Raised by Another

I went to Marty’s the minute I got home from Dayton. Crap…what the hell were we going to do? But, he promised that he had the answer and that he would help me.

I was so nervous on the drive over there. How could I screw up like this? How could I have been so stupid? A smart, ambitious girl like me didn’t let something like this happen. I ruined everything! How was I going to tell everyone? What would they think of me? What the hell was I going to do?

But, despite my anxiety, I knew that Marty would have the answer. I trusted him. He loved me unconditionally and would never judge me. And, after all, the same thing happened to him and for that matter a few other people in my family. Actually, I was more concerned that that would give me the obvious answer, Gordon & I would get married, have the baby and life would go on. That plan worked for everyone else (Patty, Marian, Marty, and my mom (okay she missed a step). But, I was different and I wasn’t sure that was the best solution for me. Plus, everyone had hopes, dreams, and expectations of me. And, I had those for myself.

By the end of my freshman year at Dayton, I had gotten anorexic-like skinny (no freshman 15 for me!). Instead the stress of losing my step-father to suicide a month before I left for school and my mother’s legal troubles (subject for another blog) began my lifelong stomach and digestion issues which didn’t allow me to eat much of anything without getting violently ill. (sadly in my 30s and 40s this totally screwed my metabolism and despite hitting the gym several times a week…well.) Plus, I was 19 and benefited from a youthful metabolism that was fueled by 7 months of not drinking, eating right, and exercising daily. Then add to that, two solid months of morning sickness (okay given my stomach issues, all day sickness) and more stress of being pregnant. I’m 5’8 ½ and by the end of my freshman year, at two months pregnant, I only weighed 110 lbs.

By the time I got to Marty’s, he said, “are you sure you’re pregnant? You look like shit! When was the last time you ate?” I said “months” and then with tearing streaming down my face; he swallowed my skeletal frame into his teddy bear body and all I could say was “I’m so sorry. I totally fucked-up!”

He let go and said, “well what are you going to do?” I stood there; I didn’t expect a question! I expected an answer or at the very least advice. I waited. Nothing. So, finally I broke the stare and silence and said, “for the first time in my life, I have NO idea.” “Well, what do you want to do?” he said. Again, I said “for the first time in my life, I have NO idea.” I’m pretty sure I added, “I have no fucking idea.”

We went inside. And, much to my surprise he didn’t have the answers. We talked for hours, about my beliefs, my thoughts, my fears, my dreams, etc. He questioned my beliefs, (were they genuine? after all I had a good Catholic upbringing and I was taught abortion was the most evil word in the English language) and reviewed my ambitions and my vision for the future (are you 100% sure a baby couldn’t fit in?) He also asked me who else in the family knew. Of course, he was the only one I told. And, at the end of the day, we still didn’t have any answers or any plans, he stuck firmly to his guns that this was my decision, not his; He wasn’t’ going to tell me what to do—but wasn’t that why I was here???? What we did have was an understanding. That we would work this out together. And, that he would love me, support me…no matter what.

Over the next few weeks, my thoughts and decisions vacillated. We all know what those options are…so I won’t elaborate.

And, then one day, I thought I had finally and ultimately made my decision. So, I called Marty, it was late, but never too late to call him, and said “I’ve decided. I’ll be over first thing in the morning.”

When I arrived I did all the talking. I was resolute and determined. In a way that only I could be. I told him that I decided that I was going to give the baby up for adoption. It was the best option. I wasn’t ready to be a mom, I wasn’t ready to be wife to a man I wasn’t 100% sure I wanted to marry and I wasn’t able to terminate the pregnancy—I couldn’t live with myself. And yes I truly felt that to my core, it wasn’t the years of catholic brainwashing. Adoption was the best option. I would carry this baby to term, give it to hopefully a good family and then I would go on with my life. It was the best and only alternative as far as I could see.

And, then after sitting there silent, listening to me, for what felt like an eternity. Marty said, “After you called last night, I kinda knew this was going to be your decision. So, I talked to Diane (his wife), and we decided, we can’t let that happen. This baby is a Somerville, our family, our blood, and we’ve lost so much already (referring to “our” parents”) to let that happen. We can’t let this baby be raised by some stranger. But, if that (adoption) is what you really want to do, then Diane and I are going to adopt the baby.”

Now to this day, I don’t know for certain if this indeed was what he had discussed with his wife or it was a split second reaction to my decision; but, I do know one thing for certain, that at that moment he had totally made his mind up and there was no going back. Marty was committed to raising my baby.

To be continued.

Really? Stalkers Suck!

