Bronx Reflections: Cherished Childhood Friends

I have always been sentimental, I take after my grandmother, but I find I have become even more so since I have been sick.  I have been thinking a lot about growing up in the Bronx and also in Manhattan, where my grandparents lived and where I spent so, so much time. The city was an ideal place for a child like me, independent and curious.  There was always something to do and, luckily for me, there was usually someone to do it with. 

Two of my childhood cohorts, Hank and Mary, are easily my oldest friends, going back well over 55 years.  It is amazing how an accident of geography placed us together and yet we were such a perfect fit.   Mary was one of only a handful of children who lived in our large apartment building, but we were made for each other, both of us mad for animals, horses especially, and yet content to spend an afternoon reading side by side or playing paper dolls, even if the weather outside was fine. She lived on the top floor, I lived on the ground floor.  I was sturdy and tough, she was tiny and delicate and we were inseparable. 

Hank’s aunt lived in the building next door and every summer he was sent to stay with her.  He, with his chipmunk cheeks and adorable, mischievous dimple (which he still has), arrived in late spring and left in the fall, but oh the fun we squeezed in for those few weeks every year!   

 We all romped, first, directly in front of our respective apartment buildings.  Then, as we got older, we branched out to frolicking around the entire block and into the wilds of the space in the center of that block, behind the buildings.  We called it the Back Lot and I have to laugh at how barbarous and rough that sounds, because this was a lovely, middle class neighborhood.  It makes us sound like grubby, neglected urchins, when we truly were closely supervised and strictly raised.  But children love leafy, mysterious places and that is what the Back Lot was.  It was filled with boulders, ailanthus trees and weedy shrubs, shot through with rocky paths, shortcuts through the block from one street to another.  A perfect setting for all sorts of adventures.  When I think of the kind of misadventures we could have encountered I shudder.  But we never did.  It was our own personal playground.  The park was off limits for us at that time, too far for us to go alone (although I, defiant and fearless, frequently sneaked down to the park that bordered the Harlem River, often dragging my hapless brother along).  The Back Lot suited us just fine for the most part.

(All the greenery in the middle is our "Back Lot", the wilds of University Heights.  The yellow line is the route I took every day from my front door to school.)

There were actually four of us, not just three.  Our dear Noel rounded out our particularly close quartet.  He was in my class at Holy Spirit.  He was quiet, smart and made funny faces that made me laugh.  I adored him.  We adored him.  It is one of my life’s great sorrows that none of us have seen or heard from him in over forty years.  We have searched online and found no trace.  There have been tantalizing clues here and there, including the possibility he entered the priesthood, but otherwise there is nothing.  His full name is relatively common in England, where he was born, and in Ireland, so that complicates things.  We miss him terribly.

One of our favorite games was acting out scenarios based on 1950’s TV shows, especially the Superman TV series. (We watched A LOT of television!)  It is so funny to think of now, because both Noel and Hank were sweet and gentle little boys, certainly not aggressive or in any way dominating, but they were our Supermen, taking turns in the role.  And Mary and I would take turns as Lois Lane.  Maybe I am being overly nostalgic, but I don’t remember ever quarreling in our weeks and weeks of playing together every single day.  When the other kids were added to the mix there was inevitably rivalry and, sometimes, tears.  But the four of us always got along on our own.

Both apartment buildings had roomy courtyards ideal for running around in and my building had a vast lobby and great open hall on the first floor that we also took great advantage of.  We always had some fantasy we were acting out, we were a particularly imaginative and creative bunch.  We also were bookish dreamers, which is why I think we were so close.  The other kids on our block were not bad, but they could be bullying and bossy.  The neighborhood at large had a hefty population of Irish Catholics with big families, but, ironically, our side of the block had a very small proportion of children, I can only think of maybe ten all together, including our siblings.  That was it for two large apartment buildings.   

Our building alone was a great big L-shaped that contained probably about 50 apartments.  My side of the L had the address of 106 W. 179 Street and the other side of the L was 1944 Andrews Avenue.  But the majority of tenants were older people, primarily Irish Catholics and Eastern European Jews, and many of the later were Holocaust survivors.  When the 1940 Census was first available online, you could only access people by address, not name.  So I looked up my Bronx address because it was easy to find.  Incredibly, several of the wonderful older people I grew up knowing had lived in the building since 1940, including the couple who lived in the apartment over ours, the Hartmans.  I was so lucky, because these were like an extended family and they were all very, very kind to me.  They really shaped the person I became. 

