The Dysfunctional Family Past Segment

Let’s get real comfortable on the therapist’s couch right now and talk. Much of the reason all this happened was because of my feeling of inadequacy, physically, emotionally and sexually. I suppose it stems as far back as the most focused moment of my childhood, which stands out as clear as if it happened yesterday. I was about seven or eight and I don’t remember exactly what the context was, but it had to do with something normal to any child like playing with a ball in the house or accidentally breaking a lamp, whatever. I do remember my mother downstairs in the basement next to the washer and dryer, not even looking at me. I was slowly creeping up the stairs to get away from the anger and my mom said, “No wonder your real mother didn’t want you.”

The words hit me like a dart, and to this day I’ve never felt such lingering pain as then. To get away without being noticed I continued to crawl slowly to the first floor, ran to my bedroom and cried until I fell asleep, wondering why the person I had really been a part of hadn’t wanted me, seriously thinking I had done something wrong to make her let me go. Just a child, how could I not take it seriously?

I realize now my adopted Mom was just venting, that’d she tried the best she could, but was a child herself, a little girl who never really grew up.
Still, those words stayed with me and along with other dysfunctional childhood memories, accounted for many of the emotional needs and problems I’ve had. How do you forget and get away from those little memories? Every rejection, every time someone had looked the other way at someone else, every occasion when I wasn’t the center of a man’s attention, at least the men I cared about, those were products of my childhood, those “you are not good enough/they’re going to leave me” feelings.
My mother probably didn’t realize I was still sitting on the stairs watching her. She didn’t know I would remember those words for the rest of my life and that it would affect about every relationship, fleeting or otherwise I would ever have.

One day, at the age of ten, I forgot to mow part of the lawn, a small little area along the side of the house. Some friends walked by while I was mowing and talked me into playing ball in the park. When I returned home after dark, Mom was furious, sternly telling me, “Come in here” leading me to the front room. Picking up a little brown paper bag, she shoved it at me.
“Here, take this, it has some clothes in it. I’ve called the juvenile delinquent home and they’re expecting you, now go, we don’t want you anymore.” pointing towards the door.
Although I could be strong willed, that was a few years down the line, on this occasion I meekly walked out the back door, heading through the yard and into the park directly behind our house. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I remembered the juvenile detention home pointed out to me by my parents a year earlier, about four or five miles away. I have no idea why it was pointed out to me at the time, it’s not like I was out running moonshine.
Hanging my head sadly down, slowly walking across the park, I wondered what I had done that was so bad I was being sent away? It was only a lawn?
Halfway through the park I heard Mom yell out, “Terry, come back here!” Turning around, head still hanging, I went back to the house.
“Are you ready to behave now?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered, still not knowing what I had done that could be considered “mis-behaving”, but I gave in anyway.
She picked up the phone, pretended to dial it, (at this point, I knew she was just lying and performing bad community theater), said without even a pause, “It’s fine now, he won’t be coming over, he’s promised to behave,” and put down the phone without even a goodbye. (Did she think I was really that stupid?)
She took the bag out of my hand. While walking through the park I had looked inside, all it contained were a pair of underwear.
“Now, tomorrow when it’s light out, finish mowing the lawn.” and I was sent to my room.
At the time I found Mom’s performance a little comical, it seemed so over the top. Eventually I got used to such behavior, although it was confusing and sometimes made me question if the day would ever arrive they actually would abandon me. There were so many moments where my parents just dropped people, sometimes overnight. The words would be, “To hell with ‘em” and they’d move on, holding onto the bitterness for years.
Eventually my perception of my parents was they were like children and that I’d have to make my own decisions of what was right and wrong. But, to a ten year old, it was rough being told so casually you were being sent away, no matter how poor the acting was.

My dad had some horrific outbursts too, but those memories tend to be more physical in nature. He’d been a terrific father in some ways, full of colorful anecdotes, a wonderful sense of humor and a great love of history. Those hand me downs I’m very proud of acquiring but my Dad also had a temper, at times violent and impulsive.
The harshest thing he ever said to me was when he called me a “God damn bastard.” Now, I knew at the time what the term meant and no matter how much you’d like to cover up your past and make excuses for people’s behavior, that shit lingers, especially when I was not a difficult child or some smart-ass kid who talked back all the time.
Years later, he told me, “You were easy to control, all we had to do was just look at you funny and you’d behave. It was your brother who was difficult to get through to.” The fact my father used the word “control” says a lot to me now.

