A Dance in the Woods
Janet K. Brennan
Published by Casa de Snapdragon Publishing LLC
SmashWords edition
Copyright © 2007, 2010 Janet K. Brennan. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording without the prior written permission of Janet K. Brennan unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law. Address inquiries to Permissions, Casa de Snapdragon Publishing LLC, 12901 Bryce Avenue NE, Albuquerque, NM 87112.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2007900644
ISBN: 978-0-9793075-1-5
20110523
Published by
Casa de Snapdragon Publishing LLC
12901 Bryce Avenue, NE Albuquerque, NM 87112
http://www.casadesnapdragon.com
In loving memory of my daughter, Kristen Beth, who died from asthma, Sept, 1991 at the tender age of 21.
For my children, Nicholas and Katherine, who never forgot who I was, even though I did. And for my loving husband, Arthur, who gave me the confidence and encouragement to stay with this six year project.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank all of the wonderful people in the Village of Montecchia di Crosara, Italy for all of their help in making this effort possible. A special thanks to the doctors and student nurses in Borgo Trento Hospital, Verona Italy. The Marcello Magnabosco family of Montecchia di Crosara, my very brilliant psychiatrist, Dr. Io’Paolo in Vicenza, Italy, Giuseppe Magnabosco, my individual Doctors as well as the Director of the Vicenza Army Hospital who turned my case into a “test case” for all American patients admitted to Italian Hospitals, to the Recreation Center and its personnel of Vicenza, Italy, to Mr. G for his wonderful example and dedication in the youth program, Verona American Compound, Verona, Italy.
Thank you to my editor, Art, for taking time out of his busy schedule to edit this book.
A very special acknowledgment for the beautiful poetry of Kristen Beth Brennan left behind and published posthumously.
“A Dance in the Woods” is a True Story. Only the names of people and places have been changed.
Catching Dreams
J.B. Stillwater
I caught a dream, or it caught me
It challenged my reality
A dream so pure, for my heart’s sake
I prayed that I would ne’er awake
Gold curls angelic crowned her head
“You’ve caught a dream, my mum,” she said
“For life is but a sparrow’s song
Short and sweet, please sing along
I’ll help you catch what dreams I may
Until we see the light of day
But you must promise not to cry
At dream’s end when we say good-bye
I’ll weave a net with threads so strong
I promise that it won’t take long
You’ll catch your dreams...the net will fill
Let’s place it on the window sill
Know...we were meant to catch each dream
For things are never as they seem
So live your dreams, for they are you
Embrace your hopes...for dreams come true”
And so, I learned that dreams and streams
Of woven net without said seams
Will ‘oft times catch what is beyond
What lies in wait twixt dark and dawn
Prologue
I was aware that I was dreaming. It was like an altered sleep pattern, yet not quite as confusing or murky. This dream was quite vivid. I was alone in deep, dark woods and was thoroughly lost. I wandered here of my own volition and yet, in the process, I had become desperately disoriented and anxious to find my way back to the wide, open glen from where I began my hike. The more I wandered, the more lost I became; the more lost I became, the darker the woodland grew. Where was that familiar path? Did I pass it somehow and not have the wherewithal to recognize its familiarity? I was aware of the fact that I was very frightened. My heart was pounding out of control and the mere sound of a snapped twig caused me to recoil in fear. More than anything else, I felt that I was very much alone. The pit in my stomach told me so. I began to cry in frustration as I wandered in circles. I noticed a slight flicker of light twinkling on the path in front of me. Then it was gone.
“No,” I sobbed, “I will never find my way back. I will die here in this forlorn place.”
There it was again. It was a flicker of light pulsating with life. A tender voice spoke to me almost in a whisper. I had never heard such a voice before. It was rich and filled with compassion and love. It resonated through the forest in an intimate manner.
“You are not lost, child. If you follow me, I will show you the way back to the glen. You must always pay close attention to all that we pass on the way. Every detail, however small and meaningless, must be noted. Every landmark, every tree stump, every gnarled branch, and every broken limb that you must crawl under must be embedded in your memory.”