Honestly. I'm amazed by the idiocy of people some time. I was recently sent a "love letter" from someone who obviously has no life and has spent way too much time and brain power thinking about what I should and shouldn't think. What I shouldn't or shouldn't feel. Or what I should or shouldn't feel grateful for. They called me an idiot more than once but in fact, they are the idiot. They were in my life a short while and barely knew me...but after they wrote me off as a "cold hearted nasty bitch"--their words--and then obviously, based on the content of their "love letter" spend hours researching me....this blog, my Facebook page, my LinkedIn profile, my divorce/ marriage records, property records and where I grew up and the friends I have. In the end, they concluded they had me all figured out. And, even took it upon themselves to offer me some advice. (one correction...no congrats in order...the stuff I wrote about finding out I was pregnant was 21 years ago!)

Okay I don't mean to pass judgment but until you've walked a mile in my shoes...well you just don't know me. My thoughts, actions, feelings and passions shape my reality--just like everyone else. I've had a tough life, a shitty childhood, experienced great loss (my father [before I was born], my grandparents, my step-father [to suicide], in many ways my mother, a baby I planned after Meg [only to learn after that, I could never have any more kids], and of course, Marty) and have seen and experienced things that I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy and yes...they have scarred me for life, I have dealt with things that most people have been fortunate enough not to have had to deal with. But, make no mistake, I don't pretend to think for one second that I'm better than anyone. Or even think that I've had it harder than anyone else. Everyone has their own "pizza" (inside joke).

And I believe that is true for anyone. If your rich or poor, loved or abused, happy or miserable, we all have problems. And, regardless of the situation the are your problems. And, yes someone always has it worse than you. No matter how small or insignificant your problems may seem to someone else, on a daily basis, they are your problems and people are people and problems are problems.

It's all in how you deal with them. Am I perfect? God NO! I've made a TONS of mistakes. But, I've had a choice. I could blame everyone else for my problems and use that as an excuse and be a loser for the rest of my life....or deal with them...I choose to deal with them. And, I have no room in my life for people who are going to blame others or worse judge me for how I deal with mine Are my issues, still issues?...Hell yes! Does my ability to cope make me better than anyone. Hell NO! Does this make me a cold-hearted nasty bitch? Well yes....if you pass judgment on me.

Happy Mother’s Day Part II

So, I had the best mother’s day EVER this year!!! It was my husband’s 52^nd birthday. Wow as I write that, it sounds old to me, of course it’s not—but, considering that my early marker of what was “old” is my Grandparents, that’s not an odd statement. My grandfather was 50 when I was born and my grandmother 49 and growing up they were the oldest people I knew.

We spent the day with Marc’s family and grandkids who probably also view their grandfather and his wife, “Mimi”, as old. This alone would have been a great day. Spending time with family is everything, especially on mother’s day. But, it got better!

My daughter, Meg, who lives in Columbus where she is pursuing her undergraduate studies at The Ohio State University in animal sciences and chemistry, and will go on to Veterinary School, came up to spend the afternoon with us and then go with us to the Pearl Jam show. My love of PJ is subject for another blog, but for her entire 21 years, Meg has been subjected at nauseam to every prolific, soulful word Eddie has ever written. Oh and that voice! She actually came to resent my incessant obsession with all things PJ….and, as a result, they became her least favorite band. But this mother’s day she couldn’t think of a better thing to do with her mother than go, on mother’s day, to a PJ show. Why? Because when she was 16 we went to Disney World for our birthdays (Meg’s birthday is the day after mine). She had to keep up with me running from ride to ride and collecting autographs. And, when we returned she said to my husband, that the best part of the trip was seeing a smile of pure joy of her mother’s face for an entire week straight. She knew she would see that smile on my face again at the PJ show. (ironically PJ took an audience fan request that night…a song called “smile”)

One thing I didn’t do this mother’s day, was visit my own mother. For once, in a long time, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to, but rather because it just didn’t fit into the day I had been planning for months. That might sound selfish but one thing that I’ve learned after years of trying to do it all to the point of my own mental and physical health, is you have to learn to say no. Given the physical toll the day was going to take on my handicapped husband, and myself assisting him, I knew our limits to the days’ activities. So something, the visit with my mom, had to give.

Quite honestly, a few months ago, when I made these plans, I couldn’t even imagine that I would want to see her on this day. I have a very strained and complex relationship with my mother. My early childhood memories of her consist of her buying me pretty things--fancy dresses, shoes and accessories and styling my long straight auburn hair—basically making me up like a baby doll. But, damn do I look good in my baby pictures!

