Thursday, August 18, 2011

Deja vu and Comfort Food

"This feels like deja vu," Dad remarked as we sat in the Stanford Medical Center waiting room while Rhonda was meeting with the surgeon.

"I remember reading that deja vu means you might be uncomfortable in a situation and so you feel as if you have experienced something already as a way to feel more at ease," I rattled on as I studied the Better Homes and Garden design of this rich, long hallway full of separate waiting areas for each office.

"Everytime I am in a hospital, it always feels like deja vu," he added. 

Seems like our lives have been spent a lot in hospitals these past two decades.  From Mom's Cancer Year, to his step-father's ongoing battle with prostate cancer, to his mother's stroke, to losing first great-grandchild JaRon prematurely, to his heart problem last November, and now to his wife's chronic heart issues ~ hospital waiting rooms have become like a family room to us.

But this time it was different.  This time it was Rhonda.  His sweet first born.  My older sister.  My surrogate mother in many ways since Mom's death.

This time it was Rhonda who has never had surgery in her life.  This time we knew it really could not be cancer, but could it?  Could she be one of the 2.5 in a million persons whose growth inside her leg was really cancer?  I refused to even go there, but hearing that she had to have a 14 1/2" incision just to clear out this large growth was still alarming.

I know my sister is scared.  Scared to go under the knife.  Scared of the pain during a four week recovery.  Scared of something going wrong.

There are no magazines in this sterile yet so richly decorated waiting area.  And so you just keep talking during the wait.

We talked about how close in age Rhonda and I are now to Mom's age when she died.  We talked about our fears for Rhonda and her kids.  I saw how I was possibly in denial that Rhonda could have cancer, but that Dad clearly envisioned the possibilty of losing his eldest daughter.

We talked about where we were going to eat afterward for lunch.  How he had given her two choices ~ The Cheesecake Factory or Harry's Hofbrau ~ as a way to have something to look forward to after the appointment.  Two restaurants that we rarely have to chance to visit.

Doctor said he was 99.9% certain that it's not cancer.  Just by the look on the cat scan.  Now we prepare for her surgery and recovery in two months. 

She gets to celebrate her 50th birthday next month without being on crutches.  Her youngest son and his fiance get to still take her to Cache Creek for a soul concert in early October.  And, oh, yes, she can cover up her gray hair once more before the big day.

But first it was off to Harry's.  For once good dose of comfort food.  Turkey and gravy, pastrami, potato salad, macaroni salad, pickles, and apple pie.

"We can order one turkey and one pastrami sandwich, Rhonda, and then we can each have a half of each, and Robin, I'll order you the senior turkey dinner which comes with two sides and a jello!" Dad described so joyfully during the car ride, making our mouths water with each mention of comfort food.

"Your mom always used to order the potato salad, and I would get the macaroni salad at Sam's Hof Brau in Sacramento," Dad remembered on the way over there,"so let's get one of each, too."

And in that moment, I remembered the woman who left us so long ago ~ who was once young and vibrant as my sister is today.  

I felt her presence in that fancy Stanford waiting room during Dad's deja vu moment, and I felt her presence now as we headed off to Harry's Hofbrau to be comforted by food and by memories of our family ~ with the man who has kept the family together for so many years ~ throughout so many hospital visits ~ and so many losses along the way.

And then I knew that deja vu was just another way of Mama saying "Hello from The Big Sky" ~ that "I am still here with you ~ through each of these hospital visits ~ with every bite of comfort food ~ with every struggle you are facing today ~ yes, I am still here as I have always been ~ loving you ~ comforting you ~"

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Futile Attempt

There was only one moment.

My only attempt.

To break free.

The only moment came during a fit of rage.  Rage that went on for hours and hours.  To this day, I do not remember if the abuse had turned physical yet as it had as I entered my second year with him.

But the rage was there all four years.  Verbal abuse of the most vulgar kind.  Words that slammed me just as viciously as his fists.  Words that degraded me, humiliated me, stomped away any shred of me ~ those words I listened to every day for four years.

"Shut the f up!"

then

"Shut the f up you f-in ________________ (insert b word, c word, or w word)!"

then

"Shut the f up you fat, f-in  ________________  (insert b word, c word, or w word)!"

I can't really write those words down today without hearing his voice all over again shouting them directly to my face like a drill sergeant.

But in that moment ~ of fitful rage ~ I found the courage to run from him and try to leave with the clothes on my back just like I had heard other women having to do.