I was overcome with joy that I would be saved from such a dark, formidable place. I retraced my steps with the flickering light directly in front of me. When I stopped to rest, it stopped and hovered close by. When I ran, it moved very quickly guiding me out of my dark place.
Suddenly, off in the distance, I could see what looked like a ray of light filtering down through the trees. It cast a golden glow on all of the leaves as it caressed them gently. When I came closer, I watched as it expanded. I knew that I was approaching the open glen. The grass was tall around me. It lapped and tickled my ankles as it swayed in a gentle, soothing breeze. Thankfully, I threw myself to the ground embracing the beauty of the clear, turquoise sky above me. Suddenly, I heard familiar voices off in the distance.
“Mom . . . Mom, we’re over here!”
I rose quickly to my feet. Across the glen were my two children and my husband waving frantically and calling me to them. I tried to run, but felt that my feet would not move beneath me. It was a strange and frustrating sensation.
“No, No,” said the gentle and now familiar voice. “You cannot go to them just yet . . . you must retrace your steps back into the wood. You must follow the same path you were on when you became lost. You must make note of everything that you pass along the way until you find yourself in the place that was the darkest.
This you must do a thousand times ten.” I was devastated.
“But why must I do this? My family needs me.”
“So they do,” was the gentle reply, “but no more than you need yourself. Once you have taken the dark journey back and forth endless times and recognize all the places along the way, you will never find yourself lost in the wood again. You will always say ‘I know that branch. I stood on it a few times. It was weak and it broke and I fell. I know those briars. They scratched my ankles and feet and made them bleed. Those thick, cruel vines hit my face and forced me to question my sense of pain. I recognize those crossroads. If I go left, I will reach the swamp, wet and infested with disease. If I turn right, I will find the glen.
And catch your dreams along the way, Anna. Catch them and carry them with you on your back. They will be heavy and difficult to bear, for there will be many of them. Carry them like a sack of stones until your back is sore from the load. Follow that path back into the wood. Do not be tempted to drop them to ease your burden or to use them as a means to find your way home. They will do you more good upon your back than on the ground. If you do this, all things will become familiar. You will have no problems maneuvering your way through those vines and out of the woods should you ever have the misfortune of finding yourself lost there again. I promise”
Dream Journal - Verona Italy, 1992
~
How long ago was it? How many years had passed since I had that incredible dream? Judging by the appearance of my now wrinkled and thin fingers which rested on the arms of my favorite wicker chair, I knew that it must have been many years ago. I could remember that time in my life as if it was yesterday. I traveled back to that dark place many times and felt that I was as familiar with it as I was my own soul. Indeed, had I not made that frequent sojourn, I would not have come to know what I now recognize as my very essence. I could vividly remember all of the events that occurred during that deep, dark period of my life. Perhaps, it really was yesterday.
How fortunate I was! The one thing I had prayed for in my long journey was to be blessed with a memory that would allow me to recant some of the tales of my lifetime to my grandchildren, those wonderful and sometimes awful adventures. I had always made every effort to absorb those moments which were so very important. Those precious moments which I realized wove the fabric in one’s actuality. A fabric, a coat, so resilient and warm that I would be able to wrap it around me in my twilight years and rely on it to keep me safe until I did not need it any longer. Oh, the threads of that coat! Some of them were brightly colored and interwoven amongst the dull and coarse ones. Most of them were worn now, allowing the cold to seep through occasionally, causing me to shiver.
I stretched my thin legs in front of me and sighed as I watched the waning sun spread dark shadows over the peaceful lake in front of me. The gentle lapping of the waves on the sandy beach attempted unsuccessfully to lull me into a peaceful sleep.
I never liked to miss a moment of the precious time that I spent at my place in the woods.
