 205 Elk Avenue in Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. It's still there. I wonder sometimes if the new owners ever open that window and venture out for another view.
*see blog titled "January 21, 1980"
At some point in my early teenage years, I discovered that simply opening the window to this roof offered a place where this particular child could claim ownership and, without permission of course, begin to spend a great deal of time there. A blanket often provided all that was necessary as a shield from the often hot asphalt shingles. In the heat of summer, enjoying a night in a sleeping bag in this personalized space was the ultimate. I found one of my few escapes from everything on this roof. Later, I discovered that strategically placing a ladder against the side of the garage would allow me to actually escape without ever having to exit any of the doors. It was ideal for those summer nights when I would steal away to watch old black and white movies with the elderly widow who lived next door. I could climb the ladder again at 2 or 3 in the morning without any concern for waking mom and dad. The roof would also ultimately assist me when I attempted to run away from home at fifteen. In the dead of winter, I tossed a suitcase into a snowdrift against the garage to grab on my way out the door to "school." The next morning I grabbed that suitcase and headed to the nearest highway to hitchhike my way to freedom.*
What I remember most about this roof was that it was my place to think. It was the place where I could imagine a future outside of the town. I could also write and draw with very few interruptions. I found that I actually enjoyed being alone. Unfortunately, I couldn't take my dog Barney out onto the roof. That would have truly completed the idyllic setting. I loved that roof.
Years later, after I'd been living in Texas for some time, I returned to Pennsylvania one summer to find that my father had removed the latticework from the roof of the garage. When I questioned mom she told me that the wood had rotted extensively and had to be removed. Even though this never truly served a utilitarian purpose it did kind of act as a "fence" around the perimeter of the garage roof. I went up to my old room and opened the window to revisit my old escape. It felt a little less safe as I leaned over the edge to see the home of the widow next door--now dead for several years. I looked down where Barney used to have his doghouse and runner. I looked across the street to our longtime neighbors and friends--the Fabiano's. I took it all in. It was definitely a good memory.
That was the last time I walked outside on the garage roof at 205 Elk Avenue in Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. It's still there. I wonder sometimes if the new owners ever open that window and venture out for another view.
*see blog titled "January 21, 1980"
(brother Bill in front of the garage. 1964)
Tuesday, April 24, 2018
Goodbye For Real
It has been a little over three months since I said "goodbye" to my mother for the last time. Our lives were all about goodbyes. In fact, the first time I told her "goodbye" for a stretch was the summer of 1981. I keep revisiting this summer in my busy mind for no other reason than recognition of the fact that it was when I finally felt the surge of release. Fact is, I wasn't too fond of my mother.
My teenage years in the small town of Johnsonburg were safe and insulated. I yearned to escape but there was no easy way out. Life was lived on the sweet memories and moments of time away from the safe, insulated hell. I tried to run away--unsuccessfully--during my sophomore year in high school. I read. I watched television. I counted the days. Mom couldn't figure out where I was coming from. I think she tried--in her own way but in my teenage mind, she didn't try hard enough. Of course, I hadn't completely leveled with her about my sexuality. In fact, we didn't discuss any aspect of sexual development or any of those "icky" subjects. I was pretty sure that I was a full-fledged queer. I could only go on what I'd read and seen and that wasn't much. In 1981, the most one could hope for when watching TV was an occasional "Donahue" episode where the subject was usually treated as a sympathetic curiosity. Of course, every once in awhile, the "gay scene" made it onto the news. In the aftermath of the assassination of Harvey Milk, CBS covered the candlelight vigil in San Francisco which--to my recollection--showed thousands of men and women marching peacefully in full acceptance of who they were. Mom's reaction, indelibly recorded in my memory, was "those people are very sick." Well, I knew where I stood. Would it have been the right time to come out? Younger readers would probably say yes but those of us who stood in the crosshairs of a very fragile moment in history would agree with me. It wasn't the time.
