Days turn into years

As the worries are subdued

by the lull of the day-to-day

And we “survive another day”

But is the point merely to survive?

We medicate so as to regulate.

God forbid we not prescribe for the

suppression of depression.

Call your doctor!

For surely there’s a pill

For what’s making your mind ill.

When I was 17, my mother needed surgery. It was the 1st time I had ever heard that you could have a hysterectomy. I was ecstatic. I didn’t want to have children, at least not that way. I wanted to adopt. I had no desire to bear children. My mother was shocked and appalled when I asked if I could also have my uterus out when she had hers out. Or maybe after she’d recovered.

It took a while for it to truly sink into my sometimes thick skull that doctors do not remove organs just because.

So, I’ve suffered with this damn useless and highly irritating set of organs for over twenty years. If I could have donated my reproductive system to someone who actually wanted it, I would have done so in a heartbeat. It’s not that I want it to rot … I’d prefer that it be useful. But I will never use it. So why must it plague me every month? And I don’t mean just the typical “gee-I’m-bleeding-for-3-to-7-days.” I mean the wretched kind of pain where your uterus is a damned alien parasite trying to claw its way out of your body to terrorize the rest of the world.

But, because my pain tolerance is so high and because the early laparoscopy didn’t show a big enough adhesion to count to the insurance company, I’ve dealt with this for some twenty-five years after the pain started and more than thirty years after I knew I wouldn’t ever use the damned thing.

So, I went to my new doctor with my new insurance and told her of the issues. You don’t want to hear the gory (literally) details of the last couple of years. Trust me, you really don’t.

But the doctor got side-tracked. She thought thyroid, which still might be an issue. We ran a pelvic ultrasound to take a look-see.

But in running the blood tests, she discovered that my liver levels were a little high. We ran the blood test again and still the liver levels were a little high. So she sent me in for an upper-GI ultrasound as well.

To be honest, I was far more scared of this. Have I somehow been drinking too much? Taking too much Advil? Both together have destroyed my liver?

I knew I was taking it too far. I knew I was being paranoid. But hey, after you’ve survived cancer – even for 10 years – you kind of get paranoid about such things.

The day of the ultrasound, things went well. The tech, near the end of the test, finally asked if I was feeling any pain – in that quizzical voice that said she hadn’t found any reason for this test. No, I told her. I had no pain, but my liver blood test was a tad high.

I didn’t tell my husband about this.

I mean, he knows I’ve been having problems. He’s knows that there’s been pain and “irregularity,” as they say. But I didn’t tell him about the liver levels. And I didn’t tell him that I had to go in to have an upper GI ultrasound – specifically to look at my liver.

The doctor called today to say the liver ultrasound was normal – as I was pretty sure it would be after the tech’s reaction seemed to indicate everything was normal. I mean, I pretty much expected it. I didn’t really think the liver was the issue ….

I was still startled at just how relieved I’ve been since the doctor called to say the liver test was normal. So much so that I almost didn’t notice that I have a 3cm fibroid … and a disturbing “irregularity” on the left ovary.

So, in a lot of ways, I’m happy. I mean, it’s looking pretty hopefully that I can finally have the hysterectomy that I’ve always wanted. But there’s also a nagging fear. That “irregularity” in the left ovary … is it cancer? There is zero history of cancer in my family … I’m the only one who has ever had cancer. What if I get hit with another type?

I’m honestly too tired at this point to fight cancer again. If it’s just the fibroids, cysts and endometriosis, everything is golden. Easily fixed, relatively speaking.

But a part of me hopes that it is cancer. I’m tired. I mean I’mreally, really tired. I’d like to rest now. My entire life has been one long fight after another. I’d really like to rest now.

Please?

And at the same time, not completely ready to give up either. I just need a break.

My father stopped drinking when I was 13.

I’ve never felt that he owed me an apology.  Except maybe for keeping his secret.

As a child, we all just want to fit in.  I’d go to school and NOT hear stories of other children’s fathers missing dinner and arriving home well past midnight drunk and screaming.  So I’d not mention it either.

