My Fear and Me

Last weekend, we went on a family getaway with our framily (friends like family) to Branson, Missouri. It’s a trip we’ve taken all together now four or five times over the lifetime of our friendship. The nine kids between us are very close – more like cousins than friends – and the grownups have been doing life together for 25 plus years. It’s quite something, and we are so grateful to have each other.

We spent all day Saturday at Silver Dollar City – an amusement park that harkens back to the 1800s with a Wild West theme in all the shows and rides. It’s a pretty great place to spend a day – especially in the fall when the Ozark Mountains are at their finest.

🥰 Framily 🥰

Over the years, the number of rides I’ve been able to ride has diminished to almost none. It’s been quite the loss to this thrill-seeker, and I’ve still pushed the limits of what my body can/should do by riding the smoother coasters and really anything that looks to be less bumpy and jolting than your average state fair ride.

Yes, I completely ignore and blow past the signs that warn those with back conditions to stay off the ride.

#eyeroll

Life is short, ya’ll, and my children have grown up too fast. #fomo

Silver Dollar City has been the last remaining park to have rides that my body could handle, with the exception of It’s a Small World at Disney World. #blarg

One ride, in particular, has been a favorite of the family/framily over the years – The Great Barn Swing. It’s a giant, mechanized swing that swings you seven stories high at speeds of up to 45mph. You are very tightly locked in, so it’s never caused me any physical pain. In fact, I rode it this summer when we visited the park with my brother and his family, and I had a blast. I loved the thrill; I loved the screaming; I loved laughing at my people as they experienced pure terror; I loved everything about it.

See me in the middle? I’m loving it, right? 😬

But this weekend, when I rode it again with our framily, I had a wholly different experience.

I sat next to Matt, who is like a brother to me, and was looking forward to screaming my head off with him. But as the ride began I was immediately overcome with overwhelming and irrational fear.

Ya’ll, it swallowed me whole.

I became convinced that my massive metal waist harness wasn’t secured adequately, and I JUST KNEW I was going to be hurtled into the atmosphere.

You know the phrase, “It scared the shit out of me!”?

Yeah.

No, I did not empty my bowels. But I will be grateful for the remainder of my days for the bit of self-control remaining to me in that moment that allowed me to hold everything in there.

My outward expression of fear, however, could not be controlled. I screamed alongside Matt – but his screams were about thrill, joy and laughter, while my screams were wrapped in abject terror over my impending death.

I decided that Matt was my best chance for survival, so I linked my arm into his and held on for dear life. I figured if my VERY SECURE harness gave way, I could just hold on to his arm to keep from dying…like somehow I would have the strength to keep my currently (and likely permanently 🙄) too-heavy body from being flung out across the amusement park.

Don’t laugh. This plan had substance.

When the Giant Barn Swing finally came to a stop, I could have cried real, actual tears of relief. I shakily made my way out of the ride area and gratefully collapsed onto my motorized scooter – a support I have previously accepted with a great deal of resistance, but in that moment I was completely content to stay there for the remainder of the day.

And, embracing the fullness of my fear in that moment, I resolved to never EVER ride that ride EVER again for the rest of my life.

See Molly behind me with her peaceful, happy self? She’s did NOT ride The Great Barn Swing. 🙄

My, how time changes us.

I’ve never considered myself to be a fearful person. In fact, I have actively spent my life pursuing and engaging in activities that most people avoid because of fear…and I have felt (too) much pride in being “fearless.”

Growing up, I was often referred to as the fearless tomboy in the family, and that identity felt comfortable to me.

Fear didn’t.

Fear doesn’t.

So my modus operandi has been to not just push past fear, but to push down fear and move on as if it isn’t even there.

It worked pretty well for me for close to 50 years.

But it doesn’t work so well for me now.

As I’ve moved into the latter part of the middle ages of my life, my ability to contain any significant (or even some seemingly insignificant) fear has all but disappeared.

What I mean by this is that now when fear arises, those typical fear responses in my body – shaking and clammy hands, threatening bowels, and tightness in the chest, to name a few – are magnified to a disabling level.

My body literally shuts down.

It’s just the worst.

It’s as if I’ve lost the capacity to be afraid.

But I don’t think that’s true. I think what I’ve actually lost is the capacity to repress my fear.

I think what’s most disconcerting about this change is my discovery that more often than not, my fear is induced by other emotions rather than the potential of actual physical harm.

My therapist once told me, “You are afraid of fear.”

This induced #alltheeyerolls.

And yet, she isn’t wrong.

This is not to say I’m immune to the fear of physical harm. But at one time I think I was. Sort of. Or…I was comfortable with pushing the limits of my body’s fear responses. I mean, for crying out loud, I spent years of my childhood risking life and limb by jumping off the roofs of houses, pulling crazy bike stunts, and climbing to the highest points of trees so I could measure my courage by jumping to the ground below.

It felt comfortable to be in danger.

It doesn’t feel that way now.

All this new insight hasn’t made it easier overall to embrace fear. No, resistance is still most often my first response. There’s a sense of shame that threatens to overtake me at the first hint of fear and my body’s responses to it. I think I’ve spent a lifetime conditioning myself to push down fear because I’ve convinced myself that fear is paralyzing and counter-productive.

And, true, it can be.

But it can also inform me.

I’m learning to be more accepting and kind to myself and to fear when it comes up in various circumstances. This shift is allowing me to begin to notice what actually triggers the fear response.

Is it fear of physical danger and/or a terrifying death like the aforementioned Giant Barn Swing induced?

Not usually.

Is it fear of the rapid decline that is taking place in my body and the limitations that come with this as the years go by?

Sometimes.

Is it fear of unfamiliar and uncomfortable emotions that arise when a childhood memory is triggered?

Often.

Is it fear of loss or fear of rejection and betrayal that comes up when engaging with the people I love?

Oh, for sure.

Now instead of resisting the fear that comes up, I’m learning to embrace it just like I did on the Giant Barn Swing – screaming like a banshee and holding onto my safe enough people for dear life, and then letting it guide me in my responses to the given situation.

Like swearing off thrill rides for the remainder of my days.

It’s difficult to embrace my responses to fear, for sure.

But it’s not nearly as difficult as Fear told me it would be.

My Fire Pit

Over the last 18 years, my body’s structural system has systematically broken down.

It’s been just real fun.

I could write a long story telling you all about the pain and the surgeries and the isolation and the depression… and about the community that has surrounded my family and me over the years – making meals for us, sitting in hospital rooms with us, driving my children to all the places and taking me to an endless number of doctor’s appointments…but that’s not really what this post is about.

