Chemotherapy Circle

Mom had her first chemotherapy appointment the day after Easter.

I always remember the date of that particular Easter ~ April 3,1994.  Really the last day before her cancer journey was in full swing.

We all joined Mom on that first day.  Dad, Rhonda, Randy, and I.  Yes, Middle Child Me ~ The Worrier ~ The Fretter ~ The Emotional One ~ who somehow showed such strength around a woman who clearly was terrified about what was about to happen.

Reclining chairs ~ all in a circle ~ and hanging I.V. bags just waiting to drip.  I squeezed in beside her as Dr. P started to hook up the tubes.  I noticed he never used gloves and that bothered me then.  Today it would not bother me now to know his human touch made my mother more at ease  ~ more than any risk of infection from her not feeling rubber fingers on her wrist.

Still, at the moment he inserted the needle, she bit her lip and started to sob.  

"Oh, My God!" she wailed.

"Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry.  I love you.  We're all here for you.  We'll help you through this," I whispered to her gently.

But she knew.  The nightmare had officially begun.  The poison that would try to kill the cancer would end up making her even sicker than she already was.  Yes, the nightmare had truly begun.

Once the tears had subsided, we made the aquaintance of another cancer patient, Dear Phyllis, Stage 4 Breast Cancer which had already spread to the bone.  She was tall like Mom with short, sassy hair and a mom to two 12-year-old daughters ~ her own daughter and the daughter of her husband Geoff.  Geoff worked at Union Grove Music downtown.  He was with Phyllis for part of her appointments.  When he left for work, Phyllis would talk up a storm with all of us ~ ever so cheerful and upbeat ~ that the time would pass more quickly with all of her good energy in the room. 

Phyllis was the light that we needed on one of the darkest days of our lives.

We would see Phyllis on each cycle of Mom's chemotherapy and get to know a little more about her husband and daughters.  Her husband was Jewish; she was Christian.  He had adopted her daughter after they got married.  I think I remember she was a school teacher.

On Mom's third cycle of chemotherapy, Phyllis told us that Dr. P was trying a new "Chemotherapy Cocktail" because all the other drugs had stopped working.  She said she was sleepy that morning from the Benadryl she had to take during the infusion.  Phyllis fell sound asleep and did not chat with us that session.  Her snoring soon took over where her chattiness had ended.

I felt that familar feeling come over me ~ that I knew the end was near ~ for Phyllis this time ~ I just knew this would be the last time we saw Phyllis.

And so the call came just before 9:30 a.m. a couple of days before Mom's next chemotherapy appointment.  Dr. P was calling to tell us Phyllis had died.  Mom was in the shower.  And through my tears, I wanted to desperately pound on the bathroom door and tell her that Phyllis was dead.

I paced the upstairs hallway ~ back and forth ~ listening to the sound of the water pouring out the shower ~ knowing Mom did not even have one single lock of her beautiful wavy hair to even wash anymore.

I wanted to tell Mom right away because in my heart, I knew my dear mother was next.  Next in line.

Next in line to fall asleep during her chemotherapy appointment.  To rapidly deteriorate.  And then to have us call people to tell them she had died.

I hugged Mom as she got out of the shower ~ towel on her head as if she still had hair ~ and broke that news that Dear Phyllis had died that morning.  Mom took it well, but of course she knew, too.

The Chemotherapy Circle had been broken.

One by one, the patients went to the hospital or went home to die.

No more chatting while poison was dripping into their veins.

Chatting like life would somehow still be okay despite all this madness.

No more Mom bringing the staff and the patients a basket full of snacks from Costco ~ little fruit rolls and Quaker Granola Bars.  Something to take the edge off during the long hours of poison infusion.

Because Mom could barely walk an inch the next time we took her to Dr. P's.  He took one look at her, ordered a wheelchair, and then had us take her to Dominican.  The end was here.  She was never coming back.

There would be no more chemotherapy.  Just pain control.

A different kind of drip.  The Morphine Drip.  Where she could push her little Jeopardy-like game button and give herself a jolt of drugs.  Swoosh the medicine right through her veins.  And make herself fall asleep within a few minutes. 

A Peaceful Snore to my ears.

"Be careful how you touch her

For she'll awaken

And sleep's the only freedom

that she knows ~"

From "Wildflower"



You Know My Name. Not My Story.

"You know my name. Not my story."

I saw the statement above on Facebook.

My blog has generated a few Facebook friends from across the miles ~ ladies who are survivors of domestic violence like me ~ kind souls I have never met but feel a kinship through this common bond of survival.

One of them shared the quote above, and the words really resonated with me.

I worked so hard to finally share my truth, but I feel that so many people in my life that I want to know this truth find it too emotional to read my words.  So my blog sits in cyberspace generating hits from strangers around the world, and I cannot even share my own story ~ even verbally ~ to some of the people I spent so many years hiding this truth from on a daily basis.

I thought I had ended "My Silence on Domestic Violence" (to quote Dr. Phil), but have I really ended my silence if my truth is still unread even after a whole year of stories?

I carry this burden with me lately.

I think about printing out the blog and giving copies away at Christmas.  Would that be bizarre to give away stories about Mom's dying from lung cancer and my getting my head bashed into a wall a mere 9 years after her death?

But how else am I going to get people to know my truth?

The subject of domestic violence still seems forbidden to discuss face-to-face.  Is it simply too uncomfortable, or do people just simply do not want to know what happened to me?

I question it all.

