Читать книгу AGREEMENTS: Lessons I Chose on My Journey toward the Light - Linda Stein-Luthke - Страница 11

I am writing this chapter after I’ve just returned from a visit to my brother and sisters in California. We were celebrating my sister Sandy’s 70^th and my brother Howard’s 50^th birthdays.

Sandy created a photo album in honor of the occasion. There were many pictures from our childhood. Two pictures in particular caught my attention. We were at an airport awaiting our flight to California where Daddy would start his new business. Sandy is seven, Bobbie is four, and I am fourteen months. The man holding me in his arms is not my father. He is my father’s nephew, Irwin. Since Daddy was the youngest of eleven children, and many of his siblings were much older, his nephews and nieces were his playmates and friends during his childhood. Irwin was very close with my Dad.

When I was a child, Irwin was very fond of me and would often remind me that it was he, and not my father who had taken Mother to the hospital when she went into labor with me. Dad had worked the night shift on the railroad during the war and Irwin drove a cab at night, so that was the rational for Mother summoning Irwin instead of Dad to take her to the hospital. I never liked it when he would hold me on his knee and cuddle me as he repeated this story. I was always glad when I was free to run off again.

As I looked at those pictures of me in Irwin’s arms, I studied my face and saw that my expression was sour while he beamed at the camera that my father was clicking as Dad captured these moments forever.

Then I remembered that shortly after I’d learned that Irwin had died, he had come to me “on the higher planes” and informed me that I was his baby. I didn’t understand his message and sent him away, dismissing the words and the thought.

However, this night in California, Irwin came to me again and told me once more that I was his baby. He showed me visions of the time prior to my birth. Mommy was lonely and miserable and seemed to be questioning her decision to choose Daddy for her husband. While Daddy worked at night, Irwin became a comfort to her as he drove his cab to our home to visit between fares. He was sweet and kind. I knew this. I just never liked him. According to Irwin, Mommy eventually succumbed to his charms, and I was the result of this liaison.

When I awoke the next morning, I shared Irwin’s message with my sisters. They didn’t seem at all alarmed at the news and said it explained a lot of reasons for them why Mother was so depressed and unhappy. We all assumed she must have felt pretty guilty, too. We guessed that Dad’s decision to pull up roots in Pittsburgh and move us far away to L.A. could have been motivated by how close Mommy and Irwin had become.

I was pretty sure Daddy would never have known that Irwin was my real father; if he was my real father. I still wasn’t sold on the idea. But my sisters reminded me that when we moved to Akron, Irwin did not come to visit, nor did we see him on visits to Pittsburgh until he finally married a lovely woman and they adopted two children. Then he was welcome in our home.

Everything made sense to my sisters. But I was in turmoil. Who was my father? I wasn’t willing to trust his story.

That night, Irwin was with me again. He wasn’t giving up easily. He asked me how many times I had looked into the mirror and said that I had inherited his sister, Sarah’s skin or hair? This was true. No one in my family, nor in any other branch of the Felman family, had acne. But Sarah, Irwin, and their younger sister Irene did. And so did I. I had the same large pores and had been plagued by oily skin and acne. Even at the age of 63 I was still using a strong astringent to keep the condition under control.

And as my hair had turned gray, I had the same streaks of white as Sarah. Irwin triumphantly reminded me that both of these attributes came from his father’s side of the family, from the Perlows. This was absolute proof if I needed it (and I did) that he, not Daddy was my real father.

Now, I was really in turmoil. As I relayed this information to my sisters, they had to agree that the evidence was only stronger.

That night, I asked for my Dad to come to me. He agreed that it appeared that I was not his biological daughter, although the Felman blood was still in me, just with a different mix. But he said I was his real daughter because of the energetic bond that we shared.

Would I allow this understanding of an energetic bond to help me understand how I was connected to my adopted children? Could I now see how an energetic bond could be stronger than a bloodline? Yes, yes I could and would do that.

I still rest more comfortably in Daddy’s arms.

And although Irwin’s and Mommy’s story is interesting, it doesn’t identify who I am. I have compassion for how Mommy’s choices tormented her. I, too, have made some difficult choices that have caused me emotional suffering. And maybe her choices led to her early demise. That is most likely true.