The 1940 Census shows our upstairs neighbors, Mr. & Mrs. Hartman, were living there 14 years before my parents moved in.  Mrs. Hartman's mother was gone by then and they had no children.  They were very, very nice to me, and I shamelessly dropped by for visits with embarrassing frequency.  They always treated me to cookies and milk.

Mrs. Clune lived upstairs with her little dog, who she walked, it seemed, constantly.  She was a teeny, delicate lady, very sweet, always with a smile.  I have no memory of Mr. Clune, who must have died before I was born.  Their son was probably in his thirties when I knew him, but I thought he was an old man.

But back to us...our idyll only lasted until we were about 12.  My parents moved our family to the wasteland of rural New Jersey in 1966, where there was literally nothing but our hideous, cracker box development and cornfields.  My mother didn’t drive and there was nothing within walking distance, not friends, school, shops or, worst of all, the library.  I don’t think I have ever gotten over it, going from independence and my cherished friends to trapped isolation.

I wish I had pictures of Hank, Mary, Noel and I together, but we don’t.  Almost all the pictures I have of the neighborhood are as it is today.  A few exceptions are snaps of me in my mother’s arms outside our building, but facing the apartment house across the street.  That was a sumptuous complex with gardens, sunken living rooms and multiple bathrooms.  Now it is boarded up.  Although now the neighborhood is more family oriented again, the terrible, crime-ridden days seem to have passed, they left an appalling legacy.  The courtyards where we ran and played our games are locked up, with some gates topped by barbed wire.  The cement steps between the buildings that we used to access the Back Lot have crumbled.  The decorative limestone balustrades that lined the front steps of our apartment building have been demolished and replaced with cinder blocks.  Crime is less, but shabbiness and poverty exist where pride of place ruled before.

The building I grew up in; no gate or barbed wire in my time.  The first two windows to the left were my bedroom.

The other side of the building.  There used to be grass and decorative wrought iron fencing where those concrete slabs are now.

The space between our building and Hank's; the steps are all crumbled and broken now.

The gate enclosing the courtyard of Hank's building.

The beautiful building across the street from ours, the gardens are now all boarded up.

My mother and I took a trip in to see the old neighborhood about 14 years ago, with a friend from the Internet who had gone to my grammar school and his wife.  We had such a nice day exploring, even got to go into Holy Spirit school, as CCD was being taught that day and the school was open.  It was like a time capsule, absolutely immaculate, from the shining wood floors to the bright, windowed classrooms.  It was so good to see, and I am glad I had the chance, as the Dicosese of New York is shutting it down this month.  It is a disgrace that a school which has been in operation for almost 100 years is being closed and the education of inner city children, who are the most vulnerable, is being sacrified.  For shame.

It goes without saying that Hank and Mary grew up to be just as wonderful as they were when they were kids.  Mary is a devoted mother of a large extended family.  She still has a big, sensitive heart and a special love for animals.  Hank is a loving, loyal friend and he works hard to make a difference in this world (here is a link to his website).  Life and geographical distance prevent us from seeing each other as we would like, but, especially since I have been sick, they never fail to remind me how important I am to them and how I am in their thoughts and prayers.  One cannot ask for much more than that.

I am so grateful for how my sweet friends enriched my life and I thank you all, Hank, Mary and Noel.  I believe somewhere in the universe there is a faint echo of the laughter and pure delight in life that four children shared together a long time ago.  There is no way that joy, that simple pleasure in each other’s company, could ever fade away.

Did you like what you read? Let others know. Thanks!

Sadness and Miracles

I am so relieved to be home, but there is no getting back to normal as there is no normal left.

I had been in the hospital for three days while the options for surgery on my gall bladder were batted around.  That third day my surgeon, a local superstar wunderkind, previously all good cheer, came to me with an absolutely stricken look on his face.  An ultrasound, x-ray, MRI and CT scan, all done while testing the gall bladder, were showing a mass on my liver.  It did not look good, he told me.  In fact, it was probably a worst case scenario.  I was pretty stunned, but not as upset as I would have expected.  I didn’t cry or anything, I was just numb.  Fortunately, my friend Christine was with me the first time he broke this news and that made an enormous difference.  Thank goodness I was not alone.  He had already been concerned about doing gall bladder surgery because of my compromised breathing.  Now the surgery I needed for a liver tumor was so complicated and serious, I actually had to be transferred to a different hospital where he worked with another surgeon who specialized in liver surgery.  And there was no question of not doing it.

