Life on Sick-A-More Street

I smoked my first joint when I was 15 in a Burger King bathroom. I have a grandson who's 14. Can I imagine him doing that next year? NO WAY!!  I've been an active drug user at different points in my life. I started at six weeks old. I  found my 'babybook' and in that was the key to Wilbur's bragging about how when they adopted me I slept through the night from six-weeks old, on. Tucked in that book also were some yellowed slips of paper, written instructions from my pediatrician, when I was six weeks old, and at regular intervals thereafter, to adminster my mouth, Paregoric, "h.s" (at bedtime) nightly. Paregoric is like liquid Opium. It's a controlled drug today, it's sometimes prescribed for partcularly persistant diarrhea. There have been deaths associated with improper dispensing. A young woman in Conn. died when the pharmacy incorrectly printed the amount to be taken. It has a very strong taste. Wibur made it very palatable however. She probably didn't bother at six weeks old, but I'm sure once I was able to give her much of a problem, she came upon her recipe. It was genuis; about 1/4 cup Karo syrup, lemon juice, and Paregoric. I remember coming home from kindergarten, Wibur passed out on the couch, usually I'd ask her for some, tell her I had a sore thoat or something. If she was already out though, I could have as many tablespoons as I wanted, and when I asked for it that night before bed, and she saw it was gone, she'd say, "do you want it in cocoa?" and of course I did. That was another treat. No wonder I like those Jamacain coffee drinks. I just had to say I couldn't sleep, or any complaint that could potentially interfere with her own plans, and I got it. And the pediatrician was friends with Dad and Wibur's friends, and my godparents, Aunt Connie and uncle Fred. She, an anorexic nurse, he a talented, wealthy, good-looking physician, if somewhat less than loyal husband, I don't judge that situation, it isn't my place. He was always good to me, I think. It was a close-knit club, secrets were kept in a vault,and secrets then, wouldn't be today.

I was in a great big hurry to move away from Sick-a-More Street. I wanted to be like other people, and I felt so different from everyone else. I didn't know anyone else who was adopted back then, and very few only children. Nobody had a mother like mine. Wilbur would morph into some other kind of strange-acting, slurring, persona, whose southern accent returned despite living in New England for many years. If I got invited to a friends house their mothers were always awake, maybe baking cookies, or doing something with a sibling, (something I desperately wished I had). I would occasionally, be so bold and silly as to ask my mother if I could ever have a sister, and was always met with a variance of the same response; 'Not taking any chances, it might be like you'. Eventually I smartened up and stopped asking. It just seemed like a good idea for my mother to see that another kid might have some faults too, so that she'd stop holding me up to these impossible standards that nobody could meet, but she kept comparing to all the good things she heard people boast about their kids, and told me what a horrible disappointment I was.

I had a couple sleepovers. One in particular caused such embarrassment I locked myself in the bathroom. Wilbur had gotten particularly hammered that night, and Dad was away on business. Wilbur decided my guest and I could have donut for a snack, IF we sat at the dining room table with linen napkins and used a silver knife and fork to eat it. Knowing this would get back to school I potested, to no avail. How does one reason with a drunk who doesn't like you to start with? It was a big deal to me at the time, and started to cry, and embarrassed locked myself in the bathroom. Wilbur just yelled louder. I don't remember how it ended. I remember that a couple of weeks later when I was invited to stay at her house she and her mother had an argument, and her mother said "Stop now. You don't want to be like that Smith girl and her mother do you?" No more sleepovers after that.

There were other incidents and accidents along the way. Mostly resulting in me getting sent to my room by my father, and never any acknowledgment of Wilbur doing any wrong. Some were physical, others emotional, or both. The donut was big though. I don't remember the physical pain so much but I've been told about some of the physical things by neighbors or relatives, but people didn't get into others business back then.
My plan was to join the Army and be an air-traffic controller. In April of my senior year when I was making my final plans with my recruiter, I asked if I should bring my own inhaler, or would the Army provide one. The recruiter, in astonishment asked "Your what?".  My inhaler, for asthma , I explained. That was the end of that plan. Now, apparently there are waivers for asthma, but not then.

Wilbur wanted me to go to a local girls college and live at home. Not gonna happen! My best (and preety much only) friend was going to college 500 miles away on a scholarship. I decided to go there. It was in the Appalachian mountains. I told Dad, and we sent for the application. I was accepted, and he and Wilbur drove me down there. She sat in the car as Dad and I carried my suitcases up to my dorm room. I knew I was starting the best years of my life. Living away from Wilbur, with other people my age. That night an upper classman invited me to her room. I went,and she was using a thin staw to suck white powder up her  nose. She asked me to try it. I had a real thing about getting water up my nose, I didn't think that would feel good at all. I left and went back to my own room.

My jr. high school sweetheart hadn't come down yet. We had met when I was 13 and he was 14. His parents hated me, and mine weren't fond of him. Dad made it clear that if I got married he wasn't paying for school, but when he found out Bob might move down there he threatened to get a restraining order, and Bob's parents were even more livid, in addition to being angry at my parents for trying to tell their son what he could or couldn't do. A few weeks later Bob arrived, got an apartment and a job working in strip mining. And they were 4 of the best years of my life. We got married 2 months after I graduated. By then my parents totally accepted, even loved Bob. His parents and sisters still hated me.

Two and a half years later our daughter was born. Beautiful and wonderful. A miracle. I'd never been so happy. We lived about two miles from my parents, 15 from his. My father came to see me in the hospital when I had her. My mother sat in the car with the dog. The first time she saw my daughter was 3-1/2 months later when Dad brought her over. She was wasted. At Dad's urging that she go down the hall and look in the nursery, she bounced off a couple walls into the bathroom and finally stated "there's no baby in there". My father told her it was farther down on the right, and I guess she wandered in, and then I out. I think Wilbur saw her. Doesn't really matter, I guess. I had three beautiful boys after that, and one miscarriage. Neither of my parents came to the hospital for any. It wasn't their thing. Although Dad did babysit when I was in labor. Nice that he was so close.  Bob's parents were much more involved. His father especially. When I was pregnant with my third he called daily for awhile, telling me to have an abortion. Giving me phone numbers, trying to convince me, or yelling or shame me into it. The tactics varied but the message didn't. Then again, Bob had been continually told since marrying me that his bedroom was waiting for him and all he had to do was say the word and his father would get him the best divorce attorney money could buy. This put a great strain on our relationship. Any couple will disagree, but he was programmed to confide everything to them, and when that happened, they had more ammunition. They'd  just say "see, you should divorce her". At one point the strain was great enough that I moved out and even got an apartment. Much later, after we had 4 kids he moved out, and his father did get him that good attorney. Now we were reduced to sneaking behind our parents backs again to see each other. He said once "I'd ask you to marry me, but that's so hard to do when you're divorcing someone." Then he was diagnosed with leukemia. He was gone 3 weeks later. That was August 25, 1993 (my grandmother's birthday, who I named my daughter after). He had written a letter, it wasn't dated, but in it, he said his one wish was that his two families would get together. I want that for him. I stopped at his father's house once with one of my sons, and that was disastrous. I don't have any illusions that I'll be part of it, but I'd like his father to see his son's kids. Maybe they can have a relationship before its too late. Bob would be so proud of who they are and what they've overcome.