Finding Friends in the Darnedest Places - My Dear Friend, Donna

Long ago in a galaxy far, far away, in an attempt to get out of the endless rut I found myself in, I took on a new business of selling cosmetics.  In the process of furthering my business, I found that I had a talent for creating new faces and became immersed in a world of highlight and shading.  Someone suggested that I talk to some locals about doing theater work, and a job at Opera Memphis dropped in my lap.  This began a new adventure that was to bring some really nice and talented people into my life, one of which was Donna.

Donna was in the chorus at Opera Memphis, and even though I am somewhat guarded at times, I found it easy to talk to Donna.  She became a big part of my life for a time, and we shared a lot of really good times.  The opera can be very demanding, with the constant rehearsals, meetings, and of course, "Hell Week".  Hell Week (Donna's term) was the final week of rehearsals, late night (until 2 a.m.) production meetings, and the shows.  It was like going onto a battlefield for a week after all the preparation and strong bonds formed at that time.  We would usually load the show into the theater on Monday, with a tech rehearsal on Tuesday, and dress rehearsals on Wednesday and Thursday.  Friday was usually our day of "rest" and was the day when we would drag ourselves through our day jobs long enough to have food put in front of us before crashing into bed for the next 15 hours.  The shows were usually on Saturday, Sunday and sometimes Monday.  At the end of those shows, I gave a party at the P&H Cafe for my crew, and that always included Donna.   During Hell Week, I could always be found at the theater early, with a bread bowl salad from Perkins.  When I had enough of my salad, Donna started picking at the bread bowl, and I gladly pretended not to notice.  After the show, I would take out my famous paddle brush that Donna loved so much and brushed out her hair.  She said it was a luxury to have me brush her hair, and I loved every minute of it.

I was glad to do things for Donna and to include her in whatever my crew was doing.  It was easy to like her.  I often envied her easy way with people, and wished that I were as loved as she.  As our friendship grew, I found myself attending events that she was participating in, and doing things for her that I wouldn't have done for anyone else.  Whenever we went on vacation, Donna would stay at our house and take care of our pets.  She had such a kind heart that on one occasion, when our dog wouldn't go back outside, she let him stay in... and he never went out for the night again.  Thanks for spoiling him rotten, Donna!  :)  I would always make sure that I brought something back for her, or do something that I knew she would like.  I remember her saying something about loving Mel Gibson movies, and I had the entire Lethal Weapon series along with several other of his movies.  I put them on VHS tapes and handed them over.  The look on her face was priceless.  That look was worth any trouble that I had gone through to make sure it was a surprise.  Then, of course, she topped my gift with a CD called Voce'.  She said she was in a music store and this CD was playing.  She said "yes, Master" and bought it for me.  I was and remain so touched by her kindness and thoughtfulness.  Donna invited me to her wedding, and I gladly attended, praying that she would be blessed in her choice of a husband.

Donna and her new husband moved away shortly after marrying, and I lost track of her... somewhere in Texas, I think...?  We kept in touch for a while by email, but it was difficult to only have that tiny part of her when I felt her absence so keenly.  A few years later, Steve and I ran into Donna at Perkins, with her "new" husband.  I was so very glad to see her, but not knowing what kind of relationship she had with this husband or what her life was like, I didn't think much about it.  I wanted to keep in touch, but marriage changes people sometimes, and I didn't want to be a source of conflict, so I waited.  Then Steve and I ran into them again a few weeks later.  It was strange.  It was like we were supposed to realign our lives, but I felt like maybe it was a little too late.  I found Donna again on MySpace and then on Facebook, and followed her from afar, again not wanting to interfere in her life, but missing her so much it hurt.  I watched as she fought cancer, not once, but twice, and it tore my heart out.  Then I read how she could not take any more chemo, and I knew the time was right for my mission in life... to give comfort.

I visited Donna at her home, after she called and let me know it was okay to visit.  I wanted to help take care of her, because her husband put out a request for any kind of relief possible so he could get some rest.  I was glad to help, but I think my intentions may have been misunderstood.  I don't know, and it doesn't change anything.  After a week of visiting Donna every day after work, the message  came that her husband didn't want my help.  "Nothing personal" the note said.  Okay, I get it.  I had already completed my mission.  I wanted Donna to know that I loved her, and she loved me in return.  It was a perfect ending.  We promised to get together to play cards and listen to music, both of us knowing that it would never happen.  And honestly, over the last weeks of her life, I really wanted to visit again, but knew that my visit might cause a problem.