When I posted this on Facebook, the response was staggering, with comments and encouragement and support from almost one hundred people, some of whom I didn’t even know.  Father David, our wonderful Interim pastor, visited and prayed with me, but to be honest, my own prayers were hollow.  I was dazed.  I sent final messages to my children and funeral plans to my friend Louise, to be given to the kids as needed.

The night they transferred me I had a final CT scan before they organized the surgery.  The next morning the surgeon was in my room again, this time almost speechless.  He felt like an idiot, he said, because the CT scan from the night before showed no tumor on my liver anymore.  There was nothing there.  Nothing.

I did not believe the surgeon was an idiot, although I don’t think that was the most appropriate approach to the news he had.  I also do not believe several doctors could have misread multiple radiology studies.  On the other hand, I had had no expectations of miraculous healing.  I just wanted a peaceful death.  Full of self-loathing, which is cheerfully supported by the people I love most in my life, I never considered myself a miracle candidate.  But it seems that might be exactly what I got.

I have sign hanging on my bedroom wall that says “Count Your Blessings”.  I bought it long ago, before I got sick, when I was leading what I felt was a charmed life.  Four fantastic kids who were wonderful, fun company, a terrific, rewarding career, my little dream cottage, travel, back in school for my Master’s, there were almost too many blessings to count.  Then they started falling like domino’s when I was diagnosed with transverse myelitis and, ultimately, MS.  My family relationships are now in a shambles, with most of them not even speaking to me anymore.  My career is finished and I will lose my cottage anytime now.   Travel?  I cannot even travel to my back garden.  My friend Marc, the Wheelchair Kamikaze, likens a diagnosis of MS to a personal Hiroshima. (Read his moving post here)  It may seem like a histrionic and hyperbolic reference.  But the comparison is apt in that the destruction of your former, healthy life is complete.  Our lives are ultimately shattered as thoroughly as that city was by the atomic bomb. 

Despite what turned out to be incredibly good news about no tumor, it is very, very hard to keep positive.  It is a gorgeous spring day today here at the shore and my family just left for the beach and the Ocean Grove flea market.   In my previous life I would have been there already.   I long to sit in the sun and listen to the ocean, to stroll around the flea market and people watch.  But I can’t get there myself anymore and I wasn’t invited to join them.   I am too much trouble to take along.   The logistics of getting dressed, getting me and my wheelchair into the car and then getting onto the actual sand are overwhelming. 

I am simply so weary of being ill.  Anyone else would have had the simple gall bladder surgery already and would be on the road to recovery.  I sit here, a bundle of complications, with a tube in my abdomen, playing a waiting game until someone is brave enough to take me on.  I have already been told I can expect to wake up from surgery with a tracheotomy and on a vent (a hole in my throat and a machine breathing for me).  They anticipate that I will not be able to breathe on my own as I come out of the anesthesia.  The prospect of living on a ventilator makes me feel physically sick.  Yet I feel tremendous guilt for being so miserable, because I know there are people who are far worse off than I and I am still fortunate in many ways.  I still have many, many friends, each a blessing in themselves.  I suppose my ‘miracle’ is another blessing, put in my path to ponder.   I continue pondering…but mostly I ponder my lost son, how incredibly sad I am and how much I miss my old life.

____________________

To while away the idle hours I have been doing a lot of embroidery and some sewing. Whilst my familiar perches at my head. 

 

I loved these little sailboats from Sew and the City.  I had saved the pattern for my youngest grandson, but I think he has probably out grown them already.  So I stitched them up for the baby of a dear, dear friend who is coming to visit.  I stuffed them lightly, the easier for bitty hands to grip them, and I tied together a few bells and put them inside each.  If the little nipper managed to somehow open the toy, they are too big to choke on in a bunch like that.  My Resident Critic, my daughter, felt they are too girly.  But babies love primary colors, so I stuck with scraps from my Depression-era fabric patterns.  I think they are cute.