Or maybe it does not matter that only a few family members and friends want to know my truth ~ and that the people that need to hear my words the most are those ladies that went through a similar ordeal and then became my friend on Facebook?

They know the real me even though we have never met.  They had the courage to survive, so they have the courage to read my story.

They know my story.

They lived my story.



A Kiss to the Sea and the Sun

It's starting a little earlier this year.

The inexplicable tears.

Until I realize later, they were for her.

How can it be that my sister and I will soon be the same age as she was when she died?

How is that possible?

Where did all those years go?

I wrote so much about Mom last Christmas that I really hope the season goes more smoothly this year.

I know I am thinking about her earlier this year because of Rhonda's surgery.  In just 10 days, my sister will have a tumor cut out of her leg.  99.9% certain is not cancer.

But I am suddenly getting more scared for her.  Going under the knife.  The anesthesia.  The lengthy recover period afterward.

I have been driving around Capitola and Soquel a lot these past two weeks.  And so, the flashbacks of my mother are centered around our early days spent discovering the neighboring towns of Aptos.  We are all young again.  Mom is younger than what I am today.  Rhonda's boys are babies and toddlers.  And although life had many difficulties even then, our world seemed so much simpler.  We hung out so much more often.  Little lunches at that old Mexican restaurant in Capitola Village ~ El Toro Bravo ~ followed by a shopping spree at Rainbow City Limit for James Dean pins and new stationery ~ Suzy's  Zoo with all the cute animals.

I find myself screaming out loud in Rhonda's old van ~ that she has generously let me borrow for two years ~ as I drive through the winding streets of Soquel and Capitola.

"Why, Mom, why?  Why did you have to leave us?" I wail like a wounded animal.

We need her back for this latest obstacle.  And I get so mad that the damn cigarettes claimed her life.

So I go from screaming and crying to misting up and smiling as the memories come flooding back to the good times of the 80s and early 90s exploring these quaint little towns.  The ocean is beautiful on these autumn days, and I spend my road trip blowing kisses to the sea where she now lives.  Her ashes scattered three miles out from her Beloved Boardwalk.

"Love you, Mom!"  I whisper out loud, blowing three kisses at a time.

Trying desperately to keep the spiritual connection alive in my heart and my soul ~ feeling her beside me in everything I do ~ a friend to rely on during every obstacle I face ~

And so, the memories of my mother's cancer journey are not what come to mind this time ~ no, it is of her alive and well and happy and full of energy and adventure and humor and hugs and kisses ~

"Miss You, Mom!"  I shout out at the next peek of the ocean as I continue my journey back Santa Cruz.  The sun is so bright it almost hurts my eyes.  I feel her warmth, her touch, her arms around me in my time of need.

I blow a kiss to the sea and the sun ~ 

Mist up and smile ~

And carry on ~

Deprivation

I was deprived of the most basic human needs during my four years with him.

Food.  Sleep.  Warmth.  Regular contact with the outside world ~ particularly my family.

He monitored my food intake ~ especially in public.

I walked past Marianne's Ice Cream the other day and flashed back to a visit we took there after his A.A. or N.A. meeting in Santa Cruz.  Everyone in the small group that joined us after the meeting was ordering either double scoops or sundaes.  But he made sure I only had one scoop.  And so I finished mine first and watched the others happily enjoying their dessert.  He made sure I knew his limit for me was because I was already fat ~ which I wasn't ~ but in his eyes, I should look like the scrawny, cocaine-addicted girlfriends of his past.  His exact reference.

Many nights I would be kept awake with all of his crazymaking.  The lengthy verbal confrontations of the most ugliest of kind.  Vulgar words.  Rehashing the past over and over again.  Making demands.  Over and over again.  All through the night.  Until nothing made sense anymore.  And until I was simply too tired to even care.

He made sure I was cold at night.  He would never let me sleep in anything warm.  I had to sleep in the way he saw fit.  And some nights in the Santa Cruz Mountains were very cold even with a little warmth from the wood stove.

He made sure I rarely saw my family.  Time spent with my family is a blur of sorts ~ with many holidays in the beginning only being spent with him.  I remember he chaired a Thursday evening A.A. meeting held at the youth center, and he came up with a "Just Desserts" theme for the meeting that fell on Thanksgiving night.

He was so happy to come up with this theme that he made posters to try to get more people to attend.  His young son and I followed him around Safeway on Thanksgiving Eve as he joyfully picked out dessert after dessert for the lavish spread.  The tears were trickling down my cheeks as I walked behind him knowing I would not see my family the next day.  I felt like I was in a trance following him around the bakery, quickly wiping away my tears in order to not get caught. 

I should be happy, I told myself, helping him prepare for this special meeting.  But even though his A.A. and N.A. meetings were my only consistent contact with the outside world ~ other than work ~ I was not a member, having never touched drugs or alcohol in my life ~ I was just a tag-along ~ only spending time in his world tucked away in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

But mostly I wanted my family in that moment.  I wanted my mother to be alive and for all of us to be younger again and celebrating Thanksgiving together at Nanny's ~ long before my life had become this nightmare.  Before I become so terribly isolated from the people who actually cared about me.  I wanted to turn back the clock to what seemed to me then as simpler times.

As I watched him putting pies, cakes, and cookies into the cart, I envisioned his reprimand when I reached for a treat tomorrow.

I could hear him scolding me, always using the word "fat" followed by the "b" word, the "c" word, or the "w" word.

Because abuse never took a holiday.

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 ~"

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.

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.