Essentially, during this period, I was a plaything to her and for the most part, I don’t recall her being there. Might be because she really wasn’t. She was institutionalized for a better part of my early childhood and in retrospect, those “baby doll” memories were special occasions—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving or rather, days she was allowed to participate in “home visits.” And, even when she was home for extended periods of time, she was more a babysitter. Most of my “mother” memories from this period are of my grandmother.

My grandparents obviously knew that my mother was sick. Seriously sick. Not her fault. She had serious emotional problems that in her young adulthood, she tried to escape through alcohol; then adding a baby to the mix, with no father in sight, when she was just 22 years old, certainly didn’t help matters. As luck would have it, my mother was diagnosed with MS when I was a year old. Needless to say in her fragile emotional state, she didn’t handle it well and made her first of many attempts to take her life.

Tough choices. My grandparents took me in as their own, but they still did try to do what was best for their daughter, get her the help she needed, and as a result gave her the space and autonomy they felt she could handle. After 13 kids, I can’t imagine they were particularly interested in adding one more to the bunch. They had good hearts, faith in God, and like most parents tried to nurture, guide and support their daughter as she struggled to recover and make a stable life for herself and their granddaughter.

So, when I was around four-years old, after they felt that she was stable enough, they let take that step toward autonomy. They let her take me out of the house and move out with their daughter Patty, who by that time also had an infant daughter, Michelle. My grandmother continued to watch both babies during the day and on weekends, as her daughter’s worked and partied like 20-something year-olds should. The best thing I can say about this “experiment” was that Michelle & I grew up sisters.

When I was eight, everything changed. On February, 13, 1977, during one of the worst blizzards on Cleveland record, my grandfather’s second stroke, at the age of 57, claimed his life. In October, eight short months later, my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer and lost her life on April 5, 1978, also at age 57. And, from that point on, I was left solely to the care of my mother.

All the Best Princesses have Mommy Issues

Fittingly, on the heels of Mother’s Day, LOST devoted an entire episode to the relationship a mother has with her children. The LOST community of believers was as divided about this episode as the pitting between good and evil which has played this season. Some called this episode an epic failure…jumped the shark….too many unanswered questions. Or more succinctly, too many new questions raised without any answers and we’re only a few episodes away from the SERIES finale!

“Others” like me, were mesmerized by this episode and ranked it among the best ever. Although I will agree that the casting was horrible, the acting flat (I mean seriously if Terry O’Quinn doesn’t win the Emmy this year—they should just cancel that award show), and the dialogue at times was forced. However, the very “fabric” of the piece intrigued me and I spent the 45+ minutes watching absolutely glued to screen and the donkey wheel in my head was spinning.

Maybe it’s because I have a TON of mother issues. But, for a very long time I’ve had a fascination with the mother figure or more pointedly, the absence of strong mothers, in popular culture.

In fact, my first published and public work as a Shakespearean academic scholar was on this very subject. Hard to believe given his status and influence in English Literature, but Shakespeare, in his time, was considered a low base “artist” and rose to the status of a “pop icon.” Oh what People and US Magazine would do today to the Bard. His barroom brawls, mistresses, subject matter and cross-dressing at the theater!

One common theme in his works is the conspicuous absence of “mother.” There are only few “mothers” in his works, most notably Gertrude (Hamlet) and Hermione (not the Harry Potter character, the mother in the Winter’s Tale). Not very flattering characters.

More than a century or two or three later (okay I’m into words not math!), another low-base artist (animator) named Walt Disney rose to “pop culture” icon status…Is Disney not the GREATEST pop icon brand ever! In all of his works the mother is conspicuously absent as well. Bambi’s mom dies. the evil “step-mother” looms in Snow White and Cinderella, and where the hell is Ariel’s mother to warn her of the dangers of falling in love with a human in the Little Mermaid? And, those mothers who do exist, Aurora’s mom in Sleeping Beauty for example, are marginalized.

And, then there is LOST. Arguably the best show in today’s popular culture whose writers certainly don’t occupy the status of a JK Rowlings, Stephan King, or Dan Brown (the best sellers of our times). In the first episode there is the pregnant Claire who was warned about her having a baby raised by another, Rousseau who had her baby stolen from her and then went crazy, Eloise Hawking, a mother who seriously has some f-ed up motives, and the mystery of why woman can’t carry to term on the Island, etc.

Ironically, LOST devoted an entire episode (and a series to, Christian Shephard, Ben Linus, Anthony Cooper, Pierre Chang, and Charles Widmore) to “all the best cowboys have daddy issues” but it seems to me that all the best “princesses”—yes that is what all us daughters have been conditioned to believe we should become—have mommy issues.

Happy Belated Mother’s Day. Can’t wait for the finale.