(These "memories of ..." stories will link together in due time. First, the cast of characters need to be defined and then the nightmare will be shared.)
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My dad's mother was born with a very small hole in her heart which, as she got older, gave her blood system circulation issues. On the hottest days, she'd wear sweaters - plural. Being constantly cold was, I'm sure, a problem but it meant she made the most excellent pie crusts ever. (Cold fingers are a huge help when working with pastry.)
Another thing that hole did was greatly limit her activity level. Since her blood couldn't circulate properly, oxygen wasn't carried throughout her body (as it would normally be) and it didn't take much for her to get very tired. Oh, and I remember her as appearing to be of a blue-ish hue and always ... always ... properly dressed for each occasion.
She was raised as an only child ('tho she was her father's second daughter - his first being from a different marriage) and in a fairly well-to-do home. Since her heart defect was detected at an early age, she was restricted from most normal childhood activities. There was no running about, no jump rope ... nothing that raised her heartbeat too terribly. From what I've learned in asking family members, she was raised as a very protected, very sheltered child.
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This couldn't have been more opposite for her half-sister, who I'd come to know as "The Candy Lady". My Great Aunt was the first woman on record under the age of 21 to shoot a mountain lion in the county. She also was in charge of driving a team of 12 horses at the tender age of 16. She roamed into the valley areas - alone - and fell in love with the different cultures and tribes she found there. (I'm not being insensitive ... the Valley we know as "Silicon" was, at that time, very much home to Native Americans of all sorts.) She became a teacher to the children of these cultures and tribes, instructing them on the very basics - how to read, how to sign their names, how to count - so that they could teach their parents the same skills. My Great Aunt came boldly into a room where my Grandmother would quietly just suddenly be there. They couldn't have been more different.
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I don't know at what point my Great Aunt and my Grandmother knew of each other, and while I wouldn't exactly call them best friends, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company well enough. When my parents decided my Grandmother was going to come and live with us, my Great Aunt took it upon herself to introduce her to the local libraries, activity centers, churches and schools ... all places my Great Aunt loved to visit but that my shy and withdrawn Grandmother was overwhelmed by. She'd go along without complaint, but I never got the feeling she looked forward to these outings.
At some point I became aware that my Grandmother was not just shy ... but that she was also sad. I know now that she was likely suffering from (at least) clinical depression and, in reviewing her life, I give her credit for all she forced herself to do. She was sullen and quiet at times, but always made an effort to help me practice piano (the one activity her parents allowed her to do in her childhood) and seemed genuinely pleased when I'd do well. As a child who enjoyed playing a musical instrument in a family where there were no musically-inclined members, her guidance and critiques were helpful to me. Having her in our home was alright by me, but her "sadness" was difficult - and, at times, maddening - for my parents.
The treatment for "chronic sadness" in that time was pill-driven. My Grandmother was a master at faking swallowing her pills (she'd had her whole life to perfect this skill, after all) and my mother would find them wrapped up in a napkin or sitting at the bottom of a glass after meals. Since pills weren't working (not surprising, since they weren't actually being taken), I guess it was decided that more severe treatment options should be tried.
While I wasn't ever told what that treatment would be (I was deemed too young to understand), I knew that twice a month, my Grandmother would get her hair done, dress for a day out, and then would go to her doctor's appointment. When she came back from those appointments, she was VERY tired and seemed ... not herself. Unresponsive. Vacant. She'd stare at her TV in her room for hours, and it wasn't turned on. My young self was confused but understood that this was an adult topic. I'd be informed of whatever I needed to know only on a "need-to-know" basis and - apparently - I didn't need to know anything at all. While my frequent trips to the doctor became stories of "show and tell" in school, we never talked about what went on at my Grandmother's trips to her doctor.
My Great Aunt continued to encourage my Grandmother to go with her to the libraries and activity centers during this time of new treatments. Sometimes my Grandmother would agree to tag along but, as treatment continued, more and more, she'd just choose to sit alone in her room. She didn't seem as sad to me anymore, but she didn't seem ... anything at all, really. I'd learn years later how extreme these treatments were but I was never told details as a child.
Which made my nightmare all the more curious and frightening to my family.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Memories of The Candy Lady
When I was a child, my parents’ home was considered to be "in the country". We were not on city water, we were served not by city police and fire but by the county sheriff and the local forestry department, we had dirt roads with no sidewalks, and even pizza places that said they delivered city-wide drew the line at driving "up the hill".
My parents’ home was the only structure on the left side of the road, and only Old Miss Jaton's place and the Harris' homes were on the other side. The Davidson's lived one road over, as did "The Candy Lady". And, except for Mr. Mariani's ranch across the creek, that was the extent of the neighborhood. Not one of those homes had children under the age of forty, and so my sister and I had our animals and a few friends who lived a few blocks away to keep ourselves busy.