About five years ago or so, I began to really grieve the loss of all the outdoor activities that had always been so life-giving for me. We led an outdoor life as a family – camping with friends, active in Scouts, biking, hiking, long afternoons at the park (or mornings…it’s Oklahoma, ya’ll, and the heat can beat you down hard by 11am), and simple evening walks in the neighborhood. These replaced the crazy stunts I had pulled outside as a kid trying to regulate myself in the midst of the chaos in my home. And they were WAY more healthy.

But over the last ten years the limitations that have come from intense and constant chronic pain, loss of strength to my right leg from the nerve damage in my back, loss of mobility, and the trickle-down effect of physical challenges that now seem to pop up on a regular basis, have left me with few easy options outside to feed my soul.

The word “easy” is key

So I began dreaming of creating a space in our backyard where I could go to soothe my soul. A place where we could gather with family and friends to just…be.

One day, about five years ago, I asked Mark for a fire pit for my birthday. He loved the idea, but we had multiple medical bills (I can’t even), monthly therapy expenses for our youngest son who is autistic, a company to manage, and three teenagers.

Teenagers are expensive, ya’ll.

Over time, the fire pit became a pipe dream to me. I just knew it wasn’t going to happen. There were always a million other things requiring our financial focus. In fact, our whole backyard fell into disrepair. We stopped using it at all and, except for the dog’s bathroom needs and David’s still occasional use of the trampoline, we kind of pretended it wasn’t there.

I let it go.

One day in August, as Mark and I were driving around town together, he told me he had begun making plans for a fire pit as a 50th birthday present to me. You guys, I was so surprised I started crying. We hadn’t talked about this dream of mine for a long time, so when he told me his plans, I just felt so…seen. Over the next few weeks we spent time scrolling through Pinterest, collecting ideas and ordering what we needed. We went to Lowe’s and picked out the rock and the border, and we recruited our college boys for the hard labor.

Last weekend, Mark and the big boys (plus a bonus boy who has now cemented his place in my heart) spent hours and hours digging out the space, loading in the rock, filling in the space with it and transforming our backyard – which in a sense had been lost to us – into a little bit of heaven here on Earth.

Look at how hard my boys are working. I ❤️ them.
And I really ❤️ this guy.
Isn’t it beautiful?

I’ve tried to make a practice of looking for redemption in the midst of whatever pain or loss I’m experiencing, but in the last couple of years – with my own continual physical decline, our special needs parenting challenges, immense financial stress, and the loss of my mom to breast cancer, I’ve floundered. I’ve found myself struggling to see purpose in all the pain and suffering in my life and in the lives of the people that I love.

I try to emulate Pollyanna by playing her glad game when I need a lift. Gratitude really does shift my thinking and my mood, so I do believe Pollyanna was on to something.

But…

Finding the good in what is tragic or crushingly hard isn’t always possible.

And quite often what’s been lost to us isn’t going to come back.

And the weight of that reality can be overwhelming.

And, actually, it becomes quite the beast to bear when guilt over the inability to find good is piled on top of what is already crushing you.

But occasionally – and maybe more than occasionally, something new comes in and surprises us with goodness.

And it’s like a release valve to the soul, allowing you to catch your breath and find a bit of rest in this life we live here on our broken planet.

That’s what this fire pit has done for me.

I sit here by the fire and remember that Jesus said, “Come to me, you who are weary…and I will give you rest,” and this promise becomes very tangible to me.

My new favorite space to be

Then finding the “glad” is possible once again.

The Drill

As a child, I learned faith and theology through service, community and a big, long list of dos and don’ts.

And through the Tennessee Baptist Mission Board’s State Bible Drill.

I was good at all the Baptist things: choir, puppet ministry, hand bells, flannel board storytelling, children’s church and taking notes during “big church,” just to name a few. But Bible drill was an area of expertise for me. I could memorize just about anything put in front of me, so the long list of memory word that included the books of the Bible (in order), dozens of Bible verses and long passages of scripture pertaining to topics such as The Ten Commandments, The Greatest Commandment, The Beatitudes and the Love Chapter… these were not a big deal for me.

The other drillers and I met early every Sunday evening in order to practice with our coordinator. Standing in a straight line facing her, we ran drills on finding books of the Bible by responding to each prompt she called out.

Not pictured – me

“Philippians,” she’d say.

Then came the commands required for us to begin the drill.

“Attention. Present Bibles. Start.”

The moment we heard “Start” our hands whipped open our Bibles with barely restrained intensity, searching feverishly for the book of the Bible or verse called out. As soon as a driller found the correct book or verse, she put a finger on the Bible opened up to that spot, and then stepped forward… with barely veiled disdain for those drillers still sweating over their Bibles behind her.

The first driller to find the book and step out was then required to call out a response such as, “Philippians, Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians.”

For those unfamiliar with the sequence, this means I named the book I found; next I named the book before it; then I had to name the book I found again; and finally the book that followed it in the order of the books of the Bible.

Like I said, I rocked at this.

You had to complete the entire sequence in order to win the round.

But that was just the Books of the Bible section.

The real memory work lay in the lists and lists of memory verses and key passages we were required to know.

I knew them all. In fact, I was so good that I ended up State Perfect in the Tennessee statewide competition.

Not one mistake.

And, yes, I was proud of myself… just in case you weren’t sure.

Points were deducted for a variety of reasons:

  • If you needed more than ten seconds to step out after a call
  • If you gave an incorrect response when called upon
  • If you failed to stand up straight or to keep your eyes on the drill caller until the command “Start” was given
  • If you stepped out before your index finger was placed on the correct response
  • If you mishandled or misused the Bible during the drill

Speaking of handling the bible, there were very specific guidelines for this: where you placed your hands and which way the Bible faced could cost you precious points if not done exactly as the drill required.

It was no joke.

I know it sounds intense, but I actually remember loving it. I felt motivated.

Driven.

Focused on making sure I was perfect in every category.

And, yes, competitive. I guess since I still laugh at my opponents (who are usually my sons or daughter) when I hand them their asses over a game of cards, I’m still a bit competitive.

My Sunday School teacher saw an opportunity to harness this scripture-memorizing gift I had and challenged me to memorize an entire chapter of the Bible, saying it would help me in my relationship with God. He was probably on to something with the initial idea, but I think he was misguided when it came to his particular selection.

He assigned me Romans 6. A chapter of the Bible that can be summed up in two words:

Don’t sin.

