76. A Detour of Despair
When last we were together, I tossed your asses into the Impossible Dream and gave you an up close and personal look at how I spent the summer of 1967 in Canada. Many of you posted on FB and sent texts and emails about the camper — the design of it, the construction of it, the humor in how a family of five functioned in it, and the fact that I lived to tell the story about it. Many of you honed right in on the unsafe traveling practices of families from the 50s and 60s. I loved that you felt free to share your own stories about overcrowded automobiles, Hampton beach cottages, and popup camper disasters. There was absolutely no surprise on my end that families far and wide stuffed a few generations into overcrowded station wagons and schlepped for a few days or a week away.
I absolutely love it when you guys become storytellers.
The first station wagon-stuffing story came from my husband. Whilst still laughing about the blog and sipping his morning brew he spewed, “We used to shove twelve people into a station wagon and head to the beach, then we slept on the floor and porch of a one bedroom cottage. Those were the best days!” I put that up on FB to which his cousin Eileen McTigue McDonald immediately replied. I was way too young, but heard about road trips with Aunt Mary, Aunt Rosemary, and Aunt Fifi. Those were the days.
Apparently, those were the days for just about everyone. Paula Hackett O’Connor wrote, Thank you for this blog, it brought tears of laughter reading about your camper adventure. Although we didn’t have the camper we had various station wagons for our trips which included my parents, grandparents, who lived next door, and four kids (sometimes a temperamental dachshund named Sandy). Definitely not safe but so much fun!
And Cheryl DelSignore highlighted a whole other safety issue back in the day — holes in floorboards. OMG I’m laughing like a fool at the picture of the Impossible Dream escapades. You can’t make this shit up. So funny, but don’t we all have some crazy funny memories from our childhood OR our kids’ childhoods … my daughter got splashed in the face when I drove through a huge puddle and the cardboard covering the hole in the car floor blew and she got soaked …
That story reminded me of something I wrote in blog 56, Turning the Corner.
I’m one of those people who names their cars. The practice began in 1976 when I bought my first car — a very used 1963, pale yellow Bel Air I named Bonnie Bell … . The behemoth had a steering wheel the size of a Ferris wheel, a v.e.r.y. l.o.n.g. tail end, a black soft-top, and supposedly power steering. She. Did. Not. Have. Power. Steering. After a year of driving Bonnie, there was a noticeable change to my shoulders and biceps. They’d broadened and toned way too much for my liking — think Bulgarian shot putter in training.
I only drove Bonnie to and from work because my friends had cool cars and my dates had cool cars — and their cool cars didn’t require two people to start them. Bonnie needed a start-crew of two: one person to hold a screwdriver to the battery while the other person turned the key. An annoyance for sure, but there was no shortage of guys who’d stop at the yellow Bel Air when its hood was in the upright position, and its owner was taking a hip to the bumper waiting patiently for an assist.
Bonnie and I parted ways when her exhaust fumes became unbearable and I just could not shake the constant fear that I’d be found passed out at a red light and slumped over the Ferris wheel. More to the point — and this is a very important point — it was nearly impossible finding a perfume strong enough, yet flirty enough, to cut the petrol smell that wafted from inside Bonnie Bell. I preferred wearing Charlie back then, but all things considered, White Shoulders was a much better spritz.
That’s why I got rid of my 1963 Bel Air — there was a big-ass hole in the passenger side floorboard. That’s why I nearly died from car exhaust fumes at every stop sign, red light, or traffic snarl — AND it’s why everyone thought I wore eau de petroleum instead of eau de parfum.
Good lord, it’s a miracle that any of us lived to see passage of legislation that required seatbelts and safety inspections in passenger vehicles. I know a shitload of people bitched, moaned, and groaned about those rules and regulations, but come on folks, we were a bunch of idiots. Someone needed to protect us from ourselves — or from our parents.
Just sayin.
Anyway, this written diatribe was going to be the second installment of, ‘What The Fuck Is Wrong With You People’? The thing is this; I tried and tried and tried to push-in on writing that blog — what I got instead was a complete emotional breakdown that lasted 12 full hours.
Thursday afternoon, Hadley came to visit after school. Not unusual, but her mood was a bit off. Apparently, she was having some trouble processing her upcoming field trip scheduled for the next day. Generally speaking, Hadley isn’t one to fret about things. If she has an issue about something she says what it is, listens to ways to deal with whatever it is, then moves on.