I can't speak for how my sister spent her childhood hours, but I spent more than my fair share of time playing with Old Miss Jaton's cats (ignoring my sister's warnings that she was really a witch, which couldn't be true. After all, she had cats!), helping Mr. Harris take care of his rabbits and his chickens (which we'd inherit soon enough), helping Mr. Mariani with his horses and goats, looking at Mr. Davidson's polished rock collection (which was sparkly and some of it was gold! Fool’s gold, sure but still!!) and, most of all, hanging out with "The Candy Lady".
*****************
That wasn't her name, of course, though that was the nickname she'd been given and she more than lived up to it. She was also my Great Aunt from my father's side of the family, and it was because of her that my parents had even known of the house being for sale. "Don't pass this up", she told my dad. "It isn't cheap but it's good land and the house is in good shape."
My parents drove down from the city, walked around the property and checked out the house. I don't know how much they'd saved up by that point, but I've been told the asking price was slightly under $30,000.00. I do know it was farrrrr more than they'd budgeted and that my father was leaning against the purchase - but my mother would not be swayed. Her father had always wanted to own a farm ... and while he wasn't around to see it, I guess my mom wanted to somehow fill that dream for him. My folks borrowed cash from everyone they knew, with a decent chunk coming from my Great Aunt, and moved in. They still live there today.
Growing up "on a farm" was, for an active kid with a wandering imagination, great fun. There were forts to make and animals to play with and insects to discover. And when we'd get tired or bored, we could go visit "The Candy Lady" and know we'd get some "coffee" (heated condensed milk with two sugar cubes and a scant teaspoon of Folger’s Coffee) and, true to her name, be made an offer of having some candy, usually from a bowl of Brach's Pick-A-Mix.
We would sit on her deck with her two mis-matched dogs - Dutchie, the squat gentleman Dachshund, and Buster, the gray shortish hair mutt who constantly smelled of creek water and who was, truth be told, our dog. Buster was lured from being our dog by the constant stream of treats and attention that he knew he could count on at my Great Aunt's home. Buster was no dummy.
On quiet sunny afternoons, even Boots, the tuxedo Tom Cat we'd given my Great Aunt, would slowly sway by. At his largest, I remember weighing Boots on the bathroom scale and that he added 22lbs. to my scrawny kid frame. The dogs knew enough to steer clear of bothering Boots and he paid them no mind. It was a peaceful existence for all concerned.
*****************
The not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination was that I spent an extraordinary amount of time with my mother, sister, and Great Aunt in the hospital emergency waiting room. I fell out of trees, off of swing sets, from the backs of horses, you name it. I broke both my arms twice before the age of 18. I actually knew - and recognized - ER hospital staff, especially the two guys in the casting room - when I saw them in grocery stores. And it never failed that my father would be working a long shift when these trips to the ER were required, so we had to "borrow" an extra adult for the ER wait and my Great Aunt would come along for the wait.
My sister would walk over to my Great Aunt's house to tell her we needed to go to the hospital while my mother was wiping my forehead, or my shoulder, or my knees, or my hands clean before we drove to see what I'd broken, sprained, split, shattered, or need stitched up. My father would return home to discover I was now missing my front teeth, had a new cast on my right arm, a split on my ring finger ... I'm sure he came to expect it. And my Great Aunt, God love her, sat for hours in those plastic ER chairs watching my sister sleep while my mother and I explained, once again, what had happened to cause the latest visit.
*****************
The other not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination had to be the nightmares. My dreams were filled with scary phone calls from monsters who could reach through the telephone wires, being trapped in a wooden barrel never to be seen again, or creepy things in the attic looking down at me when I wasn't aware of them. Those were the three recurring nightmares I had - on a rotating basis - and while they don't read as "scary", I find my description here doesn't do them justice even today.
I think it was in my early teen years that I had such a frightening dream that I managed to wake up the entire house with my yelling before I was even fully awake. And the memory of having that dream would be triggered by an MRI experience in 2011.
My parents’ home was the only structure on the left side of the road, and only Old Miss Jaton's place and the Harris' homes were on the other side. The Davidson's lived one road over, as did "The Candy Lady". And, except for Mr. Mariani's ranch across the creek, that was the extent of the neighborhood. Not one of those homes had children under the age of forty, and so my sister and I had our animals and a few friends who lived a few blocks away to keep ourselves busy.
I can't speak for how my sister spent her childhood hours, but I spent more than my fair share of time playing with Old Miss Jaton's cats (ignoring my sister's warnings that she was really a witch, which couldn't be true. After all, she had cats!), helping Mr. Harris take care of his rabbits and his chickens (which we'd inherit soon enough), helping Mr. Mariani with his horses and goats, looking at Mr. Davidson's polished rock collection (which was sparkly and some of it was gold! Fool’s gold, sure but still!!) and, most of all, hanging out with "The Candy Lady".