I mean, this guy had the opportunity to use my weird little splinter skill to teach me all manner of things: God’s love for me, God’s father heart for me, God’s hope for relationship with me. Instead he chose to drill the rules.

And the thing is, I was comfortable with this drill. I was comfortable with the drill approach to my faith as a whole. Since I spent so much of my time and energy trying to please a father who was unreliable and inconsistent with me, it was soothing to have a list of behaviors that I believed would ensure God’s favor and connection with me.

That said, it was confusing then when I rarely felt anything akin to a relationship with God through the programs I participated in at church. Bible Drill, Sunday School, Mission Friends, Girls in Action – all of these programs created by the church to “train up a child” did little to help me experience God as a loving father whose primary goal was to be in relationship with me. In fact, it felt more like God was a distant, all-powerful Force – just another being I worked my ass off to try to please… but never actually did. The lists of dos and don’ts, the points deducted for every little mistake, the care required in order to show respect, well, I wasn’t going to be “state perfect” here. These were impossible standards.

Without awareness of the futility of my efforts, though, I bought into the whole system, working with all of my self to achieve the standards that I hoped would please God.

It’s very difficult to reconcile God’s grace with the striving that is born out of a rule-driven culture. We’ll never experience the embrace of love we so desperately long for when consumed with our attempts to meet impossible standards for that love.

Even now, with this awareness, I battle the tendency to work for perfection in order to please God and my significant others. This way of living is hard-wired into my brain, so learning new pathways is my current work. But, thankfully, it’s a work tethered to grace and compassion.

I’m spending a lot of time these days as a 50-year old woman trying to help my child self understand that she is okay. That she is loved without condition. That her life isn’t meant to be a drill with the goal of perfection. That her desire to achieve perfection was misguided by the adults in her life and so she has misunderstood what it means to be loved with holy grace that is freely given.

More than a year ago, my therapist helped me create what she calls a “safe place.” It’s basically a visualization exercise where I go to a place in my imagination that calms me. Some people visualize a beach or a cabin in the woods. It can really be anything you want it to be as long as you can access your sense while there. You need to be able to hear, smell, see and feel as you experience the environment you’ve created.

My safe place is in the mountains. There’s a mountain stream with cool water flowing around submerged boulders. I can hear the rush of water as it runs by me. I’ve placed a perfectly situated fire pit in the midst of a small clearing near the stream and surrounded it with wooden Adirondack chairs (since those are the only outdoor chairs my broken body will allow me to sit in pain free for any length of time).

I also took the liberty of moving the kudzu-covered woods I explored as a child to this place in the mountains. I know that you won’t find kudzu in the mountains in the real world, but this is a work of my imagination. I can do what I want. I even included the tree bridge I ran to as a frightened kid who needed to jump from its heights in order to test my courage.

I know. It’s strange. But the safe place can be anything I want it to be as long as it calms me and helps me bring my body and emotions to regulation when distressed.

The problem was, though, that after months of using my calm space as directed by my therapist, I wasn’t experiencing the help from it that it was supposed to give. It’s hard to do this, you guys. It takes a trust in myself and in my therapist that I don’t easily access. I drilled the exercise for a long time, but it felt full of pretense and totally ineffective.

So I quit.

Because as a Tennessee Baptist Mission Board State Perfect Bible Drill participant, if I can’t do it right, then I’m not going to do it.

#eyeroll

Thankfully, my therapist isn’t keen on letting me walk away from things just because they are hard, and I don’t get it right the first time. She insisted I keep at it. She can be pretty bossy.

One day, as I restarted the practice, but still struggled with my safe space, I let myself get curious what might be missing. It was an idyllic setting, so that wasn’t the problem. It hit all the marks when it came to my senses. I was technically doing everything right. So what then?

And then it came to me.

I’m not meant to be there alone.

What was missing was the One whose very nature compels Him to embrace me with love and compassion despite my condition, despite my mistakes, despite imperfections.

I need God with skin on. I need Jesus. And more specifically, I need Him sitting on the tree bridge 20 feet above the safety of the ground below, holding me in my anxious state of fear and disgrace and letting me know that there is no height from which I can jump that will make me as I long to be – perfectly whole and perfectly loved.

No, only He can do that.

The Lie of the Best Self

A year after my mom passed away, my brother and I sat down to do the laborious work of going through the boxes of things she had kept over the years. There were four large boxes full of keepsakes: letters, photographs, newspaper articles, notes written on scraps of paper and works of childhood art created by Patton and me. We quickly found ourselves immersed in memories attached to feelings of joy, admiration, grief, dismay and even anger.

These boxes opened up both the wonders and the wounds of our childhood. For us, like so many, these two are in an inextricable knot.

We found our father’s license to minister and sat in silence over the absurdity.

We found elementary school report cards, noting the teacher’s observations that we were not okay.

We found dozens and dozens of letters from our maternal grandmother and aunt expressing veiled concern for our well-being in their attempts to skirt under the ever-watchful eyes of our father.

We found at least 20 Valentine’s Day cards our father gave to our mother, expressing love and devotion that surely meant nothing to her in the face of all the pain and suffering he caused.

And we found our own notes and letters – written to one or both of our parents from early childhood into adulthood.

It was uncomfortable for me to read these letters and see more clearly than ever before the work I was committed to as a child and young adult – the work of holding my parents up when they were down.

And they were almost always down.

There were hastily written notes of love and encouragement from my teenage years attached to gifts of money from me to my father. Even though I presented them as such, they weren’t really gifts. My father expected me to hand over to him much of what I earned through odd jobs, babysitting and house cleaning with my mom.

Mom even kept a note I wrote late one night in high school…hastily on a scrap piece of paper apologizing to my father for getting angry with him when he wrecked the car and didn’t have the means to fix it.

As we sifted through Mom’s boxes, I came across a letter I’d written to my parents when I was 11 and in sixth grade. This was the year that my father’s money-making schemes truly failed him, as the women’s clothing store he’d opened the year before (named Kaysie’s…for the love) was upside-down financially before it even began, and dad’s work ethic wasn’t such that he could or would ever turn it right-side up.

And the creditors came calling.

They’d had enough.

I can’t say that I blame them. My father accrued massive amounts of debt throughout his life and then ran away from the consequences… dragging his family with him as he ran. This instance of bankruptcy was the first of three for our family.

Why people continued to loan him money is beyond me.

Of course, with bankruptcy comes repossession, and the bank repossessed our house.

Our beloved Archwood house.

