Before I continue with the narrative about my stepfather, I have to share a bit about my husband. And probably the best way to sum it up is the following quote, “Children learn what they live.” What do I mean by that, you ask? Well, speaking in metaphors, I married my stepfather. Huh? No, not literally because that would be gross and twisted. Yuck! I didn’t get myself into a Woody Allen/Soon Yi situation; however, I did marry a man who possesses many of the characteristics of my stepfather. Far too many. I love him dearly, there is no doubt, but I think I chose him because he was so ‘familiar’. There are significant differences between my husband and father #2, primarily the fact that I chose him and he chose me, we love each other, and he is willing to change his less-than-desirable behaviors when I bring them to his attention. But that doesn’t mean that ‘all is well’ in our household. I’ll get deeper in the weeds regarding that on a later date.
On my last post (Part Four), I brought up my mom and how she essentially ‘checked out’ in order to survive. Physically, she was present but I cannot account for the other unseen parts of her. I know when she’d arrive home after a long day’s work, she’d dutifully prepare dinner, but there wasn’t much ‘engaging’ apart from that. And once her mother moved in, I didn’t think our home life could get any more stressful, but it did…in leaps and bounds. The years 1982-1984 dealt my mother some major blows, and how she got through them, I’ll never know. It was as if the Universe got wind of the quote by Friedrich Nietzsche, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” and decided to test it out on my mother. It did not come in the form of earthquakes or tornadoes or hurricanes or typhoons; it came in the form of beyond-difficult personal hardships that far exceeded those she’d already dealt with and overcome.
Hardship #1 involved my sister, Diabolical Debbie (DD). The short version of this very long story is that she got knocked up by a guy she met at a bar and then proceeded to use the child she had (M&M) as a pawn to control and manipulate my mother and stepfather. The year was 1982. Had she put her child’s needs ahead of her own, she would have raised her with love and care. That didn’t happen. DD never completely took to her role as a mother and as a result, my mother and stepfather had to step up and take on the role as secondary caregivers at least 50% of the time. Ultimately, that meant having to be completely responsible for their granddaughter by providing a home, financial support, emotional support (though it did little good) and all other facets of raising a child. My sister would have her daughter for a while, grow tired of the responsibility, hand her off to my parents, and then after a period of weeks or months, demand her back. This went on for years.
Hardship #2 involved my maternal grandmother. During her three year stint as a grumpy houseguest, she gradually lost her mind. I think the final straw for my mother was the day her mother decided to ‘wash the walls’ (aka smear her feces) throughout the main bathroom. Her dementia was so advanced by then that caring for her adequately was no longer possible. Initially, she required very little. She had full use of the facilities, plenty of food to eat, a bed to sleep in, a nightstand to store her accoutrements (‘smokes’, lighter, Kleenex, flashlight, inhaler, a cup to soak her dentures in, etc.), a dresser for all her unmentionables, a closet to store her clothes and shoes in as well as all the items she pilfered, and a room off the kitchen built exclusively so she could enjoy her ‘smokes’ in peace whenever she wanted. In time, however, her needs and abilities changed to the point where my mom had to look at other options. After the bathroom incident, my grandmother was moved into a nursing facility. She died weeks later. The year was 1983.
And what so often happens, when you think life just can’t get any harder, it does. At least, that was the case with my mom. What happened next (Hardship #3) forever changed her and for a time, the light left her eyes. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. It had only been a matter of months since she buried her mother, when the phone rang. I’ll never forget the day because it’s the one affiliated with bad luck, Friday the 13th. The person on the other end of the line, I believe it was a state trooper, called to inform her that her daughter had been killed in a car accident. Her first born, my oldest sister, was gone. After that call, I have to admit, life’s a bit of a blur. My sister lived in another state so my mother went there to retrieve her things and arrange for transport of her body. Shortly thereafter, a funeral was held, followed by a graveside service, whereby my sister’s body was laid to rest at the site originally designated for my mother and stepfather. The year was 1984.
I’ll be honest, I wasn’t much help at the time. I was sixteen, hormonal, and pretty self-consumed. The relationship with my stepfather had actually gotten worse, a moratorium on speaking to one another had taken place a couple of years earlier, so I used every excuse in the book to avoid being ‘home’. My mom was so broken and filled with despair that although she occupied a space within it, she was essentially ‘gone’. It was then that I began a new chapter in my teendom by, as Johnny Lee famously sang, “Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places.” Oh, Johnny, if only you knew! And here is where I must say, “Adieu.” The clock struck midnight a while back and I’m starting to turn into a pumpkin so I’m going to be on my way before I wind up in a pie. As always, thanks for stopping by and reading a bit about my life. After glancing over what I wrote, I can’t help but admire my mom. She wasn’t perfect by any means, but she stayed the course and held her head high. And as she’d often say, she did the best she could. Considering everything, I’d have to agree.
