| excerpts |
|
 |
bio / book launch / contact
/ evolution / excerpts / feedback / home / literary events / reviews |
||
| excerpts |
|
|
bio / book launch / contact
/ evolution / excerpts / feedback / home / literary events / reviews |
||
CHAPTER ONE
EYES OF THE STORM
the eyes of her illness forever seared
in my memory...
Growing
up in the shadow of a depressed mother conditioned me to be on the lookout for the
telltale signs of her illness recurring. Throughout
childhood I would feel like a spy, scanning for clues that Mom was not far from relapse. Before I was old enough to recognize the onset of
depression in her pale blue eyes, as I would later become unnervingly skilled at doing,
there were the missed appointments and an increasing number of chores left unattended to
during the day. By far the most obvious omen
was when Mom would stay in bed longer than usual in the morning. She would not be up to participate in the daily
routine of making Dad's brownbag lunch and thermos of black tea; nor would she be lined up
with my younger brother Barry and me for a dutiful hug and a peck on the cheek, as he went
off to work. When she was sick, everything
suddenly screeched to a halt, like clothes that had jammed in the rollers of a wringer
washer.
When
I tentatively entered her room in the morning after Dad left, she would ask me to set the
buzzer on the kitchen stove, which we commonly used in the absence of an alarm clock. When it shrilly echoed through our ranch-style
bungalow, I would listen for sounds of her rousing up while I busied myself preparing for
school. As minutes passed with no audible
sign of her rising, I pretended perhaps she just didn't hear the makeshift signal, and I
would head down the hall to let her know it had sounded.
Not
budging, she would ask me to reset it, which I would obediently and repeatedly do, until,
with a sinking feeling, I knew she would not be waving to Barry and me from the living
room window that day. We often left for
school while she remained curled beneath the covers.
(April
1994) Passing kids playing after school, I
feel emptiness for a time I do not associate with such frivolity. Rather, my 4:00 memories from childhood are
clouded with shadows of uncertainty, which loomed over me as I made the dreaded walk home
from school. Would Mom be up?
That
question naturally tormented me even more on the days when Mom was still hibernating in
bed when Barry and I set out for school in the morning.
Dawdling to avoid going home, clinging to the security of a friend's
company, sometimes stealing a few extra moments in the sanctuary of their home. How I came to dread the 3:45 pm bell of freedom at
the end of the school day. The apprehension
in the pit of my stomach when I would see the front drapes still drawn as I approached the
house. Dragging myself around the back,
daring to look up to find her bedroom curtains also closed.
Entering that darkened house as still as death, to find the toaster still on
the counter, breakfast dishes still in the sink and Mom still in bed. No wonder Barry always took even longer than me to
come home.
Slowly
hanging up my coat on the hook beside the back door, undoing my shoes, placing them neatly
on the rubber mat so as not to leave any mess. Up
the two steps into the kitchen and then automatically down the hall to Mom's room. “Hi Mom”, I'd whisper toward the bed
where she lay facing the wall as I had left her hours before, as if she hadn't moved at
all. As I stood in the doorway, she'd twist
her body around to look up and murmur “hi” back.
“Aren't you feeling any
better?” I'd foolishly ask, for obviously she wasn't.
“No,” she'd respond, eyes trying hard to focus on me. “Did you take your pills?” I'd inquire,
as if I had every right to do so. Usually,
she'd wanly respond that she had, though chances were she had not spoken with her doctor,
which followed as my next question.
Beyond
that brief exchange neither of us knew what else to say.
Before I left her room, stinging tears welling up in my eyes, I'd ask if she
needed anything, knowing by heart she'd just want me to start something for supper. I would, of course, glad for a reason to turn away
from the haggard, vacant face, which gazed back at me.
And which scared me. When I
could, I would then hurry to tidy up the kitchen before Dad arrived home from work at
precisely 4:45 pm, in an attempt to make it seem like Mom had at least done something
during the day. I was not always successful. Sometimes, Dad would arrive and catch me in the
act. He was barely in the door before he
demanded where Mom was. How I hated to
confirm what he too must have wrestled with all the way home.