I learned to get cautious when 6pm rolled around and my dad wasn’t home yet and my Mom wouldn’t let us eat—holding her dinner for us all to eat as a family.  Then 7pm would arrive and she’d tell us to eat.  As she nervously keep herself, her hands, busy.  Then 8, 9, 10. Bedtime for us.  An unusual quiet would have fallen on the house.  No laughs at the sitcoms.  No questions of where he was.  We all knew: Getting sloshed.

Then we’d be awoken by his screams.  Even with my mother closing our bedroom door and hallway door, you could hear my father bellowing angrily at my mother.  I never caught WHAT he was ever angry about.

I never told my friends about the nights my mother packed us up and took us to a seedy hotel on the highway where we’d duck in the backseat so the hotel clerk would not know a woman with four children was checking in, in case my father called looking for us.  Nor did I tell my friends about the nights we rushed off to my grandparents.  None of us kids talked about it to our friends or to each other.  We held the secret.

When we went to my father’s great aunt and uncle’s house after a particularly bad incident, I thought it finally meant my parents were divorcing.  We didn’t stay just one night, and we’d NEVER gone to a relative of my father’s.  Oh, how naive I was.  His family spoke of my family’s Catholic faith and my mother’s duty as a wife.  Yes, of course it was expected that my father would be penitent.  But return to him, she must.  And she did.

Thirteen years.  Thirteen years that was my normal.  I blocked out the physical abuse my siblings assure me was a part of this ritual.  I still flinch when my husband yells at our son, involuntarily being reminded of the spontaneous yelling my father did that indicated worse was in store.

And for another 30 years, I’ve not discussed my father’s secret.

When he gave up drinking, that habit was replaced with another, more socially acceptable but just as oppressive for his family.  We don’t discuss that with outsiders either.

I never felt I needed to forgive my father for his drinking.  It just WAS.  I had a good childhood, was well provided for, had friends.  But deep down, even now, there is anger, hurt, pain and unforgiveness.  Not for the drinking but for the lies we told—or rather for the facade we gave that told the lie.  For the secret we were dutifully expected—and did—keep.

The issues with my father are different now for me.  But scratch deep enough and the issues aren’t different.  He can say, do as he wishes and we are expected to hold our tongues and be dutiful as his children.  When we speak up, out, there is fallout.  Sometimes just for a few days, sometimes for years.  For my oldest brother who witnessed the longest of my father’s drinking, that fallout lasted a decade.  And is still on shaky ground.

How does one heal unilaterally?  How does one learn not to flinch?  How does one overcome the damage of secret-keeping?  And yet keep a family together?

My wife and I are both children of alcoholics.  “They” claim that because children of alcoholics see the havoc that is wrecked in their parents’ lives, that the disease skips a generation.  Meaning that though my wife and I may not become alcoholics, our children’s odds are not good.

That scares the hell out me.

Sometimes I feel I “need” a drink; other times, I “earned” it.  I have gone without any liquor for over a year, and so I know I CAN go without, but I admit that my life is better, more fully felt, more fully enjoyed, more appreciated, with the aid of a glass of wine.  Or half a bottle.

Lately, I’ve been drinking daily.  Not more than two, three tops, servings a day.  Not enough to leave me with a headache in the morning, but enough to make my sleep rattled.

And I know two a day isn’t terrible.  But each morning I wake up and say to myself, “None tonight.”  And as the afternoon wanes, I start to feel the itch.  What’s one glass of wine? Or one beer?  And thus I succumb.

And in the clear light of day, even the foggy haze of evening, I KNOW my “problem” (see how I put it in quotes to minimize it?) is nothing compared to what I grew up witnessing. My worst fear, however, is whether I (and/or my wife) have passed this alcoholism gene on to our children.  Is this to be their problem, too?  And is my current condition the worst I’d wish on them because in reality it is far better than what my spouse and I grew up with?