Although it was something of a family joke, my father would go through numerous hammers over the years when he’d get angry since he’d throw them through the walls, over a fence, wherever, cussing and lashing out at what was bothering him. That may have been funny as a story many years later… at the time it was terrifying to a child since it didn’t stop with hammers. There were a few memories it’s difficult to dredge up because they involved throwing people.
At times I operated on lonely terror as a child, especially one night when told to go upstairs to bed once my teenage brother got home late in the evening when I was about eight. I could hear screaming and physical abuse from downstairs. The words “you Goddamn son of a bitch!” coming out of my father as I heard my brother being slammed against the walls.
Instinctively I wanted to run down there and help my brother. I vividly remember the sound of slaps and wondering what he had done. I never did find out, but knowing my brother, it couldn’t have been that bad. Hell, as a teenager I was far wilder than him, perhaps I just hid it better, or maybe my father had calmed down. I do know that by the time I reached high school I was a lot stronger willed than my brother had been so perhaps my parents simply backed off, knowing I would emotionally fight them if I believed what they were doing was off base.
But, at the age of eight, hearing those beating sounds downstairs while huddled in my upstairs bedroom made me wonder when my time would come.

Around the same time something happened between my mother and father, and again I don’t know what, but it caused another serious blowup.
My mom collected little porcelain figurines, she called them her “old people”. Quaint, six or seven inch elderly figures sitting on a bench, knitting, churning butter, weaving… stuff like that.
In the middle of the night I was awakened by screaming. Hurrying to the top of the stairs, I couldn’t see what was going on, but heard Dad calling Mom names, and every once and a while I could see one of those little figurines flashing across my vision and shattering on the floor at the bottom of the stairs.
“You like that?! How about that? Dammit!” One after another the crashes would come and I worried he was hurting my mother, but I was too scared to do anything other than stand at the top of the stairs, hiding behind the corner of the wall. Every once and awhile she’d scream back at him, her voice sounding as if she was begging. This was not their normal type of argument. He was in control this time, holding all the power, and was either accusing her of something or simply taking out his anger on her.
It seemed to go on forever and when Dad bounded over to the stairs, I quickly shot out of sight to my bedroom as I heard the back door of our house slam shut and Dad’s motorcycle fade into the distance.
Once sure he wasn’t immediately coming back, I crept out of my room and down the stairs to the family area in our basement. It looked like a tornado had hit. Shards of broken porcelain covering much of the floor, lamps were broken and in the middle, my mom sobbing on her hands and knees holding a large plastic bag, slowly picking up each little piece as carefully as she could without cutting herself.
Never before or since, did I feel so sorry for my mom. Wearing little Roy Rogers pajamas, I quietly tip toed over and watched her, confused at what had taken place. Dad was my hero for much of my childhood, how could a hero break my mom’s tiny “old people” and make her cry so hard?
I got down on my knees and said, “I’ll help you Momma.”
She suddenly saw me and in her embarrassment said, “No! Go back upstairs!” but wouldn’t look me in the eye. Her own were bloodshot and red. Stopping, she let go of the bag, put her hands on her knees and continued to cry.
Why I suddenly disobeyed I don’t know, but I just put my hand on her shoulder and said, “No, Momma, I’ll help you.”
Picking up the bag I helped gather the little arms and legs, every once and awhile a section of a wheelbarrow or a spinning wheel. After a minute of this, Mom was able to continue and we had the entire floor clean in about an hour with not one word said between us.
I kissed Mom on the cheek, silently went back upstairs to bed and never heard another word about that night for the rest of my life.
Who knows what skeletons in my family closet brought that incident to the surface, but again, I wondered when it would be my turn.

Dad and I were walking along a dike in Grand Marais, Minnesota while a particularly rough crop of waves came in from Lake Superior. Spectacular to see, the water was crashing against the rocks, the foam a turbulent white contrast to the grey of the cold water. Occasionally, the spray would leap higher than I imagined possible and I marveled at these aquatic fireworks.
At some point, I lost sight of my dad and didn’t know what to do. I looked all over, afraid he might have been washed away, but I couldn’t find him. Running the mile back to the hotel hoping he would be there, it never entered my mind to simply wait by the edge of the dike.
When I knocked on the motel room door my mother answered. Asking where Dad was, I told her what happened and oddly enough, she didn’t seem too worried about it. It’s not that she didn’t care, it’s just my parents sometimes took the wrong things too seriously, and the right things not seriously enough.
Ten minutes later Dad threw open up the door, madder than a hornet. He had lost track of me among the rocks and was just as scared as I about the possibility of the other being washed away. He gave me the worse beating I ever had. Honest to God punches and blows, hitting me so hard my head slammed against the wall, causing me to momentarily see stars. Trying to get away from the screaming and physicality, I actively headed the other direction as he came at me.
Finally he stopped as I slid down the wall of the bathroom and leaned against the tub, too hurt, dazed and scared to do anything but whimper. It never occurred to me to fight back, if I did the beating would probably get worse.
I had been as worried about him out by the lake and while lying there on the floor, I didn’t understand. After he calmed down and I was under the covers in bed, shaking and crying, he came over and kissed me on the head, saying he loved me. It’s the only time he verbally said those words.