Thermos
slammed on the table; coat shoved into the front closet; footsteps storming down the hall
to their bedroom where Mom remained fetal-like. He
would start by confronting her in a tone of voice laced with frustration, which gradually
escalated in decibel. Not surprisingly, his
shouts were to no avail. Those suffering from
clinical depression do not respond in favorable fashion to any amount of verbal combat. I could do nothing but desperately try to drown
out that horrible, hollow wail as Mom tried to resist Dad's efforts to get her up. “Let me beeeee!” she would scream
out, often lapsing into a chanting-like rhythm as Dad became more aggressive toward her. Some days, it was worse than others. Lunging toward the bed, Dad would yank her up,
pulling her toward the door, forcing her down the hall.
Ever so weak and wobbly, Mom would try desperately to press herself against
a wall. With her nightgown askew, eyes wild
and hair matted, she would strike out at Dad as he tried to pry her away. At some point during the melee, Barry would have
wandered home and I'd motion him to stay with me. Mom
would cry out to us both from where we remained frozen in the kitchen. With sickening apprehension, we could only inch
toward the hall, pleading with them to stop. Before
long, Mom’s adrenaline would deflate, and she would revert to her previously withered
state, exhausted by the forced exertion.
Eventually,
Dad would withdraw, equally spent. He would
then resign himself to prepare supper, or take over what I had already started. Monday, Wednesday, Friday were standard fare:
bacon and eggs; chili con carne; fish and chips respectively. Other days, it could be leftovers, or whatever was
glumly sought out from the freezer. Not that
it mattered. From an early age, mealtimes
were generally unpleasant. Mom's empty chair
and the dismal mood which reigned made it a far from appetite-inducing occasion.
Although
Dad was often angry at meals, other times he was intensely sad, pleading with us kids to
eat. Despite the discomfort of choking down
food past the lump in the throat and into a stomach riddled with knots, we were never
allowed to miss a meal. It sometimes took
Barry and me forever to force-feed ourselves. Which
one of us discovered the nifty little trick of burying the impossible last morsels into
our serviettes, I'm not sure. Pretending to
have obediently cleared our plates, we would then hide the evidence in the bottom of the
garbage can, trying not to think about all the kids in the world Dad frequently reminded
us were starving. In retrospect, the stage
was set for his daughter’s disordered eating patterns, which became full-blown many
years later.
Around
the dinnertime, I would venture down the hall to offer Mom something to eat. She rarely accepted; usually all she would take
throughout the day was a cracker or two to accompany her pills. Periodically, she would come out to the kitchen to
fetch the meager ration herself. When she did
surface, the tension was palpable; what bitter battery of words would combust between my
parents? With any luck, they ignored each
other, and while I hoped each time she appeared she might stay up, I was admittedly awash
with relief when she retreated back down the hall to the cocoon of her bed sheets.
More
often than not, I had no choice but to take Mom in whatever she wanted, be it an arrowroot
or saltine cracker along with a small glass of juice.
Torn by the desire to help her yet afraid of her, I lingered not in that
room which oozed sickness and hopelessness. Sensitive
to Mom’s need for quiet, I would softly ask her if the TV or the music were too loud,
offering to close her door before leaving. Sometimes
she did not mind if the sounds of another reality drifted in, and I would leave the door
slightly ajar, which meant I would have to tiptoe past so she wouldn't hear me going into
my bedroom. How I envied Barry the position
of his room, because he did not have to pass Mom's in order to reach his; he did not have
to resist the urge to glance quickly toward the figure heaped on the bed when the door was
left open.
Other
than those fleeting interactions, our contact with my mother through the duration of her
cycles of depression was limited. The only
time we might see Mom again during the course of a day was before bed, when Dad would ask
if we had said goodnight to her. I think it
was his way of reminding us that we were not to abandon our mother.
Regrettably,
sometimes I could only bring myself to call in to her darkened bedroom from the hallway
between our rooms. Wary of her by day, I was
afraid to go near to her by night. Seldom
were there the hugs offered she so desperately craved.
How that must have hurt her terribly.
What
she needed most from my Dad, my brother and me was for us to be there for her: to sit with
her and hold her hand, to reassure her of our love and our presence. But we unwittingly isolated her within the
confines of those four cream-coloured walls; trapped by our fear of an illness we didn't
understand.
