A Love So True

As Alannah Myles belts out her smoky, sensual tune, Black Velvet (if you please!) from my iPod, shadows and light from the window behind me playfully rise and fall on the wall by my computer. It's a quiet Friday at work. My mind wanders, imitating the ebb and flow of the shadows on the wall.

I seem to have lost my focus lately. Previously, I would be the first person in to work and the last one to leave. Not only did I throw myself into whatever needed to be done during the day, but I would also drag piles of work home week after week. The business owner and his wife seemed thrilled with my dedication. Soon the wife found no need to come in to help and the owner himself appeared only when it was absolutely required.

But distractions have overwhelmed me during the past two years, mostly due to my parents' ill health, as well as because I had been running a second business in another town in addition to this one. It had gotten more and more difficult driving there every week, but I did, no matter how many arms I broke (and break them I did, repeatedly – once both at the same time, but that's a story for a different time.)

Then there was the call telling me my dad was being rushed to the hospital after having a psychotic break on New Year's Day, during which he mutilated his own manhood in a misguided attempt to reassure Mom he would never have another woman besides her. I had to intercede on his behalf, playing a balancing act between getting him the help he needed and my sister's desire to have him locked away permanently.

Later that same year my mom fell head-first off the neighbor's porch. This was on Christmas Eve, prompting her to sing "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" in the emergency room. Laughter through tears ruled that night.

Mom lasted six months, during which time we struggled to help her regain her health. Night after night I would stay with her in the hospital, and then drag my weary body in to work. Mom's eye socket, cheek bone, and left hip were all broken, plus she had bleeding on her brain. She would have several battles with congestive heart failure, pneumonia and then an intussusception before it was all over.

She fought like a champ to live, even when she had to labor and gasp for breath, panic plainly written all over her face. How could we not help her strive for life, when she fought so valiantly against death? But death ultimately overcame her tiny, frail body on July 4. That evening as we drove home, my sister and I saw the most astonishing sunset we have ever seen, before or after. Vivid colors of orange, purple, red and yellow streaked over the coastal gulf's blue water. It seemed like a message from Mom via God – Don't worry, girls, I'm home!

Mom's struggle with life had refocused Dad. With the proper medication and psychiatric help his psychosis ultimately dissipated. His only desire now was to help Mom recover. Often he would spend more than twelve hours a day at her side. She would cry and pout and carry on when he had to leave at night, torturing the poor man with guilt. I have never seen a man as dedicated to any woman as he was during this time.

Eventually her pacemaker gave out. I was grateful that Dad could be with her when that time came, though he still often obsesses about it. Sixty-two years of constant togetherness were abruptly ended for them that day.

Dad did great for about a month after that. He worked around the house and yard, trying to keep busy. He would make his own oatmeal for breakfast, the Meals on Wheels van would deliver at lunchtime, and I made a schedule so one of us would be there every night to take him out for his evening meal. I also hired someone to help him with the cleaning and check on him during the day.

Soon, however, he became engulfed in grief. He quit eating and started spending his days in bed. One day I came to get him for his evening meal but he didn't respond to my knock on the door. I kept knocking and dialing his number frantically until finally, with great effort, he managed to get downstairs and open the door. He was very obviously not well. He struggled to walk. He had been throwing up green bile all day as well. I stayed with him through the night, dozing in the recliner. The next day I took him to see Margaret, a family friend and nurse practitioner, who knew dad well. She immediately called an ambulance and sent him to the hospital.

It took three ER visits and over 48 hours to finally get him diagnosed with stroke, which was my friend's initial diagnosis. During that time it got so bad that Dad eventually became violent and had to be strapped down, with one of us girls also holding him down, talking to him, fruitlessly trying to calm him down.

Even though Dad has never, ever, been a violent man, not only did he knock my niece to the floor, he also choked me and ripped the shirt of another friend of mine who happened to be a nurse there. Regardless of the massive quantities of sedative with which they dosed him, and in spite of six people hanging on to him trying to stop him, my skinny, octogenarian father still managed to get as far as the door. Two of the six were big, strong security guards, along with two of their largest male nurses.

It has been a long, slow road to recovery for him. It's taken every bit of the energy I have, getting him to the right doctors, making sure he had the appropriate care and medications, at times staying with him through the night. But today he's looking healthy and well, in an assisted living facility not far from my work. He still has his moments, when he wants to fight about the need to be anywhere other than living alone at home, driving his own car.

Last week I took Dad to Mom's grave site. When we turned toward the cemetery, a solid wall of yellow stood out like an exclamation point at the end of the road. As we neared the cemetery entrance, we realized that the gorgeous, sunny yellow wall was actually the graveyard, covered with wildflowers blooming in brilliant abandon. As we walked to her grave, not only did we see yellow, but also hues of blue, pink, purple and red intermingled. I can't help but think Mom had something to do with this.

Thanks, Mom. We love and miss you, too.

Personal Therapy

There is almost a full moon tonight. Riding home from Rockport, I look down as I cross the Harbor Bridge to see the orb's reflection in the ocean's blue water. As I look up, I see the lights of the city expanding across the horizon. I breathe in the night air and sigh -- almost home, almost home. A feeling of peace fills my soul.

However much tension I may struggle with daily, it never fails to dissipate from my body as I ride down the highway. No therapist can give me the same release from my burdens or match the sense of peace I derive from one hour on my Harley. As the engine roars beneath me, I realize my own strength and power.