Texas was reached by train thanks to dad's railroad discount. I was thrilled to be spending the summer with my Aunt Bernice in the Fort Worth suburb of Hurst. I would get a job and I would make some friends. Maybe I would meet someone who would offer to take me away. That was my ultimate dream. The reality of finding a job wasn't as simple. After a week of pavement pounding in characteristic 100 degree weather, my Aunt Kay offered to take me to Grand Prairie (a suburb of Dallas) to try my luck there. I got a job in a donut shop and thoroughly enjoyed my summer until I realized I must return. The dread of my senior year in Pennsylvania wasn't warranted as I had a fairly decent senior year of high school. But I spent the entire school year preparing to say goodbye to mom again...hoping this time would be a bit more permanent.
The summer of 1982 finally arrived and I had my ticket in hand as my father took a photo of me in the backyard of my childhood home. I was excited and a bit scared. I would hug mom and dad but I just didn't feel like I'd be missing either of them very much. After finally arriving back to Texas, and this time actually staying with my Aunt Bernice, I found that I was not as happy as I'd predicted. Maybe being away from mom wasn't the best thing in the world. But it was there--living with Aunt Bernice--that my mom found out I was gay. I didn't have to do it face to face. She learned of it through a letter I'd written to my brother, who at that time was living in their attic. The age of AIDS was dawning. I'm sure my goodbyes to mom took on new meaning each time I travelled back to the woods of Northwestern Pennsylvania. Each time, the goodbyes got a little more difficult for me. She was making an effort to understand me--granted in her own way and on her own time.
In the summer of 2013, I couldn't wait to get to Virginia fast enough. I'd packed my dog into my Jeep and left Texas for good. It wasn't Virginia I couldn't wait to see. It was mom--who I'd be seeing as soon as I unloaded my stuff at my sister's house and drove the six hours to Pennsylvania. The last several goodbyes had been really difficult--for both of us. Full circle had been achieved. I couldn't wait to say "hello." When we hugged again that summer, my mind raced back to the summer of 1981. It was a different time. She was a different person. So was I.
This last goodbye was the hardest.
(photo credit: William J. Boylan. Summer, 1982. Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania)
My teenage years in the small town of Johnsonburg were safe and insulated. I yearned to escape but there was no easy way out. Life was lived on the sweet memories and moments of time away from the safe, insulated hell. I tried to run away--unsuccessfully--during my sophomore year in high school. I read. I watched television. I counted the days. Mom couldn't figure out where I was coming from. I think she tried--in her own way but in my teenage mind, she didn't try hard enough. Of course, I hadn't completely leveled with her about my sexuality. In fact, we didn't discuss any aspect of sexual development or any of those "icky" subjects. I was pretty sure that I was a full-fledged queer. I could only go on what I'd read and seen and that wasn't much. In 1981, the most one could hope for when watching TV was an occasional "Donahue" episode where the subject was usually treated as a sympathetic curiosity. Of course, every once in awhile, the "gay scene" made it onto the news. In the aftermath of the assassination of Harvey Milk, CBS covered the candlelight vigil in San Francisco which--to my recollection--showed thousands of men and women marching peacefully in full acceptance of who they were. Mom's reaction, indelibly recorded in my memory, was "those people are very sick." Well, I knew where I stood. Would it have been the right time to come out? Younger readers would probably say yes but those of us who stood in the crosshairs of a very fragile moment in history would agree with me. It wasn't the time.
Texas was reached by train thanks to dad's railroad discount. I was thrilled to be spending the summer with my Aunt Bernice in the Fort Worth suburb of Hurst. I would get a job and I would make some friends. Maybe I would meet someone who would offer to take me away. That was my ultimate dream. The reality of finding a job wasn't as simple. After a week of pavement pounding in characteristic 100 degree weather, my Aunt Kay offered to take me to Grand Prairie (a suburb of Dallas) to try my luck there. I got a job in a donut shop and thoroughly enjoyed my summer until I realized I must return. The dread of my senior year in Pennsylvania wasn't warranted as I had a fairly decent senior year of high school. But I spent the entire school year preparing to say goodbye to mom again...hoping this time would be a bit more permanent.
The summer of 1982 finally arrived and I had my ticket in hand as my father took a photo of me in the backyard of my childhood home. I was excited and a bit scared. I would hug mom and dad but I just didn't feel like I'd be missing either of them very much. After finally arriving back to Texas, and this time actually staying with my Aunt Bernice, I found that I was not as happy as I'd predicted. Maybe being away from mom wasn't the best thing in the world. But it was there--living with Aunt Bernice--that my mom found out I was gay. I didn't have to do it face to face. She learned of it through a letter I'd written to my brother, who at that time was living in their attic. The age of AIDS was dawning. I'm sure my goodbyes to mom took on new meaning each time I travelled back to the woods of Northwestern Pennsylvania. Each time, the goodbyes got a little more difficult for me. She was making an effort to understand me--granted in her own way and on her own time.