I hope I don’t give the impression my father was a villain, he absolutely was not that, but there were many moments I can only describe as “immaturity” regarding my parent’s behavior.
To this day, I don’t know the answers behind some of the events, perhaps my dad simply had some bad days at work. For years he worked two jobs to support us, which had to be stressful. Still, he was always there for me on Tuesday nights to play ball outside, wrestle, go to the library or the movies. It wasn’t all bad.
I don’t think alcohol was involved, even though I don’t remember a day from my childhood Dad didn’t have a beer in his hand, yet I never saw him intoxicated. Years later, I even joked about it with him, saying, “I don’t think I ever saw you drunk, but maybe I just never saw you sober…” and we both laughed.
A therapist of mine once speculated my father might be a functioning alcoholic. Perhaps so, but I really don’t believe alcohol caused those bad times. I believe that, like children, my parents could never judge which emotions to contain and which to show.

At twenty-one, I read an article, I don’t remember the exact words, but it went something like this.
“In the final scheme of things, there is no book on perfect parenting. All they could do was the best they could, if they loved you. And whatever mistakes they may have made, were probably not intended to hurt you. It’s up to you to forgive them and move on. Some people blame their parents for their issues for the rest of their lives, even into old age. But, the fact is, you are the only person who can control who you are. Your parents may have caused certain things, but it isn’t their fault you hold onto them. It’s up to you to let go of that and solve your own issues. It isn’t their fault you can’t let go. It’s up to you to be an adult and take responsibility for who you are.”

My Mom stood beside both my grandmother and grandfather during their failings and deaths, and I was proud of her knowing what she’d gone through as a lonely child, that she grew up feeling unloved. My uncle, the golden child, was living in Arizona so it was my mom who made the daily calls and visits.
My grandmother was a tough woman and a bit of a hypochondriac, loving the attention. As she began to fail Mom had a slight stroke and lost some of her ability to enunciate, especially when she’d get upset. At Christmas Eve one year, Grandma suddenly passed away in Mom’s living room, in front of the tree with all the family witnessing it. I attempted CPR, but it was too late. As the helicopter carried her body to the emergency room, my Mom reverted to a little girl crying and accusing her mother of doing it on purpose, for attention. I knew where all that came from.
After regaining her senses, she handled everything with strength and looked after Grandpa for another year until, he too, began to fail, slowly dying in the hospital. My Uncle came up from Arizona to check in and soon my phone rang with the call I was expecting, only Mom didn’t say what I expected. My Uncle had passed away of a massive heart attack that day. Once my Grandfather found out he demanded all the tubes be taken off him, “Goddammit, I’m ready to go!” and within an hour had willed himself to death.
I had the odd experience of seeing in the obituaries my Grandpa and Uncle, next to each other, same name, senior and junior. Mom had lost everyone from her childhood and the holidays would never be the same.
To this day, while other people’s faces may come and go in my mind, I can still picture my adopted mom’s mannerisms and face as strong as it was when she was alive.

I’ll always cherish my last moments with her. For years she’d dreamed of going to Hawaii and my father took her, even though she couldn’t walk very well by that time. Only fifty-seven, diabetes had taken its toll, yet whenever I came back home, she was full of smiles, although occasionally the little girl tantrums would come to the surface. My father had dealt with it for years and he loved her, even though it meant looking the other way and ignoring her at times.
She had been going through dialysis for a while, and once I went with her. She wanted me to understand what it was, technically, she was going through. She joked with the nurses and the other patients the entire time, and I will be honest about this, although she’d be embarrassed by my mentioning it. While sitting in the chair, for some God-awful reason, due to an awful mistake on the part of the nursing staff, the tube that connected her to whatever it is that does what it does became detached. Blood poured all over her smock, it was really quite shocking what happened. She was nervous I saw it, and I was doing my best to not let her see the shock in my expression. She handled it so well, joking about it, even when she was incredibly embarrassed by it, and I know felt like a burden to the staff. She kept apologizing for their mistakes while mopping up her own blood with a towel. In that moment, she was as strong as I have ever seen her.

Scheduled to have another surgery to help the circulation in her legs, she was optimistic on the phone, all smiles in her voice, happy she might be able to walk again without pain. I really believed, because of her enthusiasm, she would be all right. Dad took her to Hawaii, where she had a wonderful time, even though she had to spend much of it in a wheelchair.
Their flight back to Des Moines had a layover in Chicago with an hour to spare. Peter and I both went to O’Hare and when they got off the plane, my mother was in her wheelchair wearing a blue, flowered mumu, an enormous straw hat complimenting what could only be described as the stereotypical hick Hawaiian ensemble. Dad pushed her, both of them grinning, and he was wearing the exact same material she was with just as tacky a straw hat.
My first thought was, “Ma and Pa Kettle in Waikiki, they did this on purpose.” Full of joy, they had intense satisfaction at having made such a visual scene and I had no indication of the pain Mom was going through.
I wheeled her to the diner, we talked about trivial things, the Hawaiian waterfalls, the Pearl Harbor Memorial, how my father had gone to the wrong buffet and drunk all the mai-tais he could because they were free, yet when asked to pay for them, he grunted, “It’s your own damn fault you didn’t mark the buffet well enough. How the hell would I know it was the wrong buffet?”
We took pictures, and the last thing Mom said to me before Dad wheeled her on the plane was, “Mom loves you, you know that.”