The only problem is it made me think of my precious little grandson, who I have only seen twice since he was born eighteen months ago.  I have lost so much, did I have to lose him too?  So I ended up crying the whole time I worked on them.  Tears are supposed to be cathartic.  They are not.  I simply feel worse than ever, bereft and utterly broken by the casual cruelty of this inexplicable estrangement.  

The birds and pansies came from a pattern that I got from an embroidery designer who is based in Cape Town, South Africa.  They were inspired by a Victorian gift book published in 1896.

Did you like what you read? Let others know. Thanks!

Back in the Hospital (I could not think of a catchy title)

I started feeling crummy last week, with a pain in my side and no appetite.  I slowly got worse until finally the pain was so bad it was making me sick.  When Nicole, my home health aide, arrived on Thursday, she took one look at me and said “I am taking you to the ER.”

When we got there she peeled up and parked all crooked, as though I were a trauma victim bleeding to death.  We hadn’t brought my wheelchair because we figured there would be one at the ER.  But there wasn’t.  So my sweet Nicole, who takes such good care of me, had a Terms-of-Endearment-Shirley-Maclaine melt down, yelling “What kind of hospital doesn’t have wheelchairs?!?!”

Well they dug one up, registered me, realized I was a minor VIP (past director in the system and daughter and son-in-law both still working for the hospital) and the testing began.  They diagnosed exactly what I knew it was.

An inflamed gall bladder.  Cholecystitis.  Mundane, middle aged, ordinary.  Embarrassingly banal.  Minor surgery, admitted in the morning, home by evening.

Unless you have MS, lymphedema and a partially paralyzed diaphragm.  Then it is a medical emergency, a crisis that requires consults with a cast of thousands:  anesthesiologists, surgeons, pulmonologists and, I swear, passers-by on the street.  The consensus: the surgery to remove the gall bladder is simply too risky.  I was facing days in the ICU, prolonged intubation and a possible tracheotomy (an opening cut into my throat into which a tube would be inserted).  Not to mention a slow and horrifying death.

So now the plan is to do a less invasive procedure that will hopefully quiet down the gall bladder, prevent it from getting gangrenous and buy some time to figure out some more options.

In the meantime, a mass has been found on my liver.  Because all the other stuff was not enough.  So I had an MRI for that yesterday.  I had to leave the hospital because they had to use a special machine.  When the EMT’s arrived to transport me, the first guy took one look at me and, at the top of his voice, announced “No way is she going fit on our stretcher”.  I could feel my face get hot, I was so mortified.  The nurse and aide gasped.  Even his partner looked uncomfortable.  Trying to maintain some shred of dignity I told them I never had a problem “fitting” on a gurney before. How about I just try it?  He ignored me, went into the hall to call his dispatch and loudly asked how long it would take to get a bariatric stretcher.  Four hours.  I would not make my appointment.  But I knew I didn’t need it, that I would be ok on a regular gurney.  Finally he reluctantly agreed to let me try, all the while muttering dire warnings about hideous discomfort to my fat, fat, fat body.  And guess what?  I fit, as I knew I would, with room to spare, and was completely comfortable.

This guy is now my candidate for The Asshole Hall of Fame.

On the plus side, when I got to the MRI center, the tech was my old friend Nicky, who has been doing my MRI’s since I first got sick in 2005.  He is the most incredibly kind man.  After one MRI a few years ago, when I was in tears from so much pain, he actually got down on his knees, put on my socks and sneakers and tied them for me.    I had forgotten he told me he moonlighted at this place.  His sweet demeanor and constant concern for my comfort was a real gift.

Then when I got back to the hospital, the staff had a surprise for me.  They had been so upset over how the EMT had treated me, they moved me to a private room and presented it with a big “TA DA!!” like a Christmas present.  They are the best.  So, so kind.  It makes a huge difference.

My friends on Facebook have also overwhelmed me with their love and caring.  Message after message of support, encouragement, prayers and reassurance are like lifelines.  I am so lucky.

So now I am just hanging out, day four in the hospital, waiting for the results of the MRI to diagnose what is going on with my liver.  Tomorrow I should have the minor procedure.  My pain level is pretty high, so I am existing from shot to shot.  One doctor was just in and asked how I was doing.  I said my pain level was up there and the medicine just wasn’t helping as much anymore.  He didn’t respond, but asked a few more questions and then said, ok, glad you are doing well see you tomorrow.  Um, what about my pain? I ask.  Oh…well, make sure you ask for your medicine when it is due.  Smile.  Bye.