In the summer of 2013, I couldn't wait to get to Virginia fast enough. I'd packed my dog into my Jeep and left Texas for good. It wasn't Virginia I couldn't wait to see. It was mom--who I'd be seeing as soon as I unloaded my stuff at my sister's house and drove the six hours to Pennsylvania. The last several goodbyes had been really difficult--for both of us. Full circle had been achieved. I couldn't wait to say "hello." When we hugged again that summer, my mind raced back to the summer of 1981. It was a different time. She was a different person. So was I.
(photo credit: William J. Boylan. Summer, 1982. Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania)
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Repeated Lessons
My mother came from a line of Polish immigrants. They were farmers and hard workers. Life was difficult but simple. We often spoke about this rich heritage after we moved in together in early 2014. Mom's advancing years had graciously spared her any loss of memory so the accounts of life she relived through our numerous conversations were precious to me. I only wish I'd recorded them for posterity. Now, I must rely on my own shoddy memory--not nearly as good as mom's.
One of those accounts was about her own mother, Mary Rose Redmond Muroski. I have little recollection of this imposing woman. One of eleven children raised on a farm in the small town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania, my memories are only of a frail woman no longer able to speak due to cancer of the larynx-- on a death bed in the dining room of my parents home. She died when I was five years old.
Mary was only allowed to attend school until the 6th grade because her chores were essential to keeping the farm productive and her duties were prescribed at her birth just as those of her remaining siblings. Mom told the story countless times about how Grandma Muroski excelled in her classes at the small grade school on Dill Hill. She was a model student who loved learning. On the last day of class in that 6th grade year, Mary cried and cried. Her grades were excellent and she knew that she would not be returning to school the next year. The incessant crying and almost hysterical behavior concerned the teacher so she personally visited "Babci"--the Polish name of endearment given to my Great-Grandmother. Her concern for the child's well-being convinced the farmer's wife to allow Mary to attend another year of sixth grade, despite her good grades. Mary's tears of sadness quickly changed to tears of joy as she now had an additional year to learn.
This is perhaps one of my favorite stories from mom. It was one I heard as a child whenever I complained about school. What a wonderful line of strong women.
One of those accounts was about her own mother, Mary Rose Redmond Muroski. I have little recollection of this imposing woman. One of eleven children raised on a farm in the small town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania, my memories are only of a frail woman no longer able to speak due to cancer of the larynx-- on a death bed in the dining room of my parents home. She died when I was five years old.
Mary was only allowed to attend school until the 6th grade because her chores were essential to keeping the farm productive and her duties were prescribed at her birth just as those of her remaining siblings. Mom told the story countless times about how Grandma Muroski excelled in her classes at the small grade school on Dill Hill. She was a model student who loved learning. On the last day of class in that 6th grade year, Mary cried and cried. Her grades were excellent and she knew that she would not be returning to school the next year. The incessant crying and almost hysterical behavior concerned the teacher so she personally visited "Babci"--the Polish name of endearment given to my Great-Grandmother. Her concern for the child's well-being convinced the farmer's wife to allow Mary to attend another year of sixth grade, despite her good grades. Mary's tears of sadness quickly changed to tears of joy as she now had an additional year to learn.
This is perhaps one of my favorite stories from mom. It was one I heard as a child whenever I complained about school. What a wonderful line of strong women.
"Babci" (second from left) and Mary Rose (fourth from left) of the Redmonds.
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
Mom And God Calling
"May we make God's merciful love ever more
evident in our world through dialogue,
mutual acceptance and fraternal cooperation."