Sometimes when I visited Donna in the hospital, I would sit and wait quietly until she woke up, and we got a chance to visit for quite a while one afternoon when she was alone.  Donna and I talked about her prognosis... and about how she didn't want to leave her husband with the mess at home.  I told her not to worry about that; that I will help even though I know my help will be turned away.  I'd do anything to help someone in need, especially Donna.  Now I feel like the world just isn't right now that she's not in it.  I still talk to her every night before I got to bed.  And I still wish this nightmare would go away.  But it won't.  We will meet again.  And then maybe we can play that card game... and that music.  I've got something special planned.  Let's get together soon, Donna.  30 more years without you just doesn't cut it.

I love you, Donna.  Always will.  Please remember me as I will remember you, with kindness, a smile and lots of love.  And save me a seat at the grown-ups' table.

Nazdrowie'

Paczki Puta

I Did It!

PTA Graduation Picture 2014

I am starting out this writing with the picture taken at school last week with my lab coat and scrubs on.  Yes, I have finally completed all the classwork in the PTA Program!  Whoopie!!!  I am finally going to be able to do what I've wanted all my life... to work in physical therapy.  I have been released to go to my second clinical rotation after a week's break, during which time I will be cleaning house and start studying for the board exam in July.  We will be moving to the place we want to call "home" either right after my clinicals end, or after I take the board exam.  After that, Steve and I will be sailing into the wild blue yonder, wherever the wind blows us.  It will be good to finally be free!

Our sons will be moving with us.  Jason has finally landed an entry-level job in his field, and Rhys still has a year of business management classes to finish, but they are the classes that he can take anywhere.  So we will finally be on our way to having some fun and a sense of accomplishment in our fields.  Heaven knows, we need it.  I feel like the worst way to live a life is without purpose.  It has taken us a long time, but we finally have that purpose in mind, and have started making strides in that direction.  

Some things have to be accomplished in the meantime.  First, we have to get the house ready to sell.  Then we have to find a buyer.  There are a couple of rental companies who buy up houses in this neighborhood, so this house will likely become a rental.  No matter.  We will be out and that's what matters.  The inevitable cleaning out of 30 years of "stuff" will have to be done before we move.  I did a lot of that a few years ago, when I organized the attic, shop and gym.  

Oh yes... my gym is going with us, as are the rubber floor tiles that cushion my fall.  I look forward to having a place to workout that doesn't entail having to brave the elements to get to it.  For the past hundred years or so, my gym has been the detached garage in our backyard.  We have insulated it, changed out the rotting doors for nice new ones, put down a floor, put in a ceiling, insulated the garage door, and put in a window air conditioner and heating units.  It's really a nice area, but it's too small for what I need.  I'd like to have a nice open area of mat to practice kata and yoga.  It would also be a nice place to meditate.  But if we move where there are mountains or lakes, I'll meditate out in the great outdoors.  Problem solved.  

Will I miss Memphis?  Not a bit.  I have been ready to leave for a very long time.  Now that the stars are aligning in the heavens and the moon is in the 7th house, Jupiter aligns with Mars... no wait... that's a song.  But you get where I'm going with this.  It's taken a long time to get everything right so we can go.  There's a big wide wonderful world out there and it's time for new adventures.  Here's to having them!

Nazdrowie'

Paczki Puta

Dead Elvis or "How Steve Destroyed New Orleans Without Even Trying"

I've been threatening to write this story for a while and it happened a long time ago, so please bear with me while I get the details straight.

When we were younger, we used to frequent the places on Beale Street when we came across a "head shop" called Tater Red's.  I didn't want to go in, but Steve convinced me it was relatively harmless, so in we went.  I was very wary of touching anything, but when I found these little statues, I quickly called Steve over.

What they were looked like skeletons with sideburns and Elvis hair, wearing an Elvis jumpsuit.  We thought it was really cute, so Steve bought it and brought it home.  He took it to work and put it on top of his computer monitor.  He got really cute comments about it and we really didn't think much of it except that it was a good conversation starter.  Then it got strange...

Steve suddenly had problems with his gall bladder and kidney stones.  He had his gall bladder removed and had several surgeries to remove the kidney stones.  I got sick... deathly ill... and when I was on my way back to health, my mother passed away.  One short month later, I lost my contracting job.  Bad things just kept happening, so we resolved to get rid of Dead Elvis, but how?  We looked up voodoo on the internet and found that to really get rid of the bad effects, we had to throw it into a body of water.  So one afternoon, Steve took Dead Elvis down to the Mississippi River at Tom Lee Park and threw it in.  "See ya" was the last thing he said to Dead Elvis.

