Childhood Stories: Chad

In my last Childhood Stories post, I wrote of Rachel, a kindred spirit who my mom babysat during my early childhood.  If you have not yet read that post, you can find it here:  Childhood Stories: Rachel

Now, on with the post.

As I mentioned in my last post, one of the ways that my mother earned extra income for years was by watching other people's children during work days.  By the time I came around, my mother's childcare activities were beginning to wind down but there are two children I can remember my mother watching during my childhood.  One was, of course, the aforementioned Rachel whom I have vivid and fond memories of.  The other is Chad who occupies the opposite place in my memory.

If I clear my mind, relax and then bring Chad to mind, an image of a little boy with light brown hair, tiny bottom teeth and a mischievous smile flashes into my mind's eye.  But as quickly as it appears, it is gone.

As much as Rachel and I hit it off, Chad and I did not.  It's not like we hated each other.  But at best, we were indifferent to one another and at worst, there existed for him a competitive machismo.  Looking back, I think this may have been the first inkling I had, though I was only 4 years old at the time, that I relate much more to females than I do to males.  (But that's a topic for a future post).

There is only one specific memory I have of Chad, a memory that I am reminded of on a somewhat regular basis.

One day Chad and I were both playing with hot wheels cars and race tracks.  Although we were playing with the same toys, we were on opposite sides of our living room playing separately.  Of all the hot wheels cars in our home at the time, there was a favorite among us all:  A hot wheels version of the The Munsters' Koach.

The Munster Koach

If you are unfamiliar with The Munster's, it was an odd little sitcom that ran for only 3 seasons (from 1964-1966) but has lived on in television syndication ever since.  I'm not sure why we were all so enchanted with this car, other than our love for the show and the fact that this was car was such a far cry from most of the other hot wheels available at the time.

I don't remember the circumstances that led to Chad's actions that day but my feeling is that he was irritated with me for some reason, possibly because it had been determined by an adult presence that it was my turn to play with the Munsters' Koach.  Whatever the reason, Chad impulsively and recklessly threw the Koach at me and it hit me in the head.  Almost any other car would most likely have left me with only a nasty goose egg.  However, The Munster Koach, as can be seen in the photo above, has a number of sharp, pointy edges and Chad hurled it with such velocity that it instantly created a deep gash in my forehead.  The next memory I have is of being at the emergency room and getting stitches.  I don't remember any pain while getting the stitches but I am sure that was because I was given local anesthetic even though I don't remember them giving me one.  What I do remember is several weeks later when I had the stitches removed.    The doctor told me I wouldn't feel much but it hurt terribly.  I can only surmise that when I was stitched up that day, a nerve was hit because I still feel the pain sometimes even to this day.  If I touch the particular spot where the stitches were, I feel a weird, unsettling, sharp pain and sometimes I even feel a dull odd pain when the spot is not being touched.

That's really all I remember about Chad.  I don't think my mother watched him for along.  Maybe a year.  Maybe a bit longer or shorter.  All I know is that I have no other memories of him.

Because of my lasting wound (I don't know what else to call it), Chad and that little Munster Koach do still enter my mind and I find it odd.  From the throwing of the car and the gashing of the forehead to the trip to the emergency room was probably no more than 15 minutes of the  22.6 million minutes that have transpired since.  That's roughly 0.00007% of my life and yet, I still remember that car and I remember the smirk on Chad's face after he threw it.

But it doesn't stop with the memory.  Every time that spot on my forehead aches, it's a reminder that our brief and seemingly minor interactions with others can sometime impact a person for the rest of their lives.  So, I have a level of thankfulness for this lasting wound (as I am thankful for other wounds I have) because it makes me reflect a bit more when interacting with others.  So, I guess this is the story of how a boy I barely knew and did not connect with, intentionally gave me a wound whilte unintentionally giving me a gift that has impacted me for the better.

Life is truly odd and ironic.

2016: The Rouhgest Year I have Known: Part 1- Be Still. Be Present

As some of you know, I've had an extremely rough time over the past several years for a number of reasons.  But all of the shittiness (is that a word?) seems to have reached it's crescendo in the lovely year that was 2016.  There were times last year during which I wondered if I could take the next mental or emotional hit that was coming my way.  I wondered if I could stand.  I spent months waiting for the other shoe to drop and experiencing almost no enjoyment in life while anticipating the next traumatic event that I could just sense was heading my way.