Here’s the letter I wrote:

I actually don’t remember writing this. I don’t remember thinking that everything would be okay. I don’t remember feeling grateful for all the things my parents had done for me, and I certainly don’t remember thinking they were moving us for my own good. I don’t remember telling my parents that “I can take it if you can.” Instead, I remember feeling afraid and angry.

Reflecting on it now, I realize it wasn’t so much the loss of the house that broke me. It was the loss of the neighborhood. It was the loss of belonging somewhere. But mostly it was the lie my parents told me in their attempt to soothe my pain – this was happening for my good and God was in control of these events that so clearly were the fault of my father.

Once we left Archwood, we never gained a true sense of belonging again, and their lie made me believe that God was responsible for that. We were displaced emotionally as well as physically for the rest of my childhood – moving no less than ten times over the following six years. We finally landed in Colorado my senior year of high school, and it was there that I felt the sense of belonging I’d been searching for ever since the loss of the kudzu-covered green belt I’d spent so much of my elementary years exploring and running to for my sense of calm. Living in rental houses, apartments, the empty houses of strangers who were traveling, and a random one-bedroom cottage for a month in California – shuffling our ever-diminishing stash of possessions with us as we moved – doesn’t exactly cultivate a sense of belonging. We were received with love and kindness almost everywhere we went, which I know is more than many in similar circumstances ever get, but when we lost Archwood, I lost the sense of who I was in the world and struggled to find it again for the next 15 years.

At least.

Also, with this letter I embraced a lie of my own that I’ve struggled to disentangle myself from ever since.

The best version of me is the only acceptable version of me.

I took it upon myself to present to my family a strong front. I kept my emotions in check, I stuffed the pain of loss, displacement, neglect and loneliness, and I turned instead to positivity, chronic busy-ness, levity and false hope in order to protect my parents – and worse, to protect God – from the “bigness” of my true feelings.

And I chose to believe my parents had my best interests in mind.

But they didn’t.

They had survival in mind.

I knew this deep within my core and so reasoned that I needed to be one less thing. It became my mission to be small for the sake of my parents.

Only I’m not small. In fact, I can swallow a room with my essence if I’m not careful.

At the age of 49, as I read the letter I’d written as an eleven-year old girl, I was no longer able to hold back the bigness of my true self – the despair, fear, panic and rage I’d really felt when I wrote it.

And these emotions swallowed me.

This has been happening a lot lately.

In therapy, I was finally given a term for this experience of overwhelm from the big feelings associated with the pain of my childhood – emotional flashback. These flashbacks are different from what others describe experiencing when dealing with PTSD. There isn’t a visual component for me. I’m not reliving a particular moment in my memory. The reel isn’t replaying in my head. Instead, a tidal wave of emotions I can’t associate with a particular instance washes over me. Being unable to connect these feelings with a moment in my past makes me feel out of control. Not my favorite feeling. Then there are the times when something painful in the present triggers an emotional flashback, and I find myself caught in the tension between the present and the past. This is the worst of it because then I feel I’ve lost control over both.

My therapist is slowly and very patiently showing me that the path to healing is to embrace the eleven-year old I left behind when I wrote that letter… with all of her big, painful emotions and her sense of loss over the necessary move. And to embrace the three-year old who felt responsible for easing her mom’s constant state of overwhelm. And the eight-year old who felt it necessary to watch over her little brother and fill in the nurturing holes in his life our parents could not or would not fill. And the six-year old who thought it was her job to stop her father’s drinking, to stay vigilant in his presence and ever-watchful for signs of danger, and to motivate him to make something of his life.

To nurture the child in me is to let go of my attempts to continue to control the state of my being and to present more than the parts of me that feel safe enough and together enough for others to see.

It is my work in therapy and my work with God – trusting in the end that He is with me, was with me (in the pain He did not create) and loves whatever version of me I make available for Him to love.

This work is so very hard to do.

But as I do it, I find that my hold on the lie I have believed is loosening. I don’t have to always present my best self. Or maybe I’m learning to redefine what my best self is. God has been kind to place safe-enough people in my world that love me despite my big-ness, despite my brokenness. In fact, I’m beginning to see that they love me because of those things. When I let them love me, I let God love me. And that is my best self.

Lucy and My Shadow Self

I have a friend named Lucy.

Lucy is witty, thoughtful, passionate, committed to her people, a fashionista in the truest sense and maybe a little bossy.

She also happens to be eight years old.

Every summer Lucy and her mom, my best friend Keek, come to Oklahoma to stay for a week. We swim, watch movies, play in the park and go shopping. It’s a highlight of the summer for Davy and me, but for Lucy it turns out it’s her favorite week of the year. Somehow Auntie K’s house in Tulsa, Oklahoma has become her go-to vacation destination. In fact, she is so taken with the wonder that is my house that she announced to her mom her wish to have her ashes sprinkled in my backyard when she dies.

I try not to let it go to my head.

The truth is I have an amazing collection of Littlest Pet Shop toys I held on to when my daughter outgrew them, and I’m pretty sure they are the real attraction.

Whatever.

I’ll take any love she has to throw my way.

During our week together this summer, we made a special trip to a favorite store of mine. I was in the market for a new stone for my Qudo ring and thought Lucy would be the perfect shopping partner. We made our way to the counter, and Lucy chatted up the attendant while she pulled various stones out of the glass cabinet and laid them on a cloth on the counter. She observed the sizes and qualities of the stones, making her observations known to pretty much everyone in the store.

She’s enchanting, to say the least.

We were having a grand time until it became clear that her bold and colorful fashion preferences and my generally muted style choices were going to clash. Everyone in the store was clear on the fact that Lucy’s tastes were by far superior to mine, so I indulged her and her audience by taking the time to “try on” each stone, screwing it into my ring one-by-one. Not an easy task for someone whose hands shake constantly from the impact of pain, depression and anxiety on my body. Nevertheless, I persisted, and about 25 stones later, Lucy and I were at an impasse as to whether I should choose the large, fuchsia stone with rose gold encasing she preferred or the much smaller deep gray, gold encased one more to my liking.

I gotta tell you, it was hard to look into her beautiful Asian brown eyes and tell her the hard truth… I was going to buy the gray stone.

Hand modeling isn’t the career path for me

Lucy is a resilient young woman, and she took the news well despite her disappointment. But I guess I was struggling to release myself from some misperceived eight-year old judgment, so as we were driving home I said, “Lucy, I’m sorry I didn’t choose the pink stone, Gray is my signature color, and I really wanted a gray option to go with my mostly muted wardrobe.”