~Pope Francis
"God Calling" is a well-known book of spiritual guidance written by two anonymous women in the early part of the 20th Century. The only thing I know about these ladies is what little is available in the introduction to the book--they were anything but wealthy, they lived together, were both deeply spiritual and resided in England. From the brief introduction, written by one of the "two listeners" as they called themselves, the writer states, "...we were not in any way psychic or advanced in spiritual growth, but just very ordinary human beings, who had had more suffering and worry than the majority and who had known tragedy after tragedy." Sometime in the early 1980s, my mom's best friend, a dear lady named Pat, gave her a copy of this book. She started reading from it faithfully each day--making of it a regular part of her daily "prayer time." I caught sight of the book in her stack of daily devotionals once on a visit to Pennsylvania to visit and was intrigued. The beauty of the book is that it began with a partnership. This partnership was expressed again by mom and her dear friend reading and reflecting on the book each day. I purchased a copy in Texas and began reading it myself, feeling a certain connection with mom across the miles. Years later, when her dear friend Pat died, I continued to read and share with her insights about the readings. In 2011, I bought a bound leather version of the book which was designed with additional space for journaling and sent it to mom for her birthday that year. My inscription read: "April, 2011 Dear Mom: I want you to use this book--please write your thoughts and feelings and share your wisdom. I love you. I am so lucky to have you as a parent. You are a treasure! Love, Tom" Obviously, she took my words to heart and immediately began recording her own thoughts and feelings about what she read each day. At that time, she was visiting my father daily in a neighboring town where he would die in less than two years. They were extremely difficult years for her. Today, my most cherished possession is that very book in which she wrote so many lovely words. Day after day, they comfort me and let me know she is with me. I can't contain the tears even as I type these words but one day I will follow her to that place of peace and contentment that she's written so beautifully about. Until then, I have her words. I have her words.
"Yesterday I turned 94! How good God has been to me allowing me to experience all these years with much joy and happiness but also His Presence in times of sorrow and regret when He's so close to us. I am so grateful for all the calls and well wishes and equally thankful for the wonderful celebration and dinner and all the gifts. Eduardo and Tom worked so hard to make this a memorable occasion. God bless them all." ~Marjorie Marion Boylan, 4/9/2017
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
We Were Happy
As we settled into a new normal for both of us, I discovered--or should I say rediscovered--a long lost friendship with my mother. It wasn't only distance that had separated us for close to thirty years, it was a difference of opinion on many things and also a stubbornness on both our parts to remain intractable in our positions. The last several years had softened us and we were once again sharing an appreciation of our mutual spirituality across the miles. I was cautious but hopeful that we could continue this as roommates. My best expectations were far surpassed as we settled. I hadn't been this close to my mother since I was bordering teen hood. It was a wonderful feeling...but we both knew it was occurring at the twilight of her life. She was 91 when we began our cohabitation.
We settled into a routine as I discovered how important routine was to mom's daily agenda. I so enjoyed bringing her coffee in the morning. She would often wake up with my gentle prod and ask "what time is it?" and I'd show her the alarm clock. She'd sigh and say that she's sleeping later and later each day. I would remind her that was pretty normal as you age. This went on the entire time she was with me. She would often have me take the coffee to her reading chair as she performed her daily ablutions in the restroom. There, waiting for her, was a stack of spiritual guidebooks and unfinished crossword puzzles. She would usually take about an hour while I prepared breakfast. Aside from the times we would veer from the usual, she would have her "red, white and blue" breakfast. Wheat toast with heavy butter, whatever cereal she requested (usually Special K or something similar) with skim milk, blueberries and strawberries and always 1/2 of a banana. I was quickly accustomed to how much she would eat. She never liked to waste food so it was important not to give her too much.
As weeks turned into months and it was just us (before I met my husband, Eduardo) we would often talk about our mutual morning meditations. These conversations were so rewarding. They are as much a gift to me now as they were at the time. Mom--at 91--was still searching and questioning but had a most steadfast faith. I learned so much from her.
After losing mom in January of this year, I went back to see all of the deleted messages on my phone. I just wanted to hear her voice. There were perhaps thirty or more. After retrieving, I listened to each...and one after the other was her just asking me what time I'd be home from work. But there was one in which she told me that she'd had a "brainstorm" because I was planning on preparing a lemon cake and had complained that they were never moist enough. She suggested I stop at the store and get a package of lemon pudding. That message made me smile. The funny thing is I don't remember if I ever stopped to get the pudding. Her voice was so happy though. She was happy. I was happy. We were happy. I miss her so.
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