Why was 2016 so rough?  Well, there were a few main reasons and I started to list them out right here but as I was typing, it seemed that maybe it would be better for me to separate them out into different posts to help me process more completely and to avoid a huge, rambling post that nobody wants to slog through.  :)

The first and most impactful reason is all of the struggles of those in my immediate family.  Particularly in regard to mental health.

Over the past several years, I have watched nearly every member of my family struggle with mental health on a somewhat continual basis.  Throughout this time, I have felt like I needed to be the rock, the steady, the fixer.  One of the "positive" qualities I have is that I always seek to make other people feel more comfortable.  Unfortunately, this can  be a not-so-good quality when it comes to fatherhood and spousal support.  Trying to walk the fine line between encouragement and accountability is extremely difficult for someone like me, especially when dealing with those who are drifting and trying to set a course for freedom in the uncharted waters of mental illness.

The pressures of dealing with all of this culminated at some point during 2016 and the result was a sort of mental unravelling for me.  Imagine that, being surrounded by people you love who are struggling with mental issues can cause you to experience your own mental health issues.  There is indeed a contagious aspect to mental struggles that often goes unrecognized.

This unravelling did not result in an outward mental breakdown for me which would have been easily discernible to others but instead, an inward foggy, pessimistic separation of myself from reality.  In particular, an absence of the ability to derive any sort of pleasure in life.  I felt like there was a shadow hanging over every minute of my day, whether asleep or awake, that could (and would) fall upon one or more of my family members and any given time.  And each time the shadow would fall, each time some traumatic and dramatic event would unfold in our lives, my senses would become a little more dull and my outlook a little more bleak.  I'm not sure if any of you have been in that place before but it is a desolate place.  There is no laughter, joy or peace.  There is only a pit in the stomach.  An ominous foreboding permeating all of one's existence.

Probably not many of you know, but have always been the consummate optimist.  I readily admit to situations that are not ideal or even good but have always held out hope for them to get better.  My outlook has always been that there is a way forward.  The sun will come out tomorrow.  etc.  The past two years, broke me of this optimism and as I broke, I did not like the unattached hopelessness that filled the void that optimism once occupied.

I'm fortunate in that I realized that these changes had taken place, that they weren't good for me or anyone else and that I had to find a way to regain hope in life.  I was also fortunate in that I had a couple of good friends to whom I could express my concerns about where I was and my dire need to not remain in that place.  I'm still not sure what the turning point was.  Perhaps it was reaching a point where I gave up trying to force myself to be hopeful that I began to let go of the framework I had always used to determine what a hopeful life looks like.  That probably sounds very heady and nebulous.  I'm sorry if it does but it feels like the best way to express it.
Sometime during the last few months of 2016, I began to envision and internalize a way forward to regain my optimism and am now working to externalize that way forward.

A lot of it has to do with acknowledging my limitations regarding being able to "fix" other people or even to "fix" their circumstances.  This is still a struggle for me but the work I've done inside and outside myself has me in a much better place.

As far as the mental struggles of my various family members are concerned, I have relinquished the role of rock and fixer and have assumed the role of encourager and mentor, offering what I feel is valuable and allowing others to own the responsibility to forge their own paths in life.

In light of my newly assumed role, and specifically in regard to my three daughters who have struggled mightily throughout their teenage years, I offer the following advice.  Just be still.  Practice the art of "Being in the Now"  This is important for all of us but can be particularly helpful for the young ladies of this generation who are subjected to an ever growing social media network of accusers, bullies and the ever ironic female misogynists that seem to have become a staple of today's online interactions.

There are many online articles on the value of "being present" or "being in the now" so I won't attempt to expound on that now.  I will, however, leave you with a song that I discovered a couple of years ago that always makes me think of what I would like to say to my girls (and possibly to myself), each time hopelessness and defeatism raise their ugly heads.

Be Still.

Life is short.

Long may your innocence reign.

When they drag you through the mud.
When you're in too deep.
When they knock you down.

Don't break character.

Rise up like the sun.
Labor till the work is done.