But I needed to take more than just me and the clothes on my back.

I need to get Lil' Red, my beloved orange marmalade tabby cat who had been with me for nearly 12 years now.  There was no way he would be left behind. 

He had his own room ~ a tiny sunroom with a sliding door to the main house that I would close abruptly each time the abuse started to drown out the drama as best as I could.  I would close the curtains and pray that Lil' Red would stay sleeping and not wake up during my ordeal.

This time I ran to Red's room, flung open the door, grabbed the cat carrier, scooped up my baby, and quickly pushed him inside his sanctuary from the chaos of this moment.

I fumbled for my purse and my car keys and headed toward the back door to the alley.

But suddenly there was the man ~ with his giant fists ~ grabbing the cat carrier away from my grip ~ and while yelling and screaming his vulgar words ~ he shook the carrier back and forth ~ not too hard at first ~ but threatening to shake harder and harder.

Shake, Shake, Shake!!!

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!  Give me back my baby! Let us go! Don't hurt my baby, please!!!" I pleaded with the man who would not stop yelling and shaking my baby's carrier back and forth.

I  knew what I had to do in that moment to protect my baby.

I bowed down ~ with my words ~ I gave in to the abuser and the abuse.

"Okay, I will not leave!  I'm not leaving!  I'm sorry!  Please don't hurt Lil' Red!"

He gave me back the carrier.  And left the sunroom.

I stayed with Lil' Red.  Took him out of the carrier.  Held him tight.  Told him I was so sorry. 

"I'm so sorry Lil' Red, my precious boy.  Mama's so sorry."

I slept in Lil' Red's sunroom that night.  Spooned with my boy.  Comforted my wonderful companion of nearly 12 years.  Told him I would try harder next time.  I would try to figure out another way to get us out of here.  I gave him my promise. 

On that night, the sunroom became our sanctuary, and I would retreat there for long nights after other episodes of abuse.

Three years later, I remembered my promise to my precious boy as I put him in his carrier, loaded him into my Toyota, looked over my shoulder as I backed up the car down the alley, and never looked back.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Prisoner

I always felt like a prisoner in my abusive relationship, starting from the moment I found it impossible to break free after everything changed on the ninth day of our being together.

Two years had now passed, and my head had been bashed into the wall only a week earlier.  Here I was back with him even though we now technically lived apart.  I did not recognize my own self then and how I could remain with the man who had so violently hurt me just seven days earlier.  My life was surreal ~ the abuse was surreal ~ and the ability to break free seemed infinitely out of reach.

It suddenly hit me ~ how much I was truly a prisoner of my own life with him ~ as we headed toward a shady park one late summer night ~ with our junk food from Jack in the Box, his new puppy Jack, and his now nearly 15-year-old son in tow.  The evening was abuse-free ~ but as I entered that dimly lit park after hours ~ planted myself at a picnic table ~ watched Little Jack run playfully through the grass ~ as I started to eat my greasy tacos, I suddenly felt like Elizabeth Smart with the ability to physically run away from her captor but without the mindset to even try. 

The park was scary at night, and I remember seeing evidence of homeless living in the bushes.  The park was next to an apartment housing complex known for drug dealing.   I was more scared of the park than of him in that moment.  Why did he bring us here this late summer night?  Could we have not just eaten in the restaurant or even in the car?  Why had we driven 7 miles from Felton in the first place just for fast food?

Over and over in my head, I kept remembering young kidnap victim Elizabeth Smart going from park to park with her captors ~ shrouded under a veil ~ only mine was imaginary ~ my veil was my ability to be a good actress in public ~ to keep my secret hidden ~ so the abuse stayed hidden from family and from strangers.

I wanted to leave in that moment ~ knowing how viciously this man had attacked me just seven days earlier ~ how I had just spent three days recovering in a motel in Watsonville ~ how he chose where to move me down the alley to Bob's house ~ just so he could know where I lived ~ and still have his way with me ~ all while seemingly following "the rules" of the restraining order put on him by the sheriff ~as we began our journey together to get the case dropped.

Where was the little girl who ran for school president? Who sang in the choir? Who starred in the school play? Where was the little girl who dreamed of becoming a writer just like Jo did in "Little Women"?  Where did she go?

Why was she here in this park late at night with her captor and his son? Watching the most beautiful minature dachshund prance around so happily.  She could not find happiness in that moment because any shred of happiness was destroyed with every bashing to her head just seven days earlier.

She was lost along the way, but no one knew she was missing.