A few days later, I called after she had the surgery. A bit groggy, she was still happy to hear from me and was very enthusiastic the operation had added some color to her feet. She kept saying how wonderful the get well balloon and flowers I’d sent were. At least three times she repeated, “The balloon is beautiful.” as she drifted off to sleep still holding the phone.
Later that evening, around midnight I believe, some friends were in visiting from Des Moines, and we went out to the usual bars tourists like to experience in Chicago. I had been out perhaps a half hour when Peter walked in the bar excitedly and said, “Your brother called, you need to go home and call him now.”
I left without even saying good-bye to my friends, took a taxi with Peter and called my brother. No answer. I called my mom’s hospital room and a nurse answered. She asked who I was and I told her. She started to cry and with great understanding, nervousness and compassion said, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your Mom had a heart attack in the middle of the night. I did the best I could, but I couldn’t save her. I’m sorry.” She was very upset.
After taking a deep breath, I said, “Thank you so very much for trying, I appreciate it.” and hung up. I sat on the bed for a few minutes staring at the wall. Peter came in, sat on the bed and held me as I let go of emotions I never dreamt of having to let go of. No matter how much you may think you are prepared for the death of a mother, you never are.

I went home the next day, and my father, while in shock, still maintained the family pigheadedness and didn’t want me to call my aunt, my great uncle, anyone who had been on Moms side of the family, all that is, except her cousins, Gary and Donna. Wonderful, real people, they felt more like an older brother and sister to me than second cousins. Of course I called them, and they were wonderful through it all, giving advice, talking of how my mom bragged about me. The strange thing was I hadn’t even gotten to know them very well until well into my thirties, yet they became more family to me than any of my aunts and uncles had been.
I told Dad I was going to call Mom’s side of the family regardless, it was only proper, and while he cussed a lot, he didn’t fight me on it.
My father didn’t want a funeral, people could show up at the graveside but by God, if they couldn’t visit when she was alive, they better not show up when was gone. I halfway agreed with him, but at the same time, we’d never had a death without a funeral, it seemed so incomplete. I walked into the viewing room on the second floor of the funeral home, where all our people had their funerals since before I was born.

Because there was to be no formal memorial there was no coffin. Just a table with a nice blanket over it, orange light flooding the room and Mom wearing the blue mumu I’d last seen her in. Since she was to be cremated later that night, there had been no embalming and she still had color to her skin. This is the only time I have ever said this, as cliché as it may sound, but she looked like she was asleep and at peace, without pain. I know everybody says that, but I’ve never once seen a person in a coffin who looked anything like they did in life. My mom was different.

Peter walked in with me, and after a few moments, left me alone with her and I remained for a short time filled with numb shock, leaving once I realized I had to look after my dad to make sure he was okay. I met him on the way back down the stairs, and while he had said he was going home, I knew he wanted to be the last one alone with her. I respected that, and it was only right, he had stayed with her through everything. He should be the one to say that last goodbye.
The next day, although sad with loss, he managed to deal with the details, and after the cremation placed my Mom’s wedding ring in the urn which was then placed in a plot where her daughter Debbie lay.

Gary and Donna came down from Minnesota. Donna held my hand, telling me how special and childlike Mom had been. Gary of course, did the typical guy thing. With tears in his eyes, he reached for my hand, then said, “Oh shit,” breaking down and giving me a hug. My father was so upset that when I reached out to embrace him, he turned and walked away from me in tears, unable to deal with the emotion of the moment.

After Mom died, I had no doubt someday Dad would remarry since he was so full of life and at that age, a good catch for many a widow on the lookout for a man. I just didn’t expect him to remarry as soon as he did, and he started dating a woman he worked with within a couple weeks of Mom’s passing. In a few more weeks they were living together and engaged. I tried to convince myself the dating thing did not bother me, since I’ve always believed life is there to be lived, but it did. He seemed to have jumped quickly to the first person who showed up and the realization also came I wasn’t the only co-dependent person in the family scared to be alone.

I was the replacement of the child my Mom had lost, the little girl she’d been buried with named Debbie who’d died of SIDS, a month old. As a child I used to unrealistically wonder if Debbie hadn’t died, what would have become of me?