The Killers - Be Still

Be Still"

Be still

And go on to bed

Nobody knows what lies ahead

And life is short

To say the least

We're in the belly of the beast

Be still

Wild and young

Long may your innocence reign

Like shells on the shore

And may your limits be unknown

And may your efforts be your own

If you ever feel you can't take it anymore

Don't break character

You've got a lot of heart

Is this real or just a dream?

Rise up like the sun

Labor till the work is done

Be still

One day you'll leave

Fearlessness on your sleeve

When you've come back, tell me what did you see

What did you see

Was there something out there for me?

Be still

Close your eyes

Soon enough you'll be on your own

Steady and straight

And if they drag you through the mud

It doesn't change what's in your blood

(Over chains)

When they knock you down

Don't break character

You've got a lot of heart

Is this real or just a dream?

Be still

Be still

Be still

Be still

Over rock and chain

Over sunset plain

Over trap and snare

When you're in too deep

In your wildest dream

In your made up scheme

When they knock you down

When they knock you down

Don't break character

You've got sooooo much heart

Is this real or just a dream?

Oh Rise up like the sun

And labor till the work is done

Rise up like the sun

Labor till the work is

Rise up like the sun

And labor till the work is done

Childhood Stories: Rachel

A while back, I decided that I wanted to share some stories from my childhood.  If you miss that first post, you can find it here:      Childhood Stories: A Blunt Knife

Now, on with this post.

Rachel

When I was young, my mom did this thing that was fairly common at the time among lower to middle income families with a lot of children:  She babysat other children to earn extra money for our family.  At the time, these children who needed watching during the daytime work hours consisted mainly of children from single parent or divorced families in which the custodial parent had no choice but to work outside the home.

This is how I met Rachel.  

Rachel was the only daughter of a young nurse named Karen who my mother worked with at Children's Mercy Hospital. 

I've been trying to put together just how long my mom babysat Rachel based only on 40-year-old memories and the few factual dates that I can find.  I know that Rachel was born in October of 1971 and so was almost exactly two years younger than I.  In addition, I seem to remember her being at our home prior to me starting kindergarten at the age of 4.  My mom didn't stop watching Rachel until I was approximately 9 years old and in the 4th grade.  Putting this all together, it seems to be a span of around 5 years that Rachel and I's lives intersected.

During these years together, Rachel and I were constant playmates and became fast friends.  We spent hours upon hours playing together.  Just the two of us, sharing imagination and dreaming.  We were kindred spirits, cut from the same cloth:  Both creative, sensitive and shy yet optimistic and in awe of life.

I have many fond memories of Rachel.  We used to lay on our backs on the next door neighbor's front terrace and stare up at the clouds in wonder, occasionally pointing out the likeness of one to an elephant, giraffe or whatever other exotic animal we saw manifested.  We used to pretend to drive a huge city bus using an old discarded bicycle wheel as a steering wheel.  We used to pick and eat delicious mulberries off of the tree in our backyard.  We did that thing that kids do where we shared stories with each other of encounters with witches, ghosts, tornadoes, etc all the while knowing that the reality of each tale existed only in our imaginations and never calling the other person out for such obvious yarns.

I also remember a day when we adventured into the old detached garage behind our house.  A place we were specifically forbidden to explore due to the abundance of perilous rummage amassed there.   Of course, it was my idea and Rachel was reluctant to break the rules but I coaxed her into entering with the promise of a wondrous treasure of odds and ends.  And so, in we went.  I don't remember if our explorations were the cause or if there was another, but there were some pieces of broken glass scattered on the floor.  For some reason, broken glass is a wonder to children.  Perhaps because it is a surrealistic manifestation of things as they should not be.  A glimpse outside the sanitized childhood created by adults and into the truth of entropial reality.  At any rate, due to the aforementioned wonder, and to achieve the fullest experience thereof, I picked up a piece of the glass and ran my fingers along the smooth portion just letting the tip of my fingers skirt the jagged edge.  With the power of the glass to pierce delicate skin mere micrometers away, my fascination reached its zenith and I encouraged Rachel to pick up a piece so that she could also experience this fascination.  Rachel, perhaps being younger, clumsier or maybe merely not having as much exposure to broken glass as I, instantly ran her finger along the harsh broken edge and blood immediately began to flow.  I tried to comfort her.  Tried to tell her that it was just a small cut.  Tried to convince her that we didn't need to involve the adults.   But only for a moment because I saw that she was bleeding profusely and it would take more than the a mere bandaid to stanch the flow.
Rachel ended up going to the emergency room and receiving stitches that evening while I remained at home, crying in my sister's arms, overwhelmed with remorse due to the role I had played in sending her there.