Aside from chosing to kick ALL liquor out of our lives, is there anything we can do to assure our children alcoholism will NOT be a part of their future?  Will it require us to have no booze in our lives ever?  And if so, can my wife and I truly kick the habit?  A habit that is bigger than the two of us apart, and maybe even the two of us together?

I proposed in my hospital room. Which, in retrospect, was probably not the wisest move I’ve ever made. I mean, yes, I wanted T to know how much I loved her, but talk about emotional baggage! Geez.

I can’t remember know, ten years later, if I had gotten the diagnosis which gave me a great chance of beating the cancer … or if I was still in the dark and pretty sure my number was up. At any rate, T said yes.

She also said she’d get the house all cleaned up. That she’d take care of me through the chemo we assumed would incapacitate me.

When I returned home from my hospital stay, the house was still a disaster; things were still everywhere; nothing had been cleaned.

Ten years later I still hear her utter words like “I’ll take care of the laundry” only to cringe, knowing that her idea of taking care of it means sometime before the apocalypse.

Since I was a young child, I’ve often worked through discomfort or outright pain.  Certain things simply need to get done. You can’t not feed the animals just because you stubbed your toe (that’s an exaggeration). But really, if you have to get to work and there’s 3 feet of snow behind your car, you can’t put down the shovel because your back is tired. Things need to get done.

I assumed when T said she’d clean the house and take care of me during my cancer, that she would do so. I was not just disappointed, but very hurt to discover nothing had changed when I got home. That she was embarrassed and apologetic, but claimed “she didn’t have time.”

Ten years later, nothing has changed and I realize now that I shouldn’t ever have expected it to. Instead of wanting to do more, she’s been spending 10 years trying to get me to do less. And like a fool, I tried to please her. Now trying to break out of my ridiculous lethargy and inertia is a process that I would never have believed could be so difficult.

Ten years later, I feel like a heel because instead of taking care of me when I was sick, it turns out she’s pretty much chronically ill and I’m tired of feeling like I’m the one who does everything. I’m not as sympathetic as I should be to someone who is ill or hurt or not feeling well because I don’t know how to cope with someone who is ALWAYS ill or hurt or not feeling well. She was supposed to take care of me, not the other way around. (I told you I felt like a heel at the beginning of this paragraph.)

I’ve said change or leave a couple of times now … but there’s always another legitimate medical excuse which restricts her abilities yet again. I’m not going to leave because she’s ill or hurt. That’s certainly not fair.

But I’m tired of feeling alone when it comes to chores … but painfully compromising nearly everything I love because I live with someone else.

And I’m tired of loving someone … and wanting to smack the laziness and inertia out of her at the same time.

I am the mother of three children under the age of five.  My husband and I both work.  My time is spent either alone with my children, with my husband and children, or at work.

The only alone time I get is when everyone is asleep before me.  I cherish this time, but find I pay dearly for it by being tired all day.

I love my family and even like my job.  And I realize that if I didn’t work, that time I spent at work would just be spent with my kids — I’d get no more alone time.

Before I got married, or even met my husband, I LOVED living alone.  I had wondered if I’d be able to be happily married sharing space.  I am happily married and can share.  But I find that casualty of alone time the hardest to bear.

I don’t want an afternoon to go shopping alone, or to get a pedicure.  I do enjoy getting a babysitter and having a “date” with my husband, but what I really long for, what I really dream of, is time alone where I don’t need to do anything.

But my husband’s schedule is just like mine.  He spends as much time with his spouse and the kids as I do.  He never seems to need alone time.  He’d prefer time alone with me, or friends, but not ALONE.

And so for me to ask him to give me a day away leaves me feeling shitty.  He’d oblige, and has obliged.  But I know he wonders what’s wrong with me.  It’s easier to ask for time to spend with a friend, or time to get that pedicure.  I think about lying about a pedicure just to be alone.  But I also want to be alone in my own home.  Kinda hard to ask my husband to watch the kids and do it away from their toys, food and nap-space.

So I just keep going.  Mothering, working, cleaning, being a wife.  And dreaming of being left all alone.