I decide to cross through downtown before heading home. Rock and roll music emanates from one of bars. As I pull to a stop at one of the lights, a shiny, black SUV pulls up next to me. The driver grins at me, then his passenger pops her head out of the window, camera in hand, asking to take my picture. I pose for her with a smile.

As I head home for the night, I laugh to myself -- who would have thought this conservative-looking grandma would or could morph into a "rock star" biker!

A Unique Moment in Time

The boy is eight years old, with a reddish-blonde Mohawk and big front teeth. He is extremely tall for his age (like his daddy). For hours he runs, jumping and bouncing around energetically sans shirt, his long, skinny torso exposed to the April sun and breeze.

The old man is sitting on the back patio, sipping his coffee and chuckling at the shenanigans of the youngster. Peering over his glasses, he watches the boy intently. His demeanor is relaxed but alert, obviously enjoying the lazy Sunday afternoon.

Then the child stops and runs over to plop down in my lap. His manner suddenly becomes more mature. He questions the octogenarian about his experiences in World War II and the types of planes he saw, and then about a particular jet -- when and where was it first produced? The elderly man is startled by such an unexpected shift in attention. He hesitates at first, then answers, “Germany.” The lad confidently replies, “That’s correct!” and even supplies the appropriate year.

In the distance comes the sound of music – an ice cream truck is making its afternoon rounds. The neighborhood dogs howl in distress from the painful sound. I ask the young boy and his patriarch if they would like some ice cream. “Yes!” they both reply.

The mood becomes light and playful again. The youth quickly runs to the street to hold the ice cream truck for me while I grab my purse.

As they settle down to enjoy their frozen treats together, my eyes seem to be playing tricks on me. The old man now seems transformed to another time and place. If I squint a certain way in the afternoon light, I no longer see an octogenarian and his great-grandson, but two boys, both about eight years old, sharing a unique moment in time.

Taking care of Dad

At 5 minutes till 1, Dad yells, "It's 12:55, what is that?"

"Dad, it's an hour past midnight," I respond.

"Oh . . ."

At 3:15 he yells, "What time it be?"

"3:15, Dad, still nighttime," I answer.

At 4:00, I'm so soundly asleep he hobbles over and grabs my toe. "Is it time yet?" he asks.

"No, Dad, it's only 4 a.m.," I say. "Look outside. See, it's dark. That means it's still bedtime."

"Not always!" he yells back at me.

At 4:30 Dad is trying to dress again.

"Dad, it's only 4:30."

"Well ... so?"

"It's still nighttime, Dad."

He's clearly aggravated now, not understanding how it can still be night.

"I'm not gonna be around much longer!" he retorts.

At 4:45 he's up and trying to dress again. He is still not comprehending time's slow passage. Is it time for another mini-mental assessment?

He is up again at 5 a.m. I take the shirt out of his hands and direct him back to bed.

"Well, what time is church, anyway?" he asks.

For the 6th or 7th time I tell him today is Wednesday, not Sunday. "I go to work today, we don't go to church this morning."

"OH! Why didn't you say so!" he exclaims.

At 6:45 it's time to get up and dress Dad for breakfast and for me to get ready for work.

And now, he sleeps . . .

Waiting To Be Touched

For 30 nights he has worked, 13 hours a night, complaining all the while of the torture of climbing up and down the towers and the painful effect on his bad feet. Even though I know it has been hard on him, I admit rather guiltily that I've enjoyed the nightly pleasure of isolation, the freedom from his constant need to control.

Tonight he’s home. He quietly asks if I will go to bed with him. Although I fully know it will end in frustration for me, I acquiesce. Attempting to prolong the moment, I spend a period of time mindlessly watching TV. When I feel exhaustion overcome my body and I must move or risk dozing off in the recliner I finally get up and find my way in the dark to the bedroom. As soon as he senses my presence he turns his back to me, as is his custom, and as has been his custom for over a decade. The only physical contact he attempts is when he throws his lower leg over my ankles. Is this move meant to pin me down, or is it a small gesture toward making a somewhat impersonal connection?

How did we get here? At one time he eagerly awaited my return home from work. Once I got home we were constantly holding hands, hugging, reconnecting physically. This seemed to upset or confuse his daughters, so he began putting distance between us.

Somewhere along the line he became focused on pleasing himself exclusively, his desires stoked by porn and multiple partners -- my body, devoid of any humanity in his eyes, a mere tool for his use. Intent on regaining some kind of emotional connection, I insisted on intimacy being between only the two of us and banned the porn. Thereafter, he refused to acknowledge any physical attraction for me.

From his own admission it seems this is not the first time he has behaved in this manner. His previous wife sought a lover when she tired of the emotional and physical distance he put between them. We met soon after, and it appears he used me, flaunting my sexuality and physical attractiveness to make some kind of point, either to himself or her.

Even though I do not invite the attention, there have been times when other men have teasingly flirted with me in front of him. He loudly tells them to go ahead, because it will save him the trouble of dealing with my needs. The truth is that he never acknowledges that I have any needs at any other time, much less make any attempts to satisfy me. Nevertheless, I’m humiliated by this response.

In the building where I work there is a man who is not only ruggedly handsome, but also intelligent and charming. He seeks me out to greet me with warm hugs and light conversation. I have dubbed him "Sir Hugs-a-Lot." His attraction to me is obvious, but his behavior continues to be professional. Next week he will move out of state, meaning this temporary “fix” for my skin hunger will vanish. I will soon be completely deprived of any kind of physical closeness.

So tell me -- is it possible to have any kind of happiness in life when you feel like the human equivalent of a dirty dish rag, when it it appears that my fear of becoming "untouched" has now become reality?