Over the past month or so, I’ve noticed — we’ve all noticed that Hadley is showing signs of distress. Nothing major, but there’s been a bit of backsliding — having a tough time falling asleep, wanting to crawl in with her mom in the middle of the night, interrupting conversations either verbally, or physically by climbing onto Hannah’s or Jessica’s lap, showing frustration more often and readily. Nothing major, but it’s obvious that she’s preoccupied by something.
Huh, wonder what that could be?
Anyway, there was some stress on Thursday afternoon. She walked in and said, “Mom told me to remind you that I have to have a big breakfast tomorrow because we won’t be eating lunch until after we get back from Tower Hill, you know the flower place.”
“Tower Hill Botanical Gardens.”
“Yeah.”
“You must be excited about the field trip?”
“Not really. I have to go on a school bus. Did you know they don’t have seatbelts?”
“Mmm.”
“How far away is Tower Hill?”
“About forty minutes, or so.” A raised eyebrow from the kid let me know I needed to be a bit more specific. “About the length of two Big City Greens episodes.”
“Long time.”
I hooked my finger in her direction. She came near. I put my hands on either side of her face, pulled her close, and said a few words.
She smiled wide, kissed my cheek, pulled her computer from her backpack, put it onto her rolling table, grabbed a snack from the cupboard and a juice pouch from the fridge and got busy with her homework. When she was done, we played a rhyming game until she was called home for supper. She was out the door and back in the door within the blink of an eye. “Did you forget something?”
“A hug.” She leaned gently against me and held on and on and on. “You give the best advice, MammyGrams. See ya in the morning.”
The slam of the door started the waterworks.
Mine. Not hers.
I had myself a good cry before Tim came downstairs to grab something to eat. One look my way and he knew I’d been crying. I shook my head, and grabbed hold of a bunch of used tissues, “Can you get me a baggie?” He did, and started to say something, or ask something, but I preempted him with another shake of my head.
Whilst he was in MY SPACE, I pushed back the tears I really needed to let flow by pretending to watch a Hallmark movie and simultaneously reading posts on FB. Tim’s calls from the kitchen about dinner options received a repeated monosyllabic, “No,” and when he walked past with his culinary bounty that he planned on eating at his desk, he started to say something or ask something — he did neither when I teared up again, averted my eyes and sighed, long and loud. I shut off the television, sat in my leather prison and watched daylight slip away through tear-filled eyes.
Earlier that day, I’d been put back onto a really strong narcotic, the one I had to come off when I had Covid and needed to take Paxlovid. Apparently the two drugs don’t play nicely together and since I wanted to live through the Covid experience, I opted for the antiviral drug. The first time I started the narcotic, it took 24 hours to kick in and when it did it zonked me out for the better part of two days. It also caused a pretty bad headache and sore throat — remember, those were the symptoms that could have been medicine-related, but were more likely Covid-related. I got both symptoms again, but this time, I decided the headache that pounded away was from my trying to push deep my tears and sorrow.
Around ten, after several hours of waterworks, I called up to Tim, “I’m heading to the BR to get ready for bed.” I knew my mate had been monitoring my emotional breakdown from the top of the stairs because that’s who he is. A few weeks ago, after I began having some spine curving and weakening issues, Nurse M made the suggestion — gave the mandate — that I be accompanied on nightly BR trips, especially those in the middle of the night which means I have to wake Tim or Jessica in the middle of the night.
I get it, but I don’t like it.
Anyway, I began my 10 PM trip alone with him joining in behind me just before I closed the door. Instead of his usual putzing in the kitchen, he stood guard outside. He got an earful of anguished, guttural, hideous noises that slammed hard into the cacophony of my wracking sobs. I washed my face through the pain, using more tears than water, and brushed my teeth through hacking and choking sorrow. I tidied up the room, taking pleasure scrubbing this and that through grips of overwhelming grief.
Mr. Wonderful received another shake of my head when he stepped away from the wall that’d kept him upright during my hiatus inside the BR. I settled back in my seat. He kissed me goodnight, “Call me if you need me. Try to get some sleep, okay.”
My, “Okay,” got lost in an emotional choke. I took my nighttime pills, two Tramadol and a Xanax and waited for medical-mercy to find and rescue me. It didn’t. The tight grip of sadness and uncontrollable crying became my nightlong companion. Without one bit of exaggeration, I bawled my heart out for the entire night.