*****************
That wasn't her name, of course, though that was the nickname she'd been given and she more than lived up to it. She was also my Great Aunt from my father's side of the family, and it was because of her that my parents had even known of the house being for sale. "Don't pass this up", she told my dad. "It isn't cheap but it's good land and the house is in good shape."
My parents drove down from the city, walked around the property and checked out the house. I don't know how much they'd saved up by that point, but I've been told the asking price was slightly under $30,000.00. I do know it was farrrrr more than they'd budgeted and that my father was leaning against the purchase - but my mother would not be swayed. Her father had always wanted to own a farm ... and while he wasn't around to see it, I guess my mom wanted to somehow fill that dream for him. My folks borrowed cash from everyone they knew, with a decent chunk coming from my Great Aunt, and moved in. They still live there today.
Growing up "on a farm" was, for an active kid with a wandering imagination, great fun. There were forts to make and animals to play with and insects to discover. And when we'd get tired or bored, we could go visit "The Candy Lady" and know we'd get some "coffee" (heated condensed milk with two sugar cubes and a scant teaspoon of Folger’s Coffee) and, true to her name, be made an offer of having some candy, usually from a bowl of Brach's Pick-A-Mix.
We would sit on her deck with her two mis-matched dogs - Dutchie, the squat gentleman Dachshund, and Buster, the gray shortish hair mutt who constantly smelled of creek water and who was, truth be told, our dog. Buster was lured from being our dog by the constant stream of treats and attention that he knew he could count on at my Great Aunt's home. Buster was no dummy.
On quiet sunny afternoons, even Boots, the tuxedo Tom Cat we'd given my Great Aunt, would slowly sway by. At his largest, I remember weighing Boots on the bathroom scale and that he added 22lbs. to my scrawny kid frame. The dogs knew enough to steer clear of bothering Boots and he paid them no mind. It was a peaceful existence for all concerned.
*****************
The not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination was that I spent an extraordinary amount of time with my mother, sister, and Great Aunt in the hospital emergency waiting room. I fell out of trees, off of swing sets, from the backs of horses, you name it. I broke both my arms twice before the age of 18. I actually knew - and recognized - ER hospital staff, especially the two guys in the casting room - when I saw them in grocery stores. And it never failed that my father would be working a long shift when these trips to the ER were required, so we had to "borrow" an extra adult for the ER wait and my Great Aunt would come along for the wait.
My sister would walk over to my Great Aunt's house to tell her we needed to go to the hospital while my mother was wiping my forehead, or my shoulder, or my knees, or my hands clean before we drove to see what I'd broken, sprained, split, shattered, or need stitched up. My father would return home to discover I was now missing my front teeth, had a new cast on my right arm, a split on my ring finger ... I'm sure he came to expect it. And my Great Aunt, God love her, sat for hours in those plastic ER chairs watching my sister sleep while my mother and I explained, once again, what had happened to cause the latest visit.
*****************
The other not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination had to be the nightmares. My dreams were filled with scary phone calls from monsters who could reach through the telephone wires, being trapped in a wooden barrel never to be seen again, or creepy things in the attic looking down at me when I wasn't aware of them. Those were the three recurring nightmares I had - on a rotating basis - and while they don't read as "scary", I find my description here doesn't do them justice even today.
I think it was in my early teen years that I had such a frightening dream that I managed to wake up the entire house with my yelling before I was even fully awake. And the memory of having that dream would be triggered by an MRI experience in 2011.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The November Chronicles
A month ago, I wrote this:
"Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn."- Elizabeth Lawrence
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As one could see from what I've written since then, it's clear to see that the leaves are, in fact, turning. I've had quiet periods to reflect, to sit still and observe the changes in my life, wonder on my future ... wonder on OUR future ... and while I can't say that I've embraced or even fully accepted what is still left undone, I respect that the timeline was not created by me and isn't mine to measure against.
And while I wish ... with all my being ... that the diagnosis of Parkinson's was mine alone to deal with, I also thank the heavens that the diagnosis of Parkinson's is NOT mine alone to deal with.
I will not be alone to take the time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.
The Awesome Fiancé is by my side.
"Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn."- Elizabeth Lawrence
*****************
As one could see from what I've written since then, it's clear to see that the leaves are, in fact, turning. I've had quiet periods to reflect, to sit still and observe the changes in my life, wonder on my future ... wonder on OUR future ... and while I can't say that I've embraced or even fully accepted what is still left undone, I respect that the timeline was not created by me and isn't mine to measure against.
And while I wish ... with all my being ... that the diagnosis of Parkinson's was mine alone to deal with, I also thank the heavens that the diagnosis of Parkinson's is NOT mine alone to deal with.
I will not be alone to take the time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.
The Awesome Fiancé is by my side.
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