Lucy, all solemn and serene while staring at the passing cars, responded with the wisdom of a woman who has lived out the fullness of a long and complicated life, “It’s okay, Auntie K, you have to be true to your shadow self.”

Have you ever had a moment with a child when such innocent insight and clarity is thrown at you that you can only respond with wondrous – and maybe a little bit of uncomfortable – laughter?

I felt as though this eight-year old princess of China had reached into my soul and seen the essence of my struggle with self.

And then gave me permission to embrace it.

Depression and anxiety accompany me through most of my days. I can’t remember a time in my life without at least one of the two by my side. They present themselves a bit differently in different seasons, but they’re always there.

I haven’t made their presence welcome. I’ve resisted. I’ve suppressed. I’ve gone to therapy. I’ve done the work recommended in the best books… all in an attempt to leave both depression and anxiety in the dust.

Several years ago a therapist described their presence in my life as my “early warning system” – my self’s way of letting me know it needed my attention. He recommended I choose a position of gratitude towards them, noting that many who struggle with this sort of melancholy are often caught in the wave of it unaware that it is coming. Yet my unwanted friends have a way of showing me trouble is on the rise.

At the time I couldn’t embrace his way of thinking because the idea of welcoming their presence felt wrong when compared to my ideal that the end goal in the work of therapy should be to rid myself of depression and anxiety altogether.

That was many years ago. And like you might with a neighbor who never brings in his trash cans, has a dog that barks late into the night EVERY NIGHT, walks out to his mailbox wearing nothing but his robe and a pair of boxers… and wants to chat, but also keeps an eye out for possible hazards or intruders because your safety is a genuine concern to him, I’m developing an unexpected appreciation for my companions.

I mean, we’re not going to snuggle up together on the couch, but there’s a growing embracing that is happening that allows me to more readily relax my posture toward the presence of both depression and anxiety in my life.

And I guess with that change is coming some much-needed kindness towards my shadow self Lucy so astutely discerned.

50

Two weeks ago I celebrated my fiftieth birthday.

I’m fifty years old.

FIFTY.

Is it odd that I cannot say that the age that I am is equal to the age that I feel?

I look in the mirror and see an aging woman. I feel my body aging much faster than I would like. I have the gray hair, the progressive lenses, the cane in my car – granted, my body is much older than the average 50-year old.

I have four children – three of them grown.

I have a grandbaby.

I’ve been married for 25 years.

The evidence of my age is all there.

I’m fifty; and yet, I thought this milestone would come with an inner sense of grown … one that I’ve never been able to grasp, but hoped would come with the passing of each decade.

Maybe at 30.

Or when I hit 40.

Now that I’m 50.

But instead, in contrast to the aging happening on the outside, I still often feel very much like a child on the inside.

Oh, I can adult up, if you will. I can parent; I can wife; I can friend; I can counsel. I can do the things for the people.

Until I can’t.

Because the thing is, when you spend your life as a child being the adult in the room, it’s hard to be the adult in the room feeling like a child.

So, in honor of my 50th birthday, and as part of my ongoing effort to let my child self know I see her and am trying to make peace with her, I made a couple of “unique to me” grownup decisions for myself.

First, I did this.

Lots of gratitude to Marceau at Anchor & Rose in Tulsa, OK for his care and dedication to getting this exactly right for me

This is probably the most not-at-all me and yet the most totally me thing I’ve ever done. I absolutely love it and appreciate the daily reminder it is to me of this journey I’m on toward healing and wholeness, and the growing hope that I have that there will be something redemptive birthed from it in the end.

I have to admit that I love the badassness of it quite a bit, too.

Second, I did this.

Maybe not quite as badass as the tattoo, but whatevs

I have had one ear double-pierced since I was 18-years old. I desperately wanted to double pierce my ears as a teen, but my father vehemently forbade it. When I turned 18, however, my grownup friend, Cheryl, offered to do it for me because … EIGHTEEN.

Right? I mean, what was dad going to do? I was an independent woman at 18 years of age. It was time to exert myself and live my own life, dammit.

YES.

Pierce. My. Ears.

So, Cheryl proceeded to ice my left ear, needled it and put the earring in. I loved it! The problem was, she had to get to work after we finished the first ear. I don’t know, maybe it hurt more than I thought it was going to hurt and so it took longer than we thought it was going to take. It was a long time ago, okay? I really don’t remember. Anyhoo, she had to go to work, so I had to go home with one ear double pierced. We planned to finish up later.

You can guess where we’re heading with this story, right?

My father, whose awareness level as to the needs of his family was somewhere close to nil, somehow was immediately aware of the single gold post in my left ear.

And he lost his ever-loving mind.

It wasn’t a good day for me. It’s way worse to think you’re your own person and then realize you’re not, than to never think you were at all. It’s like getting a gulp of fresh air before the window is slammed shut to a suffocatingly hot room where the air barely moves. That gulp of fresh air is just not enough. How could it be?

I never got the other ear pierced. I considered doing it a hundred different times over the years, but I think I just wasn’t able to make peace with the 18-year old who couldn’t stand up to her drunk, deadbeat father who needed her to help make the mortgage payments, but wouldn’t let her get her ears pierced.

Lately, though, I’ve been trying to come to terms with this girl. It’s not my favorite work, I’ll be honest. I’m not loving the process. There’s a lot about her that makes me uncomfortable, but I’m getting some new perspective as I do this, and I know it’s important that I learn to see her with new insight and understanding.

Besides, my therapist is making me do it.

So on the day I turned 50, I went to Claire’s with my grown daughter and my 9-month old grandson, sat on that stool like a brave girl (though I was trembling on the inside, tbh), and let the crabby store clerk pierce my right ear.

And then silently vowed to never willingly pay another person to cause me pain unless she can do it with a blasted smile on her face.

I am now evenly pierced; balanced, if you will. And not just in my ears.

I feel like I closed a loop.

Maybe it’s in the closing of the loops and in making peace with the child in me that I’ll finally be able to know myself as a real grownup.

Mrs. Sneed, the Grownup

Walking down the sixth grade hallway of my school, I scanned the class lists posted outside the classrooms. But I knew where my name was listed. I could feel it in my gut – deep inside of me where the things I prayed would never happen but felt certain were going to happen liked to sit and churn, making me queasy and forcing me to spend copious amounts of time on the toilet.

I was right. My name came into focus on the list as my heart sank within me.

I was in Mrs. Sneed’s class. The teacher everyone in the school feared.