All I could think about was Hadley.
I pulled a thousand threads about that sweet little girl. About what my leaving her would mean. About the chasm of emptiness that awaited her. About the fact that I’m her touchstone, the one who listens to her in that way. The way that’s different from all others. I am the one who hangs on her every word. The one who is all about healing hugs and whispered words of love and encouragement. I tortured myself with the pain she’ll feel and that it’ll be because of me, because I died and I shouldn’t have because I’m MammyGrams — the greatest person in the world — her world.
I pulled a thousand more threads about my disappointment at not being with her to handle field trip fears, or the enjoyment of getting extra recess for being an awesome kid. And not being here to continue our collection of Squishmallows, and the excitement of the next new craze to come along. And not being here to watch her flourish in school — or maybe fall behind because she’s feeling sad. And when the guilt at being the cause of her grief and challenges ebbed a bit, I noticed Wubby across the room. She’s Hadley’s most special of all snugglies. The one she has to have at night. The one I tell her not to bring anywhere because she might forget her. And there she was, sitting on my loveseat. Alone. Without Hadley which meant Hadley was without Wubby.
My heart shattered.
I wanted to call up to Tim, to tell him to knock on Hannah’s door and get Wubby up to Hadley. Instead, I got up from my chair and went to get Hadley’s snugglie. I settled back in, buried my face into the pastel pink polar bear and let the tears flow. Soon, I was covered with used tissues and an overwhelming rage. I trenched my feet into the path of misery and angered at the world around me.
“When I die, she’s the one who will suffer,” I raged.
“I’ll be dead — she’ll be devastated.”
“I need to take a piss.” I started for my cell.
“Fuck it!” I snarled.
I lowered my recliner, grabbed all of the soaked-through tissues from my lap, stuffed them into the pocket of my nightgown, grabbed my walker and went to the fucking bathroom.
BY MYSELF.
I heard the door at the top of the stairs close when I finished my business, sat my ass on my chair, raised it high, and listened to the upstairs snoop shuffle back to bed. I was too pissed to care if it was my husband or my daughter who supervised my prison break. I checked the clock, saw I could take my next dose of Tramadol, and so I did. Then I waited for rescue — in the form of sleep.
There was no rescue. And I nearly drowned in my tears.
All night, I cried.
When the sun rose over the McTigue’s house that morning, and Tim came down for coffee, he knew not to ask. He handed me my brew, unlocked the front door, let me sip my lifeline in solitude, and wait for Hadley to join me for breakfast. She moseyed in, looking a little green around the edges.
“All set for your field trip?”
A shrug of a shoulder.
“Still having some nerves about the bus?”
A shrug of a shoulder.
“You know, Hadley, sometimes stomach butterflies can signal fear, but they can also be about excitement. My advice is to relax into the experience.”
She stiffened her spine and said, “I’m gonna conquer this.”
“Well, good for you.”
Tim called her for breakfast — French Toast, bacon, a concoction of four fruit juices, and some apple fries. When she was finished she took a seat in Tim’s mission chair, pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees, “Did you record my visit yesterday?”
“Yeup.”
“Can I listen to it?”
“Sure.” I turned the machine on and pressed play.
“Not there, MammyGrams. Go further.”
Play.
“Nope, a little further.”
Play.
A smile came over her face, so I knew we were where she wanted to be. I heard myself from the recording say, “Sometimes you need to do things when you’re afraid. Sometimes you should do things just because you’re afraid.” I was surprised when I heard my words. I honestly didn’t remember saying them. I blamed the memory blip on my exhaustion.
Hadley unfolded herself and moved to the edge of her seat. “Are you ever afraid, MammyGrams?”
I snickered, “Of course, everyone is afraid at one time or another.”
“When? When were you afraid?”
I laughed, “Did I ever tell you about a trip I took to Canada?”
“I don’t think so.”
Just then we heard the close of a door and the call of a mother, “Come on, Hadley. It’s time for school.”
My favorite human walked to me, threw her arms around my neck, gave me a buzz on the cheek and said, “Hold that thought, MammyGrams.”
“Will do. Have an awesome field trip, Hadley.”
“Will do,” she said as the storm door slammed behind her.