Such
is how the days would pass, governed by this pattern that could last for weeks on end,
until Mom was either hospitalized, or the shock treatments she received on an outpatient
basis finally kicked in. Before such relative
calm prevailed, we would all be ripped through an emotional hell I would wish upon no one. Each of my parents fought so desperately, with
such misdirected energy, to surmount the impossible.
They simply had no idea how to cope with my mom’s repeated cycles of
virtual incapacitation. Sadly, our household
was lacking some of the fundamental ingredients conducive to a successful healing
environment for those suffering from severe clinical depression: patience and compassion.
When
a depressed person perceives that those closest may not care about them, it intensifies
how despondent they already feel about themselves. Unwittingly,
our family dynamics fostered that sense of reality in Mom.
On some level, she must have been aware of her young children's fear and
ambivalence toward her. There was
certainly no mistaking or escaping her husband's combustible temper, as the profound
helplessness and frustration of having a chronically ill wife was often released as
explosive fits of rage.
Looking
back, the frequency with which such verbal and physical altercations arose was alarming. Even now, as those and other scenarios reappear
in my mind, I must tightly blink them into obscurity.
Much as I may have wanted to, and as some kids actually do, I was afraid to
run away. With the exception of the
neighborhood Terryberry Library where I would sometimes take refuge, there was nowhere to
escape for any significant duration. Fortunately,
those were the days when a young girl could walk unaccompanied to and from the local
library, even if it was a good twenty minutes away. Once
there, I could hide myself away between the shelves, where an intangible comfort settled
over me. How I loved that place. I decided that if not a teacher, then I would
definitely become a librarian when I grew up.
Nonetheless,
seeking solace in the security of books was also a lonely and time-limited experience. Sooner or later, the library closed for the night
and it was time to return home. Though the
walls were never thick enough, I spent most of the time in my bedroom. Beneath the makeshift tent I would create, or in
the back of my closet where I kept a little stool, the tears would flow. And I would wish it all away.
ECT
...a
needle plunges into a thread-like vein, bleeding muscle relaxant into her body...thin
hands neatly folded over her sunken stomach fail to smother the rumbling hunger
pains...she's not eaten for hours...chalky aftertaste of the sedative as it sticks to her
parched mouth...melancholy eyes staring up in fear of the unknown...a tight-lipped nurse
to her right in a seriously starched white dress rubs cool jelly-like
cream on each temple-to hasten the current and prevent the burn... the grim-faced reaper
on her left reaches for the headgear shaped like a huge wishbone, and lowers it into
position, one electrode on either side of her forehead where the jelly marks the spot...a
rubber gag placed in her mouth so the tongue will not be swallowed...or
bitten off...the eyes of those above her meet and blink their accord...oblivious to her
muted pleas to wait...she's still awake...with the flick of a switch on a gleaming metal
box, the electricity peels through her
brain...two seconds in time which last an eternity...her body surrenders to crudely
choreographed spasms...fists clench and arms curl repeatedly up and down her torso...head
rolls from side to side, eyes screaming in shocked white silence...the damage done...the
rubber removed...the danger averted...her mouth left gaping, loosely opens and closes in a
vain attempt to speak from the comatose state which sets in...the minutes tick by...she
awakens to be wheeled out to the hall where she'll sleep for another two hours...and
she'll remember nothing of this terror-at least so they say...
(page 34)
RAVINE MUSINGS
(November,
1996-journal entry) Walking my dog C.C.
through the ravine behind our house, the mirage appears dancing seductively before me. Tears of enlightenment crystallize on my windblown
cheeks as I listen to what the apparition whispers as she flits in amongst the trees,
swaying in time to their eerily creaking branches. I
walk alongside myself, an adult who remains a prisoner of childhood longings and teenage
addictions, in an attempt to satisfy an almost constant craving for a nurturing female
spirit. In my quest for that nurturing, I am
inundated by more Freudian connotations than I can bear.
But this spirit who surrounds yet eludes me is not daunted. She dangles a fine silken thread just out of my
grasp, tempting, as always my need to connect. I
reach out between the virgin snowflakes, and grab hold of temptation. In an instant I discover who she is, in all of her
many guises. She is the muse of a poem, the
seed of a crush, the fleeting eye contact, the embodiment of those certain women whose
paths cross mine. She is the mother who gave
me birth; only to vanish thereafter. Making
my way through the stillness of the woods, I instinctively know where to begin looking for
her...