I feel like an alien or an outsider most of the time for a variety of reasons. But the main reason is: I don’t understand the desperate need/desire for sex.

It’s nice, I guess. I’ve had fun from time to time. It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed it. But there’s so much more that I’d rather spend my time on and sex seems to take so much frakking time. There’s work, housework, yardwork – the things we have to do.  Then there’s hobbies, interests, friends – the things we enjoy doing. If I made a list of all the things I enjoy doing, it wouldn’t even occur to me to put sex on the list. I can quite honestly go six months without having relations and not really notice it. That’s not really normal for a human being, mentally or physically, but it’s the way I am.

Of course, this puts a lot of stress on my marriage because my wife is from this planet. We’ve achieved an uneasy truce for now but I always feel that I’m failing her in an incredibly profound way. We talk about it from time to time and she claims it’s “okay” – she makes it clear that sex is more important to her than it is to me and that she does want it more frequently than I do, but that she’s committed to our relationship and this is just a part of that relationship.

Still, I feel I’m unfair to her and that’s not really okay with me. But it’s also not okay with me to waste tons of time on sex, either. I just can’t seem to find that happy medium.

When I was about seven, I found out what adoption meant. My cousin was adopted as an infant.

I was jealous. She’d been taken by a family who wanted her. I decided for a short while that I had been adopted. It was a fantasy I hung onto – an explanation of sorts, the kind that only makes logical sense to that kid. While I thought that Tamara was lucky to have a family choose to love her, I thought that I was adopted because your real flesh & blood would not do the kinds of hateful things that my parents did to me.

At the same time, I knew that I would never have a child of my own. Instead, I would adopt. I would rescue some other poor kid from a situation like my own.

That belief has been a core part of my being for over 30 years.

I am coming to understand that it will never happen. I am coming to understand that I have to stop having imaginary conversations with children I will never have. I’m not going to have the chance to explain life the universe and everything to some kiddo who thinks I’m wonderful one minute and furious with me for not letting them eat themselves sick on candy the next.

You have to understand, I am a man who prides himself on being capable, getting things done. I don’t break down. I don’t cry. I don’t lose it. I’m known for not losing it when everyone else is long past that point. And I’m tearing up right now writing this. The one certainty in my life, the one purpose that has kept me going was this intense concentration on what a wonderful dad I was going to be. Tough and understanding. My kids were going to love me. I still have letters I exchanged with a friend which described the alternative to Boy’s Town that we were going to build together. I have the letters, but I understand that she got married and lives somewhere in Colorado now, far from our native Iowa. Of course, I’m not in Iowa any more.

The truth of the matter is that it takes money to adopt. I don’t have any. Every time I think I’m getting close to “stable” (whatever that is, right?), I lose my job or my husband loses his. He blames it on bad luck or that people are scared of our competence. I think neither one of us understands politics well enough to protect ourselves.

He never wanted kids. He said repeatedly that I’m the only person he could see having children with. (Adopting, obviously) But I’m not sure I can see having kids with him. He’s impatient and pays little attention to his surroundings.

But even his shortcomings as a possible parent aren’t the real issue. The truth is, I don’t have the room. Each kid is supposed to have their own room. There’s not enough room for us in this house, how would we cram a kid in here? How to convince a judge or an agency that I’m a good parent, who just happens to get a career and lose it within five years? Twice, now. I’m tired of starting over. When I first get home from work, I want to retreat into silence for a while. My husband can’t understand that, how is a kid for whom I’m the primary caretaker going to understand that? I’m old now. I’m tired now.

It’s time to admit that the one certainty I’ve held onto damn near my entire life is simply not going to come true. It’s time to let go. It’s time to quit having those conversations with imaginary children who will never get a chance to say their part. Please God let them go to good homes who want them as much as I do.

Please.

I hadn’t planned on stealing that day.  I had previously reviewed the KitchenAid stand mixers on Consumer Reports and decided I wanted the bottom of the line.  I cannot bake.  I thought maybe a KitchenAid mixer was my last hope.  But I didn’t need to spend an extra $5o for attachments I’d never use.