A month later, Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans.  Coincidence?  Hmmmm....

Nazdrowie'

Paczki Puta

An Open Letter from Dylan Farrow

I read this today and am so awed by her courage to speak out.  Her story is my story.  Thank you, Dylan.

"What’s your favorite Woody Allen movie? Before you answer, you should know: when I was seven years old, Woody Allen took me by the hand and led me into a dim, closet-like attic on the second floor of our house. He told me to lay on my stomach and play with my brother’s electric train set. Then he sexually assaulted me. He talked to me while he did it, whispering that I was a good girl, that this was our secret, promising that we’d go to Paris and I’d be a star in his movies. I remember staring at that toy train, focusing on it as it traveled in its circle around the attic. To this day, I find it difficult to look at toy trains.

For as long as I could remember, my father had been doing things to me that I didn’t like. I didn’t like how often he would take me away from my mom, siblings and friends to be alone with him. I didn’t like it when he would stick his thumb in my mouth. I didn’t like it when I had to get in bed with him under the sheets when he was in his underwear. I didn’t like it when he would place his head in my naked lap and breathe in and breathe out. I would hide under beds or lock myself in the bathroom to avoid these encounters, but he always found me. These things happened so often, so routinely, so skillfully hidden from a mother that would have protected me had she known, that I thought it was normal. I thought this was how fathers doted on their daughters. But what he did to me in the attic felt different. I couldn’t keep the secret anymore.

When I asked my mother if her dad did to her what Woody Allen did to me, I honestly did not know the answer. I also didn’t know the firestorm it would trigger. I didn’t know that my father would use his sexual relationship with my sister to cover up the abuse he inflicted on me. I didn’t know that he would accuse my mother of planting the abuse in my head and call her a liar for defending me. I didn’t know that I would be made to recount my story over and over again, to doctor after doctor, pushed to see if I’d admit I was lying as part of a legal battle I couldn’t possibly understand. At one point, my mother sat me down and told me that I wouldn’t be in trouble if I was lying – that I could take it all back. I couldn’t. It was all true. But sexual abuse claims against the powerful stall more easily. There were experts willing attack my credibility. There were doctors willing to gaslight an abused child.

After a custody hearing denied my father visitation rights, my mother declined to pursue criminal charges, despite findings of probable cause by the State of Connecticut – due to, in the words of the prosecutor, the fragility of the “child victim.” Woody Allen was never convicted of any crime. That he got away with what he did to me haunted me as I grew up. I was stricken with guilt that I had allowed him to be near other little girls. I was terrified of being touched by men. I developed an eating disorder. I began cutting myself. That torment was made worse by Hollywood. All but a precious few (my heroes) turned a blind eye. Most found it easier to accept the ambiguity, to say, “who can say what happened,” to pretend that nothing was wrong. Actors praised him at awards shows. Networks put him on TV. Critics put him in magazines. Each time I saw my abuser’s face – on a poster, on a t-shirt, on television – I could only hide my panic until I found a place to be alone and fall apart.

Last week, Woody Allen was nominated for his latest Oscar. But this time, I refuse to fall apart. For so long, Woody Allen’s acceptance silenced me. It felt like a personal rebuke, like the awards and accolades were a way to tell me to shut up and go away. But the survivors of sexual abuse who have reached out to me – to support me and to share their fears of coming forward, of being called a liar, of being told their memories aren’t their memories – have given me a reason to not be silent, if only so others know that they don’t have to be silent either.

Today, I consider myself lucky. I am happily married. I have the support of my amazing brothers and sisters. I have a mother who found within herself a well of fortitude that saved us from the chaos a predator brought into our home.

But others are still scared, vulnerable, and struggling for the courage to tell the truth. The message that Hollywood sends matters for them.

What if it had been your child, Cate Blanchett? Louis CK? Alec Baldwin? What if it had been you, Emma Stone? Or you, Scarlett Johansson? You knew me when I was a little girl, Diane Keaton. Have you forgotten me?

Woody Allen is a living testament to the way our society fails the survivors of sexual assault and abuse.

So imagine your seven-year-old daughter being led into an attic by Woody Allen. Imagine she spends a lifetime stricken with nausea at the mention of his name. Imagine a world that celebrates her tormenter.

Are you imagining that? Now, what’s your favorite Woody Allen movie?"

Nazdrowie'

Paczki Puta