Mrs. Sneed was a tall, stern woman, with perfectly coiffed hair, perfectly pressed dresses, and perfectly polished shoes; with a pair of pink satin slippers she kept in her desk drawer and unabashedly pulled out to wear in the classroom whenever her feet needed a rest. A shocking routine I never could get used to.

And she was scary. I knew she had very high expectations in the classroom, the cafeteria, the gym, the hallways and on the playground. It was clear that her eyes were going to be on us at all times. This was an unsettling prospect to the kid who spent her days roaming the neighborhood freely with little-to-no adult supervision. It’s not that I was out tearing up the town, mind you. But I had grown accustomed to a great deal of independence. I was trusted, given a lot of responsibility, and shouldered it well… at least on the outside. I wasn’t interested in giving up that autonomy.

The year was 1980, but the town and the school were still tethered to the ideals of previous decades where classism and racism determined your place both in the workplace and on the playground. The school was guided by principles of strict discipline enforced both with a sharp tongue and a swift paddle, and the teachers were white women working in a difficult environment with what I’m sure was a piddling salary.

So a soft side to any teacher’s personality was a rare bonus. I was quite sure Mrs. Sneed didn’t have one. As the days of the school year turned into weeks, however, I began to see that there was more to Mrs. Sneed than her severe exterior.

There was a girl in my class, a bit of a loner, named Susie. She started her period one day in school – while wearing white pants.

Dear God.

This poor girl was in the hallway with Mrs. Sneed when I was summoned there to join them. The compassion in our teacher’s eyes directed me as to how to respond to my classmate in her moment of shame – one I was still unfamiliar with since my menstruation cycle had yet to begin.

Mrs. Sneed looked at me and said, “Kaysie, take Susie to the nurse, but make sure that you walk right behind her the entire time. Susie, here,” she said as she handed Susie the attendance book. “You carry this book behind you. And try to look natural.”

Ummmm….okay.

I’m pretty sure we did not look natural. But Susie wasn’t alone, and I could tell that meant something to her.

As the school year progressed with Mrs. Sneed securely at the helm in the classroom, my family floundered at home with no one securely at the helm. Being in the house was rarely a welcome prospect, so I tried to be just about anywhere but there, and that was most often on my bike. One day, though, the chain snapped in half, leaving me completely stranded and worse, without the means to fix it. We couldn’t afford to buy a new chain.

My mom forbade me to ride my bike until we could replace the chain, since without the chain it was also brakeless. This was devastating.

And an impossible ask.

So I rode it anyway.

I took my bike up the biggest hills in the neighborhood, hopped on the seat and coasted down, allowing the bike to glide to a stop on its own. This worked great.

Until it didn’t.

One night, I took it across the street to the neighbor’s driveway where I began to use the momentum I gained going down to ride back up again, doing this same motion over and over again until I was riding the circle with some force. It felt great, and I was really letting off some steam. The situation turned on me, though, when my instinct kicked in as the urge to brake hit me when my bike’s speed became too difficult to manage in the tight circle I was navigating on that driveway.

And without a chain, remember, I was without brakes. This, in and of itself, wouldn’t have been that big of a deal except that (1) my pedals spun out under me, (2) my pedals were steel spiked, and (3) I was barefoot.

The left pedal carved a two-and-a-half inch long gash into my heel that probably should have been stitched up, but guess what I didn’t do?

Tell anyone.

First of all, I wasn’t supposed to be on the bike. Second, we had no money. Like, NONE. Like, my parents were sleeping on a mattress on the floor because they had to sell all the bedroom furniture so we could eat and keep the lights on (and buy dad’s booze). There was zero chance I was making myself the reason my parents were going to be that much more stressed about cash. So, I hobbled across the street, parked my bike in the carport and cleaned the wound with water as best I could before putting on a sock to cover it up.

I did a good job of keeping the foot hidden for a few days, but for some reason, my attempt at first aid was inept. Go figure. By the fourth day or so, wearing a shoe at school was horrible. I couldn’t bear the pressure against my heel so a limp was really hard to hide.

Mrs. Sneed, with her excellent skills of observation, noticed. She called me to her desk and asked me why I was limping. I tried to come up with an answer that I thought would satisfy her curiosity, but as I hemmed and hawed over the possibilities (damning myself for slowness of creativity in the moment), she ordered me to take off my shoe and sock so she could see things for herself.

Humiliated, with the eyes of all my classmates on me, I did so.

It took some effort to peel the sock away because it had adhered itself to my foot, but as I did, Mrs. Sneed gasped with horror when she saw the small river of infection running down my heel. Green pus oozed inside the gash and a smell wafted from the wound that turned even my stomach. She quickly put her handkerchief over her face, then grabbed me by the arm and led me, hobbling at her side, down the hall straight to the front office.

Fear gripped my heart as I knew now my secret would be out. My mom would know I’d been on my chainless bike, directly disobeying her. That fear turned to the familiar feeling of shame as I realized that medical costs were now unavoidable.

Shame swallowed me up every time my need cost something of my parents. Having a need caused our roles to switch, and it was uncomfortable when need moved me from care-giver to care-needer.

I think for more than just me.

Not that my mom wasn’t loving and tender when I was hurt. She was. But when there was money involved, she was so distracted by the enormous stress and the resulting anger from my father, she struggled to remember that she was the grownup.

And I struggled to remember that she was the grownup, too.

Inevitably, though, I landed in the pediatrician’s office with an infected foot.

“It should have been stitched,” my doctor sighed, “but the best we can do now is bandage it up and give her a shot of penicillin.” I took my shot like a big girl, thinking I’d gotten off pretty easy in the end. Of course, I didn’t have to write the check.

When I returned to my classroom the next day, Mrs. Sneed took one look at me hobbling in and said, “No ma’am. You come here right now.” I approached her desk with dread, having a vague sense that she cared maybe a little too much about my wellbeing and was about to do something that would scar me forever.

I wasn’t wrong.

She sat me down in front of God and the whole class, ordered me to take off my shoe, pulled her SHINY PINK SLIPPERS out of the desk drawer and forced the left one into my hand.

I looked at that slipper. Then I looked up at her.

My mouth gaped open.

“No,” I finally managed to get out.

“Oh, yes,” she firmly replied. Then she took the slipper out of my hand and slipped it gently onto my foot. She stood up, placed her hands firmly, but kindly on my shoulders and nudged me towards my desk.

“Kaysie will be wearing my slipper every day in school until her foot has healed. NO ONE will say one word to her about this. NOT ONE WORD. Do I make myself clear?”

She did. Crystal clear.