I walked into the store and went to the back where the mixers were.  I saw two models–the one I’d come for and the next one up, worth an extra $50.  There was only one of the model I’d come for, and its box had been opened and taped closed.  I toyed with getting the upgrade but settled on grabbing the resealed box, and proceeded to check out.  As I was walking away from having paid, I told the cashier that I’d just realized the box was opened, and could I swap for one that was new?  He said sure.  I went back to the standing mixers and grabbed the upgrade.  I returned to the cashier who smiled and waved me away.

I walked out of the store not having paid the $50 for the upgrade.  By my inaction, I’d lied; I’d stolen.  And all the while, I thought, “You are a white woman. In a suit. Of course they won’t suspect you.  Walk like normal and don’t act suspicious.”  And I walked.  And kept walking even as the alarm went off as I left.  And even as a guard called to me.  When the guard caught up with me, I calmly explained I had swapped mixers after paying for it and they just needed to demagnetize this box.  She brought me to the customer service counter.

I continued to think, “Stay cool.  They will not notice.  And if they do, play dumb.  They won’t think you meant to steal.”  And the seconds passed like hours.  The cashier smiled and explained to the guard and customer service lady.  It’d all be as I suspected: I’d walk away scott-free with an upgrade.

And in that moment, that very moment I knew I’d get away with it, because, really, who steals an upgrade to a KitchenAid?–in that moment, it struck me.  And I thought, “What are you doing?  You don’t even WANT this model–you decided it wasn’t worth $50 to have this before you even came here today.  And the upgrade is black—it’ll stand out in your kitchen like a sore thumb, a sore thumb you’ll be reminded of ever time you see it.  It isn’t worth it. You can NOT do this.  You are better than this.”

“Oh, wait,” I said to the customer service woman as she had the wand in her hand to clear the magnet in my box so I could leave without setting off the alarms.  “This isn’t what I bought.  This one’s the wrong color.  Let me go get the one I want.”

I left with the resealed box.  And a lot of guilt.  I ultimately returned to the store that evening to swap for an unopened box (had I asked, they’d have told me they had more of the model for which I’d come in storage).

Every time I use the stand mixer, I remember that day.  I still have guilt.  And I still can’t bake.

I’m still incredibly angry at my brother for his drug addiction. The level of my anger is probably equal to that of my pride in him for asking for help, taking rehab seriously and getting himself clean.  Every day I say a little prayer he continues to find the strength he needs to stay sober and I’m truly happy for what he has accomplished.

That said, I’m still waiting for my apology. The real, heartfelt apology. I want him to know that it was me that called Mom every day, that tried to make her smile, reminded her she couldn’t control everything. My Dad travels a lot for work and it was me that she called when she’d find something suspicious. When she realized something didn’t add up., that money was missing, that he wasn’t answering his phone. She called me when she went to surprise my brother at work and he wasn’t there- hadn’t been there for a month-but had certainly left the house in his work uniform hours earlier.  I’m the one my parents told, in terse tones, that they were tired because they’d spent another night driving around looking for him in a bad part of town.

I wonder if he knows how many times I’d call his phone in a night, praying he would answer, so I could text my parents that I’d gotten ahold of him, that he was still breathing and living. I’m sure he was too high to notice the number of missed calls. I wonder if he knows how awful that phone call was, the one where the car had been found but his body hadn’t been. Of course, later, hours later after the rush to the car, the race to the interstate, the phone calls from the police we discovered he didn’t have his car that night, it wasn’t him that destroyed it, and somehow, miraculously all the occupants were ok.

I’m so proud of the man that he has become. I’m so proud that he overcame this. I’m happy we have normal conversations where we complain about work and talk about grandma’s latest antics. My brother, the one who barely spoke to me for three years apparently told his new wife that he aspires to be like me and that my accomplishments make him proud.

I’m proud of him too. I’d be prouder if he said he was sorry.