WHEREIN LIES THE ANSWER
the true meaning of helplessness
watching someone you love die
no words have meaning
or gestures have strength
you silently watch her slip
into that deep, dark, empty space
and faith in tomorrow
becomes a vain prayer for no more
will this be the end
you dare to wonder
is this what her life
was meant to become
is this that fate
for which she was destined
or is it only the beginning
of her new life beyond
one which shall know
neither sorrow, norangst
nor the weight of depression
nor the horror of the shock
only the sky, ever blue to be touched
(page 107)
AGAINST THE ODDS
two turtle doves
same branch
different limb
looking out toward tomorrow
as the colour of the day
breathes hope of a common wish
for the health
of the mind and body...
(page 158)
TIME TUNNELS
the waves of wisdom
lap softly toward
hollows of tow
time tunnels
which both beckon
the wayward souls
who question through which
life's journey will be most gentle
the currents of destiny
whisper the way
unveiling the strong and vibrant undertow
of an oft' troubled inner spirit
(page 187)
UNSUNG HERO
with different eyes i see you
through photos which tell a story
from the small boy carefree by the cannon's side
his smile seems to encompass the bay
yet as the years crept by, i sense sadness mounted
though disguised so no others would see
a teenage boy and then a man
upon whose shoulders the world carried
despite a severed father-bond
your yourself become a dad
not quite my age when i was born
your face glowed as you held me proud
yes, there was a time when the laughter flowed
and barriers were only to keep me from falling
but then, as destiny would have it
we became as two ships barely passing the the night
now a painful restoration ~ a struggle to was the wounds
inspired by the scars themselves, and four decades full of memories
those moments captured through a father's lens
speak volumes eternally etched in my mind
the care you took for all of us, your sacrifices made
went often unpraised, though you toiled away
you did your best to give what you could
i wish those years could be somehow repaid
shrouded by gloomy clouds of grey
how sad it is
that but a trauma bond and blood
is what we have in common today
(page 196)
UWEDDING BELLS TOLL
so proud
am i, to have witnessed change
my little brother grown
you've reached beyond, to prove yourself
and found a path to please
and with it, memories
fade
the waters stirred
beneath the bridge
have never quite been
settled
briskly flowing,
the current quick
with undertow uncertain
above those tides of
turbulence
your wedding day will
toll
washing away, upon
the shore
the footprints silently
cast
by an oft' forgotten
distant wave
who
despite all, remains your sister...
(page 200)
MIRROR IMAGES
i am her
in my endless worrying
i am her in
my will to please others
i am her
in my sense of humour and
wit
i am her
in my muted anger
(page 237)
ECHOES OF THE PAST
november
remembrance
of a time now long ago
when darkness was no
stranger
at the house up on the
hill
it came and had no mercy
playing havoc with our
lives
it challenged us to
somehow find
a way to stay together
through the pain of
stormy years
a strange calm appeared
to beckon
for all those years are
history now
may they cease to smother
the future
yet still it is a
struggle
to leave the past behind
the wounds still fresh,
as if to say
there remains some
despair here
the thing about
remembrance
you never do forget
the pain inside, the
oceans cried
and how they brought us
forward
for without the stranger
of darkness
you never truly know
how bright the light
which burns inside
shedding warmth on a love
somehow shared
a love which is
unconditional
even though it seems to
hide
a love which wishes it
could more freely flow
and speak what trembles inside...
(page 245)
NOT
MY MOTHER
your
shoulders droop, your gait robotic
your
stare so vacant it chills
i
search beyond your darkened eyes
hoping
for a clue
where
are you from, what traumas known
to
render you like this
my
eyes well up, my heart is heavy
why
do i feel such pain
when
women like you i see them
so
listlessly on the street
the
world rushes by, but no, not i
my
sensitivity soars
for
all intents and purposes
you
could have been my mother
in
and out of hospitals
she
too has seen the depths
of
cruel despair and darkened hours
when
no one seemed to care
then
like a miracle she was lifted
to
heights for me unknown
on
steady ground she lives her life
for
now she's safe and sound.
(page
255)
BABY'S BREATH
baby's breath
though the November skies
breathe death among us
there is still the light
of rebirth
for while the
baby's March breath
brought teardrops
the spirit now blooms
everlasting
(page 259)
Page last updated
08/07/03 03:16 PM