I wore that blasted pink slipper for almost two weeks. It was awful. There were a few kids in the school who routinely tormented me anyway, so this was a delightful scenario for them. But in the midst of this somewhat tortuous affair was the presence of the previously dreaded teacher who saw me in my pain and shame and, even though she was clear on imposing appropriate (although severe, to my eleven-year old thinking) consequences, she met me there with compassion and kindness.

She saw me and made sure I wasn’t alone… even though I thought I wanted to be.

I’m glad my prayer wasn’t answered that year.

I think God knew I was going to really need a grownup in sixth grade, so He gave me someone who was quite confident in her ability to be one.

Visiting my elementary school alma mater (2nd-6th grade) in 2015

Stinkfoot

When I think of my family of origin, I see my mom, my brother and myself in one tight circle – intricately connected, and my father outside of the circle, but with a rope tethered to each of us, binding us to him in different ways.

It’s with new understanding that I now see how mom was bound to my father and helpless and defenseless to his treatment of her. Her binds also made her incapable of protecting my brother and me. We were all vulnerable to his manipulation, emotional and physical abuse. It’s taken me a long time to frame what happened in my childhood home as abuse and what went on between my parents as domestic abuse, but I do understand this now most of the time (and I turn 50 this month – for the love).

My eyes are opening, although they are crusty, cloudy, and the light is painful.

With this awakening has come anger towards all the people, which is unsettling to my almost 50-year old self who understands the above and feels great sorrow over it, but often gets sucker punched by this flash of anger. I’m learning in the therapy room that there is also this younger part of me who needs a chance to come to terms with what happened in our home and until the child in me can do this, she’s going to feel a lot of big feelings – anger, rage, anger, and then some more rage.

Good times. #prayformyhusband

And, yes, I know there are a host of other painful emotions to feel, but I’m most comfortable with the anger, so let’s go with that for now.

The real challenge for me is to hold the tension between my adult self who is almost 50 (almost – let’s be clear on that) and has deep compassion and love for my mom knowing she did the best she could to protect me, and my child self who is pissed as hell at my mom because she wasn’t able to make the choice to get out and rescue us from the hell we were in with my father.

I’m not quite sure how to do that without tearing my soul apart.

I guess I say all this to say that this journey of mine is going to be messy. And since I’m choosing to write publicly as I walk it out I thought you as a reader should know that I’m aware of this and mostly okay with it. I know of too many people silently suffering alone with a childhood that they don’t quite understand to hide my journey in a diary with a little key that doesn’t work anyway.

I tell my stories as well as I can. Some of them are funny, some of them are powerful, some of them are sweet, some of them are sad. But a lot of them are messy and still in process.

Just like most of life.

And today I am messily missing my mom because I caught myself inadvertently using one of the quirky little nicknames she used to call my babies when she played with them (which was all the time) as I played with my own grandbaby. She was an amazing grandmother, and I hope it’s the first of many times I look at my little grandson, Teddy, and call him “Stinkfoot” without even thinking because when I do I know that’s a tiny piece of her so ingrained in me it comes out without even an ounce of effort.

And every little piece of her in me counts.

Mow Your Own Lawn

My father never allowed my brother and me to leave the dinner table without first offering our mother the requisite “I enjoyed it” statement of gratitude and respect. This didn’t feel like too big of a deal to me since even if the meal consisted of black-eyed peas, cornbread and milk, mom always seemed to find a way to make the meal enjoyable. She often even scraped together the simple ingredients to make a chocolate pudding that was worthy of plating at any five-star restaurant. So we almost always did enjoy dinner.

What was maddening to me about dinner was the presence of my father at the head of the table, watching him enjoy the meal with some twisted sense of pride and accomplishment and knowing he’d done little to provide the resources necessary for the meal. I dreaded the end of the meal the most, knowing what was coming as dad would inevitably, in a satiated state that sparked a magnanimous spirit so contrary to his true self, end the meal by ceremoniously offering to help with cleaning the kitchen. Mom always feigned delighted surprise, joining the charade by replying, “That would be wonderful, Billy,” while I white-knuckled the chair under the table knowing full well what was coming next.

“Kaysie, help your mother clean the kitchen.”

He then promptly propped up his feet, popped open another Pabst and lit a cigarette.

That was his way. He regularly swept in and took credit for the work that others were doing – usually the others were my mother, my brother and me.

The lawn our little house on Archwood sat on was my father’s pride and joy, and he took great care to make sure I attended to all the details of keeping it manicured to his satisfaction.

I learned how to push a mower around the age of eight, with Dad either standing over me with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth or sitting off to the side in a lawn chair with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth – but either way, he did plenty of pointing, yelling and criticizing when I let that heavy mower veer to the side and missed a sliver of grass.

Not actually me.

When Mark and I were raising our older three children, and our oldest (and only daughter) hit ten, I began to nag Mark about teaching her to mow the lawn. He looked at me like I was a crazy person.

This pissed me off.

What?

She was ten! Isn’t that the age you learn to mow? In fact, isn’t that LATE?! Weren’t all the other kids who were ten already mowing? When our sons came of mowing age a couple of years later, I about lost my mind. Are you freaking kidding me?!! A ten-year old boy isn’t old enough to take over the mowing responsibilities?!!!

My poor husband. Thankfully, he held his ground and protected our children from my ignorance about such things. Not that it’s inappropriate to begin to teach and bring your own children into the family process of working TOGETHER to take care of the lawn. Yes, of course that’s completely appropriate. But that’s not what was happening in my childhood home. So it took some reframing on my part since I thought it was very normal to be responsible for the lawn by the age of eight or nine.

Of course, I also thought it was normal to be responsible for the emotional stability of my family at the age of eight.

So there’s that.

My brother has been doing some writing of his own as of late (copycat) and recently sent me an essay reflecting on his experiences with dad and the lawn that really prompted all this musing on mowing. In fact, his writing threw me into a spiral of sorts because he has a way of writing that really places the reader in the moment with him – living it, if you will.

Or RE-living it if you’re me.

Not fun if you don’t care to relive those moments.

I do not.

My therapist, though, is quite pleased it’s happening, insisting it’s a necessary part of my healing journey.

Journey, shmerny.

Since reading that lawn mowing essay of his, though, I’ve been doing a helluva lot of lawn mowing. Not literally. In my dreams. While awake I close my eyes and see the rows of cut grass – but then there’s that one line I missed, and my stomach drops. Or while actually sleeping, I push the damn mower back and forth over and over across that giant lawn in the heat and humidity of summer in Tennessee. Or I finally finish and go inside the house so glad to be done and so ready to cool off, only to be ordered back outside by my father because I didn’t rake up all the grass and bag it.