Sigh.

 Did you like what you read? Let others know. Thanks!

Love Hurts

I would like to ban Mother's Day.  Perhaps Christmas and Thanksgiving as well.  For so many of us, it is simply one more opportunity to have your heart ripped out of your chest.  It could be a passive aggressive or actively abusive partner, a thankless, deliberately hurtful child or a resentful, narcissistic parent.  Or, for those of us who have truly hit the jackpot, it could be all three.  Not to mention missing my beloved grandmother, who was like a mother to me.  The day ends up being just another exercise in pain, regret and self doubt.

I never heard from two of my four children on Mother's Day.  But I Skyped for almost an hour with my daughter in Texas while we laughed and she repeatedly told me she loved me.  And my other daughter posted this on Facebook:

Happy Mothers Day to all the amazing women I know especially my mom who always surrounded me with strong wonderful women and made me the mother I am today. And to my mother and sister and in laws who treat my baby girl like their own!

I guess I am not all bad.

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers out there and to all who are like mothers to other people.  Thank you for all you have done and continue to do.

Music to be sad by (lol):


   










Did you like what you read? Let others know. Thanks!

The Wisdom of Two

I have a relentless, embarrassing, corny sense of humor (I know the mythology is we women are frequently destined to become our mothers, but I have actually turned into my father).  Because of that, whenever I talk to my granddaughter about broccoli, which she loves, I sing "Brocc-a-leee" like Dana Carvey.

Apparently she can discern the difference between funny and annoying at the age of two.  Because when I do this she looks at me solemnly, points her finger at me and says firmly " 'Top it!"

This is also the child who insists her parents were traveling to Cancun on vacation in a rocket ship.  Who knew she knew what a rocket ship was?!

P.S. I still think Dana Carvey's Broccoli is funny.  "There's a lady that I know.  If I didn't know her, she'd be the lady I didn't know."  Priceless.









Did you like what you read? Let others know. Thanks!

Love You Forever

April 17, 1977 was a lovely, warm, early spring day in New York City.  On that day, in St. Vincent’sHospital in Greenwich Village, at the age of 22, I became a mother for the first time.

I had been very excited about having this little person.  It was uncommon in those days to find out the gender ahead of time, so we did not know if we would be welcoming Anna or Ryan.  Even as recently as 1977, in a supposedly modern hospital, we had to jump through hoops for my husband to be with me through labor and in the delivery room.  Not only did we have to attend classes, we had to get special signed permission from our obstetrician.  (I also had to get special dispensation to not have my arms strapped to the side of the delivery table in leather straps, something I was horrified to see on the L & D tour with the Lamaze class).  My doctor’s name was Hardart and he was indeed the son of the Horn and Hardart automat fortune.  A legendary devout Roman Catholic, he was the go-to GYN for nuns.  There were always at least two in the waiting room.  He also refused to dispense birth control.  I took care of that myself, so that was not an issue for me, I went to him because he had a good reputation in our family.

The baby was due April 1 but made no appearance.  The ensuing 17 days were incredibly long.  My grandmother, mother and aunt called me every single day, as if I would not have let them know if I had had the baby.  My aunt, a nurse, worked at St. Vincent’s at the time.  If she did not get me at home, she would call the L & D floor looking for me.  By the time I actually did get there the reaction was “Mrs. Cooper!!  We’ve been waiting for you!”

Ever the obedient pupil, I followed to the letter the instructions to eat lightly as my due date approached, so I would “avoid going into labor with a full stomach.”  It was promised whatever I ate would reappear if I over did it.  So for three weeks I ate nothing but broth, crackers and jello.  By April 16 I looked at Dennis and said “F this, I am starving!!”  We went to our local Italian place where I had ravioli, garlic bread and stuffed clams.  I went into labor at one in the morning.  (And for future reference I noted it all stayed put, thank you very much.)

Giddy with excitement and relief, we raced to the hospital at practically the first contraction.  Way, way too early.  Labor and delivery units operated under strict and Draconian protocols.  Once you got to the hospital, you were confined to bed and not allowed to walk or do anything to keep your labor manageable, except the Lamaze breathing.  Patterned breathing can be effective, but it does have its limits if you have no other tools to use.  We got there around three a.m., having no clue it would be 13 more very long hours of labor.

