Wow! What a life! (And that's only Act I!) Thanks for laying it out for me. So, when I first met you, you were really in transition, weren't you--settling your divorce, and only a month or two away from meeting Bill. Interesting. So many ups and downs over your years, so many achievements, setbacks, missteps, triumphs--and always, always the plunging into life, again and again. You've done well by yourself, I'd say. Traveled a meaningful path even when you had no idea where you were headed. So far, so good!
Here's me:
Sept. 26, 1958: I enter the world, the seventh of nine children. My brothers and sisters are definitely the best thing my mom and dad ever gave me. We all sort of raised each other--mostly they raised me. My parents, in contrast, seemed sort of peripheral. They stayed married until my dad died in 1986. My mom, now 90, lives in an assisted-living place in Colorado Springs. She's still pretty healthy and she's almost always cheerful, at least around me. I get along well with her--the best of any of us--mostly because they haven't quite given up on her, whereas I have. They still long for something from her--some sign that they matter, that they even exist as individual people, in her eyes. Probably I long for that too, deep down, but I know I'll never get it, so I never, ever ask.
1977-1986: I go to college, drop out after two years, drift, almost get married to a very nice guy named Bob, sleep around a bit, don't take nearly enough illegal drugs, work some pretty fun part-time jobs (afternoon shift at a Fotomat, activities assistant at a nursing home, live-in caseworker at a group home for retarded women...), go back to college. I meet Henry in a creative writing workshop in the fall of 1981--he comes to the University of Denver to get his Master's degree at the same time I come back for my junior undergraduate year. I live with Henry for about five years before I finally drag him into marriage.
1986: I marry Henry, get a fulltime teaching job at Virginia Tech, move to Virginia, far from family for the first time in my life (and I've lived far from them ever since, which still sends a pang of grief through me sometimes). My dad dies in November, and despite (or because of?) the lack of a real relationship between us, I mourn that loss deeply for at least a year.
1988: Hannah is born. She quickly becomes the center of my universe. She and I become so bonded in the next three years that it's like we inhabit the same skin. She never sleeps, so I don't either--the two of us live in a hallucinatory trance. Henry remains on the periphery of our lives--keeps saying he needs to "get used to it."
1991: Hannah's diagnosed with autism. There were plenty of signs, but I had absolutely no clue, and I'll spend the rest of her life wondering if I ever really knew her at all. At some point during the next several years, I will also realize that if I can live through this, I can live through anything.
1993: Becky's born. (Just typing that fills me with gratitude and awe.) No matter how hard the rest of life gets, she will always be my saving grace.
1994-2005: Hard years for Hannah, getting steadily harder as she gets stronger and bigger, and thus more able to hurt herself and others. I handle it all amazingly--sort of preternaturally--well until finally, around 2002 I guess, I fall apart. Sort of. I still go on, but other people--teachers, caseworkers, even Henry (at last, Henry!)--step in to help.
August, 2005: While Henry, Becky and I are vacationing in New York--on a night when I'm up in Pleasantville, sleeping in Will's arms (Will being the guy who has consistently offered me soothing refuge ever since the diagnosis)--back in Montana Hannah dies. We come to believe she must have had an epileptic seizure as she slept.
2005-now: Not sure--kind of a foggy time. Bit by bit, I seem to be re-entering the world, which is very different now from the way I knew it before. As I continue feeling my way around, I'll be sure to keep you posted about my progress.
no subject
Here's me:
Sept. 26, 1958: I enter the world, the seventh of nine children. My brothers and sisters are definitely the best thing my mom and dad ever gave me. We all sort of raised each other--mostly they raised me. My parents, in contrast, seemed sort of peripheral. They stayed married until my dad died in 1986. My mom, now 90, lives in an assisted-living place in Colorado Springs. She's still pretty healthy and she's almost always cheerful, at least around me. I get along well with her--the best of any of us--mostly because they haven't quite given up on her, whereas I have. They still long for something from her--some sign that they matter, that they even exist as individual people, in her eyes. Probably I long for that too, deep down, but I know I'll never get it, so I never, ever ask.
1977-1986: I go to college, drop out after two years, drift, almost get married to a very nice guy named Bob, sleep around a bit, don't take nearly enough illegal drugs, work some pretty fun part-time jobs (afternoon shift at a Fotomat, activities assistant at a nursing home, live-in caseworker at a group home for retarded women...), go back to college. I meet Henry in a creative writing workshop in the fall of 1981--he comes to the University of Denver to get his Master's degree at the same time I come back for my junior undergraduate year. I live with Henry for about five years before I finally drag him into marriage.
1986: I marry Henry, get a fulltime teaching job at Virginia Tech, move to Virginia, far from family for the first time in my life (and I've lived far from them ever since, which still sends a pang of grief through me sometimes). My dad dies in November, and despite (or because of?) the lack of a real relationship between us, I mourn that loss deeply for at least a year.
1988: Hannah is born. She quickly becomes the center of my universe. She and I become so bonded in the next three years that it's like we inhabit the same skin. She never sleeps, so I don't either--the two of us live in a hallucinatory trance. Henry remains on the periphery of our lives--keeps saying he needs to "get used to it."
1991: Hannah's diagnosed with autism. There were plenty of signs, but I had absolutely no clue, and I'll spend the rest of her life wondering if I ever really knew her at all. At some point during the next several years, I will also realize that if I can live through this, I can live through anything.
1993: Becky's born. (Just typing that fills me with gratitude and awe.) No matter how hard the rest of life gets, she will always be my saving grace.
1994-2005: Hard years for Hannah, getting steadily harder as she gets stronger and bigger, and thus more able to hurt herself and others. I handle it all amazingly--sort of preternaturally--well until finally, around 2002 I guess, I fall apart. Sort of. I still go on, but other people--teachers, caseworkers, even Henry (at last, Henry!)--step in to help.
August, 2005: While Henry, Becky and I are vacationing in New York--on a night when I'm up in Pleasantville, sleeping in Will's arms (Will being the guy who has consistently offered me soothing refuge ever since the diagnosis)--back in Montana Hannah dies. We come to believe she must have had an epileptic seizure as she slept.
2005-now: Not sure--kind of a foggy time. Bit by bit, I seem to be re-entering the world, which is very different now from the way I knew it before. As I continue feeling my way around, I'll be sure to keep you posted about my progress.