But those choices don’t define me. I can be more than the sum total of Mommy and Irwin’s indiscretion.

*** *** ***

Many years ago, when I was 16 going on 17, I knew I’d found the man of my dreams and I clung to the vision of sharing my life with him. He would rescue me from my dire circumstances. And circumstances continued to be dire.

As I began my senior year at school, I finally had my first period. I’m sure the hormones surging through me because I’d met Barry finally overcame my resistance to accepting my female body. Those same hormones caused me to lose my temper with Mom, and she finally did something that she probably should have done years before: She slapped my face after I made some incredibly bitter remarks to her. I don’t remember the exact words, but I do remember her response.

Shortly after that, probably a month later, Dad took her to the mental ward at the hospital. She had become increasingly disoriented and unable to function, and since no other symptoms were visible, the doctors had no recourse but to place her there and subject her to shock treatments.

Bobbie returned home from school to help out. She insisted that I visit Mom at the hospital. After the first visit where Mom kept repeating that I should marry Barry, he would bring me happiness, and words of this sort, I refused to go see her again. It was terrifying to see her locked away in a mental ward with other crazy people and talking to me in this manner. But I never forgot her words.

My heart was broken and I couldn’t bear the pain. Life seemed to have defeated my Mother and I did feel partly responsible for this. Maybe if I’d complained less and helped more she wouldn’t be in this terrible place.

Six weeks later, she lay terminally ill. The doctors could not say what was causing her to die. My sister insisted again that I see her one more time. This time Mom was attached to tubes everywhere. There was no one to talk to, just a very still body with machines beeping all around.

One week later, she died. Bobbie came to school to take me from study hall and tell me the news. I immediately began to cry. She told me to stop crying. This wasn’t the time or place. We had work to do, a funeral to plan, and a brother and father to care for. The burden was on us to stay strong. So I stopped crying. Bobbie needed me to do that. It took me years to finally cry. I just couldn’t find the right time or place.

The doctors asked to perform an autopsy to learn the cause of death. It was determined that even prior to my brother’s birth she had cancerous tumors on her pancreas that ultimately spread to her brain. She wasn’t crazy after all, just filled with cancer.

Four hundred people came to the funeral in Akron. Everyone loved my Mother. I remember trying to be the perfect hostess and fixing breakfast for all our aunts and uncles who had come from Pittsburgh for the funeral. After the morning service a caravan drove to Pittsburgh for another service with family and then the burial. Mom was finally where she’d always wanted to be. She was home with family, albeit dead family, but still family.

I was asked to see Mom in the coffin. She was now heavily made up and dressed in her favorite silk dress. She looked beautiful but surreal. I didn’t recognize the person in the coffin. That wasn’t my mother. That was a dead person. My mother wasn’t there. I turned away and blindly went into the bathroom to get away. I found my cousin there. We talked about the new love in my life.

Barry had forsaken his other girlfriend and wrote to me constantly from the Navy. He tried to get leave for the funeral, but since we were not married, it was disallowed. He proclaimed his love for me over and over. And I wrote back with the same words to him. Now I had every reason to run to his arms.

Daddy lost his job and sank into a deep depression. I later learned from my brother-in-law that Daddy’s brothers had locked him in a room at the funeral home in Pittsburgh to complain that he was not paying back his debt to them. Daddy came home from this terrible event and collapsed into a chair in the living room. He didn’t work and barely functioned. Bobbie took a job and family friends contributed money to help us survive.

I was now on childcare and household duty full time when I wasn’t in school.

I was embarrassed that anyone at school knew what had happened. My homeroom class had sent a huge basket of flowers and I felt I should stand before the class and thank them. I hated doing this. I now had a mother who had died. I was a motherless child. I remember judging other kids who had families that weren’t “normal.” Now, I was officially one of them. None of my friends wanted to talk much about it either. So, we all pretended nothing had happened and I went back to just being a teenager in high school. I put on a mask and pretended.

But I couldn’t do that at home. From the moment I stepped through the door, I was a homemaker to my Dad and my sister, and a mom to my brother. I didn’t have the luxury of just worrying about me as most teens might do. That simply wasn’t possible.