Around noon I did opt for one shot of Demerol, the only medication I ever took in any of my four labors.  It did nothing but put me to sleep in between contractions.  I would wake up in extraordinary pain and then conk out again.  At one point I gazed over, half asleep, to see Dennis sitting in the bedside chair, engrossed in the Daily News (the Son of Sam killer had struck again during the night). I could have cheerfully choked him at that moment.  It still makes me laugh to vividly remember thinking I would give anything to be sitting in that chair reading the paper.

Once the baby was close to birth, there was a mad flurry of (pointless) activity as I was whisked to the delivery room.  I won’t even comment on the medieval absurdity of this treatment.  But for me, the bottom line at that moment was, I was about to have my baby.

He was actually held up by his feet in the stereotyped way you see in the movies. His little body was sort of flat, all soft angles, and his skin was a translucent pale greenish color.  Then, as I watched, all the angles puffed out and he pinked up from head to toe as he took his first breath and let out a cry.

He was simply lovely.

One of my favorite pictures of us, his first day of kindergarten.

And he stayed lovely.  He rarely cried and had a sweet, solemn demeanor that took in everything.  You could practically see the wheels turning as he observed things.  He had an adorable chuckle when something tickled his fancy.  It was such fun to watch him develop and grow into a little person.

Trust me, he was not perfect.  But he grew into a boy and then a man I was so proud of in so many ways.  We had some very rough times after his dad died.  But as adults, we seemed to have found a common ground.  He was completely independent and self-sufficient, but as I became more financially comfortable, I was thrilled to able to help him a little more.   He traveled a lot and always sent a postcard or brought back a thoughtful token, like wool from New Zealand where he and his wife went on their honeymoon.  And little resin tea bag rest with a kiwi on it.  When I first got sick he said to me that if I got worse, I would never have to worry about where I would live, I would always have a place with him and his wife.

We went to museum exhibitions together and talked about movies and books and politics.  He asked me to hold the Bible for him as he was sworn in as an attorney.  He and his wife, who I love dearly, bought a charming home and we had a fun family Easter brunch there the first year they were in the house.  They welcomed me to their lake house, where her family has vacationed for a century.  I was thrilled for them as they began their life together.

In May of 2010 he had some time off for the first time in probably a decade.  He had worked his way through college and law school and then went straight to work, with no break.  He invited me up to the house to have lunch with him.  He made a fantastic salad.  I gave him his birthday presents and belated wedding presents, two little oil paintings that reminded me of their place in the Adirondacks.  We had such a nice afternoon.

He has never voluntarily spoken to me since that day.

I do not know what happened.  I do not know what I did to upset him or hurt him.  I have agonized over that day, and others, trying to remember what we talked about, what I might have done, but I cannot think of anything.  I have teased him, tried to cajole him, and finally wept and begged him to tell me what I had done and how could I fix it.  But he has only said it is about him and this is something he needed to do.

I have cried more, prayed more, tortured myself more over this than any bad thing that has happened to me in my entire life.  When he had his own little boy last year I thought, now he will know, now he will understand, and he will come back.  But he didn’t.

When he was born, my family descended on St. Vincent’s like a joyful cloud.  My grandparents, my parents, my aunts.  Time has taken a painful toll.  My beloved grandparents are gone now, as are Dennis and my mother.  Even the hospital doesn’t exist anymore, it went bankrupt and closed in 2010 after serving New York City  for 161 years.  The aunt I was so close to, my mother’s youngest sister, the one who called me every day those last three weeks, no longer speaks to me, as we vehemently disagreed over the care my mother received in her last months.  My own nuclear family is fractured by sadness and reproach.  And I don’t even know how it happened. 

Another of my mother’s sisters used to send my grandmother flowers on her own birthday, to say thank you for having given birth to her.  I want to send Ryan virtual flowers, a virtual botanic garden, to thank him for making me a mother.  Despite everything, being a mother is the best thing I have ever been, it is the job I have been happiest at, ever. 

As multiple sclerosis progresses, I recognize how numbered my days are.  I do not have decades left.  I will hope against hope that whatever occurred that caused him such distress can be reconciled  and resolved.  We are missing so much.  As hard as it is for me, it is equally hard to think of him suffering.  He will always be my precious boy, no matter what.