The intersection of Rachel and I's worlds came to an end sometime in early 1979.  The details are a bit fuzzy.  As I mentioned above, the memories are nearly 40 years old and were processed and stored through the senses of a 9-year-old child.  That said, the following are the events as I remember them.

Rachel's mother dropped her off at our home one cold morning in January of 1979, drove herself to the hospital that she and my mother worked at and shot herself in the head, dying instantly.  I don't think that I ever saw Rachel again after that day.  At least I don't remember seeing her again.  I do know that after that day, she went to live with her father and stepmother in Warrensburg, MO which is about an hour away from the Kansas City, MO area.

It's interesting what childhood events do to you.  Try as I might, I cannot pull a clear image of Rachel's face into my mind.  I can pull vague images, kind of like if you were looking at someone out of the corner of your eye who is standing just behind you.  I can remember mannerisms.  I can remember characteristics.  I can sometimes remember her voice.  But I cannot lock into a clear memory of her face and I wish that I could.  The interesting part is that I have a clear memory of her mother's face.  A clear memory of her whole person actually.  Standing in our doorway in a while nurse's uniform with a slight smile on her face.  Saying goodbye to her daughter for the day.  This is odd because the interactions I had with her mother were few and were brief.  I can only surmise that due to the tragic way that she left this world, my 9-year-old brain chose to forever imprint a picture of her onto my grey matter.

Over the years, I would sometimes think or Rachel and so through the resourcefulness of the information super highway, I sought to reconnect with her using only her first and last name (which I wasn't even sure of the correct spelling of at the time).

Unfortunately, it didn't take me long to find out that I was too late.

Rachel Joan Rothove Rodriguez  passed away suddenly on Friday, December 2, 2005.  She was only 34 years old.
I was able to track down her stepmother and correspond briefly with her by email and take solace from a blog post she made a couple of weeks after Rachel's death.

Here is an excerpt:

"For now I am wondering, "How do I live the rest of my life without my daughter?" She died suddenly Dec. 2, 2005. We were very close despite the 1000 miles that could have kept us apart. We talked daily, often more than once. I have always been grateful for our relationship, and it has been wonderful for some years now. But now I dread answering the phone. Kind of like becoming sensitive to the traffic behind you after a rear-end accident.

The last two weeks have shown me how she had accomplished...all her high school dreams and more. A loving husband, beautiful children(3), a big home, and a successful career as an entrepeneur. Regardless of her young age of 35 Rachel had lived several lifetimes. She had become my best friend, sometimes my only friend. We have talked each other through so many life experiences. We had great laughs and great arguments. I am lost without her.

Her last interest was in the work and life of Frida Kahlo, a painter. My daughter related to the hardship. It is a long story. The end has arrived. I will see my work differently. I have to relocate the joy, maybe filter Rachel's sense of humor and tastes in a body of work."

 This post along with the description of Rachel in her obituary are a perfect reflection of the Rachel I knew and I am happy for that.  Her obit speaks of her enjoying singing, dancing, reading and writing poetry and collective thoughts.  She was a truly creative soul.

And so, I can't help but wonder.  Why?  Are some people just cursed?  It seems that from the moment of her birth, Rachel's life was meant for ultimate demise.  Does life just home in on certain people and destin them for tragedy and hardship?  We all know of people who seem to be followed by trials.  Modern day Jobs if you will.  There have been two such people in my life thus far.  One is Rachel and the other is my sister Mary.  I won't speak of Mary in this post but her story is equally as tragic as Rachel's if not more so.  Why do some people appear to be earmarked for disaster?

I guess none of us can really know.

For me, I will keep wondering and questioning while I cherish the impact that Rachel had in my life during my own troubled childhood years.  She helped me survive in her own way and I will be forever grateful and inspired by her life to seek to do the same for others.