And I’m tired. Like, deep in my bones tired. In the present, not in my dreams.

While reading my brother’s essay, I discovered that my mom was watching the mowing shit storm from inside the house, and I didn’t know. My baby brother wrote about his memory because even as a preschooler he was insightful enough to know something was wrong with what was happening, and the memory cemented itself in his brain… and then connected it to his own mowing woes with dad later on.

Yeah.

The revelation of her awareness has been a sucker punch to me. I know it must be obvious to most that of course she was aware of what was happening to us and should have done something to stop it. But it is a new way of thinking for me to see my mom in this light when I have always placed her as just another victim in our family, or even as someone I needed to look after.

But, no, mom was watching, mom was aware, mom was participating in the charade at the dinner table, and mom needed to step in and tell my father to get off his ass and mow his own damn lawn.

If You Don’t Cry

A playground in the 1970s was the most dangerous place for a child to be.

First of all, there was rarely any adult supervision.

Second, the play equipment was more along the lines of an American Ninja Warrior course…minus the safety nets and water underneath the hazards.

The swings alone were responsible for countless injuries. Those wooden planks with steel bolts held massive steel chain links that burned your skin off in the Southern summer heat and collided with the head of many a child who miscalculated the pendulum of the swing.

Yes, I was one of those children.

We lived in an apartment complex in Nashville, Tennessee for two years when I was five and six years old. The complex had one of those ninja playgrounds complete with a massive swing set, a solid steel merry-go-round that spun so fast the real challenge was to avoid being thrown to the gravel ten feet away, a steep metal slide with a ladder that threatened death, and a wooden see-saw that seemed out of place in that sea of metal.

The see-saw, however, had dangers of its own. My five-year old self can’t accurately measure the length of the wooden plank that made the see-saw, but it was so long that the real draw of the thing was the slide up and down the length of it. Its wood was weathered, making the top smooth and slick, and excellent for sliding. If I could convince two sturdy kids to sit on the ends and be the bobbers going up and down, then I could enjoy the sliding. I had quickly learned that the role of bobber was not for me. Control over when the other kid might bail and send me crashing to the ground from the full height of the see-saw was, quite simply, something I was unwilling to surrender.

So I was the slider.

The thing about this slide was its edges. Yeah, it was smooth and slick on top, but the sides were not only rough, they were splintered and breaking down. One day as I slid, I held onto the sides a bit too tightly and felt a painful prick in my left hand. When I looked down, there was a tiny drop of blood at the entry point, but across the entire width of my palm was a giant splinter measuring three inches long.

No big deal, right?

But it was.

No one could get it out. My parents took turns poking and prodding and pulling and tweezing while holding me down, as I screamed and writhed underneath them. They had neighbors come over and attempt the same. My poor little hand was traumatized with the effort.

My soul wasn’t faring much better.

It. Was. Not. Budging. Much to my father’s chagrin, we needed help. These were the days well before urgent care centers were on every corner, so we had one option – the emergency room. And, for reasons I will never understand, my father was the one who took me.

At the hospital, I was placed on a thin, metal bed in a freezing cold room with bright lights above me. I remember the hospital staff around the bed with their blue gowns and masks on. Someone walked over to my left side and strapped my arm down and out away from my body.

Then, suddenly my father’s face was above mine as he said to me, “Kaysie, if you don’t cry, I’ll buy you whatever toy you want from the toy store.”

Now, before I continue with the story, I think it’s important to note here that I can count on one hand the number of times my father bought me a toy. This includes Christmas and birthdays. So, you can imagine how he was able to get my attention with the above proposal.

Five seconds later two masked doctors stood on each side of my arm. One of them pulled out a huge needle, told me to hold still, and injected it into my hand.

I mean, for crying out loud.

Except, I couldn’t cry out loud.

We’d made a deal.

Kind of.

I never really agreed, but I never said no either. Not that there was time. Between the shock of what was happening to me, the sheer lack of comprehension of it all, and the blinding pain I was experiencing, it was all I could do to keep the contents of my stomach inside me.

But I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t shout. I held my breath or barely breathed, pinched my right leg with my right fingers as a distraction (a coping skill I’ve held onto, by the way), and held still just like the doctors asked, while they surgically removed a three-inch piece of wood that had embedded itself in the muscle tissue of my hand.

Because as soon as I heard my father say toy store, the game was on.

I don’t think he was baiting me. I don’t think he was daring me to see if I was gutsy enough to get through the procedure without crying. I think my father was a coward.

Looking back on the situation now, as an adult and a parent of four children of my own, who has accompanied each of them to the ER for various needs (some of them multiple times, bless their exhausting little hearts), it feels to me that he knew that it was going to take everything he had, which wasn’t much, to get through my procedure, so he was desperately trying to find a way to make it easier for him.

Because you see, there were no hospital vending machines for gin.

And gin was how he got through the things.

But you know what? I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. At the time, I was focused on one thing…this:

And I wanted it bad. Just real bad.

I wasn’t a doll person, typically, but THIS doll was primo. I mean, she ate, she drank from a bottle, AND she peed in a diaper! It wasn’t a toy! It was like having a real, live baby!

Spoiler alert: not so much.

After the procedure, I was placed in a wheelchair and wheeled into what must have been a holding area with my dad. I didn’t know this, of course.

Why didn’t adults talk to children in the 70s?

My dad must have decided he would die without a cigarette at this point because he told me he’d be right back and left me sitting there alone in my wheelchair. Suddenly, a nurse approached my chair and began wheeling me down the hall to another room…without an explanation and WITHOUT MY FATHER. She was one of those lovely no-nonsense nurses, so without fanfare, she pulled up my right sleeve, sanitized my arm and gave me what I now know was a tetanus shot.

For the love.

After that little bonding session, I was returned to the holding area just as my father turned the corner, so No-Nonsense Nurse Nancy passed me to him, and I feel confident he was quite relieved to then walk his five-year old stitched, splinted and dry-eyed daughter out of the hospital.

I never shed one tear and, for once, my dad was true to his word. My Baby Alive was delivered to me brand new and in the box by my father later that same day.

I gotta tell ya, though, I paid way too high a price for a doll that kept getting clogged with baby food.

Because this became a pattern between my father and me.

Once I proved my strength in a crisis, I guess he thought it meant he could expect me to step up the next time it was needed. And the next time. And the next. And so on.

I guess I thought so, too.

You know, I never went back to the middle of that see-saw. I realized that the bobber position was perfect for me after all.