In My Life, the song he picked for us to dance to at his wedding.

 Did you like what you read? Let others know. Thanks!

A Member of the Club

My mother has told me that I adored the original Mickey Mouse Club, which came on around supper time in the New York City area in the late 1950’s.  I was a real Disney kid, weaned on all the fairy tales, and I can tell you they did not serve me well.  Even though I perpetuated the game with my own daughters, anthropomorphizing animals and advising someday a prince would come.  Why should my therapist have all the fun?

I watched so much television as a child it is a wonder I ever learned how to read.  Before the Mickey Mouse Club was other children’s programming, such as cartoons, and horror shows like Queen for a Day, which my mother would make me turn off if she found me watching it.   But I would be glued to the set for the Mouseketeers.  I especially liked the serials, such as Spin and Marty and The Hardy Boys. 

But Annette?  I was not a fan.

Even at that age, four to about six, I was unimpressed by her 'talent’.  To be honest, I really thought she was a wimp.

I never was into the beach blanket movies, I hated the giggly, girly-girl, manipulative behavior they promoted.  I never wanted to be that sort of girl.  If I couldn’t get a boy with my brains I didn’t want him.

Needless to say, I didn’t get many.

But that was ok.  I didn’t want to be Annette.  By the sixties I was heavily into the counterculture.  (wait a minute, I need to give anyone who knew me then time to laugh).  Let me amend that.  I was heavily into a suburban, white, Irish Catholic, unbelievably naïve, adolescent girl’s version of the counterculture.  I hung out in New York City.  But not too late.  I went to demonstrations.  But only with a friend.  I watched depressing movies (Panic in Needle Park was a fav), but I still read Sixteen magazine.  I dressed in jeans and cotton peasant blouses.  Unless my aunt was treating me to a dress from an exclusive boutique.

My friends and I did actually hang out with drug addicts.  Our CYO project was dancing with them at the local mental hospital, like some kind of deranged USO Canteen.  I still can’t believe my parents let me do that.  Although it did put me off serious drugs forever.  When I learned that heroin addiction could cause you to lose your teeth, it was like taking the WCTU Pledge. 

So, I had no interest in Annette, except as a vague nostalgic memory.  She was a boring goody two shoes. 

When she revealed her diagnosis of MS, I had other things on my mind then as well, she still barely registered on my radar.  That year, 1993, was the year my husband died.  I hadn’t worked in 15 years, I had four children to support and no life insurance.  Annette was the least of my worries.

Even when I found out I had MS as well, I did not feel any kinship.  I was in the club alright, but the one no one wanted to belong to.    MS is funny.  Many people assume that just because you have the same illness, you automatically have a bond.  People with and without MS assume this.  I still felt I had as much in common with Annette as the man in the moon.

But, ironically, her death has linked us.  She died of the infamous "Complications of MS".  MS does not kill you by itself, it allows one of it's many henchmen to do the dirty work.  It could be a systemic bladder infection, paralytic illeus, pneumonia, infected bed sores or any of a slew of other miserable, painful, things that induce gratuitous suffering.   

Annette was only 70, twelve years older than I am.  Her grandchildren will not know her, she will not see them grow up, graduate from college, start families, all things my kids benefited from, as my grandparents lived till their nineties.  With MS, we do not have that gift.  We have pain, weakness, disability, limits.  I know that may sound like I have a bad attitude, but that is the reality.  I do enjoy my life and I am grateful for what I still am able to do.  But I hate being the Sick Grandma, the one who can’t run around and play.  Sheppy, 6, hugs me gently and pats me like I am breakable.  Maddy, 2, is always sticking bits of tape on me to fix my boo-boos.  I don’t know my other precious, year old grandson at all, my son declines to include me in their lives.  While it is like having my heart wrenched out, I miss them so much, maybe it is better that way.

Now that Annette has died, I finally feel a connection with her and I am so, so sorry for all she lost and all she will miss, for all who loved and will miss her.  I am counting on God’s promise that we will all be healed with Him and I like to keep an image of her shaking her cheerful, perky little head and saying, “Oh, no honey, it’s fine!!  All better now!”   Oh, Annette, I so hope so.  That’s the club I want to join.  See ‘ya real soon.

 Did you like what you read? Let others know. Thanks!