William, my husband, and I bought the small cabin several years earlier as a refuge from our busy lives in the city. Now, after all these years, we could look back fondly at the countless Thanksgivings and Christmases spent around the fire or sipping coffee at the large, oak hewn dining table. William had spent many a summer teaching our grandchildren to dive off the old, rickety wharf that was now nothing but a few pieces of worn and aged wood protruding rudely from the water. Lately it seemed to beg to be hauled away. I could not bear to do it. It seemed sacrilegious.
I had my piano moved up a few years ago, and now this place in the woods was the most precious place in the world to me.
The screen door behind me slowly creaked open and, without turning around, I knew that Erin was sharing my moment. Sweet, beautiful Erin, the oldest and most spiritual of all of my grandchildren; the one who had been diagnosed with Leukemia at the tender age of five and had overcome the insidious disease with flying colors, the one I had helped to raise during her first years in this world.
“Gram,” she said as she knelt down on the rough, wooden floor of the front porch. “Gram, you should come inside. It is getting cold out here.”
I smiled, as I listened to the soft, lilting voice of this most precious young woman. She had the voice of her mother, a breath of fresh air with every word she spoke
“Mom just made popcorn and you should come in while it is still warm. If you come in, gram,” she smiled affectionately, “I will play your favorite songs on the piano.” I leaned forward in my chair and kissed the now swollen belly of my fair-haired love.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I think I just felt him kick!” We both laughed happily and our laughter echoed in the night air across the lake, rippling back to us like a sent kiss.
“I will come in shortly, Love. Tell your mom, not to worry. I am just fine out here. Besides,” I said softly “I am warm, didn’t you notice that I have my coat on.” I said softly, patting the sleeve of the now threadbare garment.
Erin laughed. “Oh Gram, we need to get you a new coat, that one is old and wearing thin. Mom and I will go into the village tomorrow and pick up a new one for you.” I shook my head. “No, Love. Don’t be silly. This coat has kept me warm for a long time. It will be just fine. Now you go on inside and I will be there in just a few minutes.”
I watched, as my granddaughter disappeared behind the screen door. Oh yes! I simply needed a little more time to sit and remember. I laughed to myself when I thought about the irony of it. All these years later, and I was still going back into those woods. I still needed to look back. But now there was a great comfort in remembering those painful, yet awesome years of my life. There was a certain comfort in knowing that I would not have to reminisce very much longer.
I closed my eyes and folded my fragile hands in prayer. My cherished wedding ring, now two sizes too big, hung precariously on my finger, threatening to make its way onto the floor. In the distance I could hear the soulful, yet exquisite songs of the night loons on the lake serenading me . . . peaceful and glorious in their somber melody. I would remember one last time and then I would go into the warmth of the fire and my family. They were waiting for me there and . . . I had promised.
Annabelle
Kristen Beth Brennan
We thought of her late last night
As we listened through the door,
The passive silence . . .
Hoping to hear her gentle footsteps
Wondering if any of it were true
You and I, we said her name at once
We felt that she was here,
It was a memory, we smile at now . . .
Her soft voice, which no mortal could hear
I always wondered . . .
July 26, 1970 - August 28, 1991
Part One: The Woods
Chapter One
And so it begins . . . “Remembering”
I stood in the great hall gazing out of the huge window overlooking the courtyard below. My hands were shaking. My legs were weak. I felt that I truly needed to see if the world outside and all it comprised still existed.
It had not been easy making my way to this point in the hall. I was exhausted.
As usual it was drizzling. The visibility was such that one would not want to be driving on the tiny, cobblestone streets that seemed to abound in this pre-historic city. The buildings surrounding the courtyard below were old and covered with thick, greenish black mildew. In the fog which constantly permeated the country this time of year, I could just barely discern the outline of the dark, grey, brick building across the way. The almost brown and bare vines creeping steadfastly up its walls and covering its many ancient windows did not help any. It looked more like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie than a place of healing.
I thought the hospital must be close to the River Adige. I could smell it through the thin panes that made up the hospital windows. The stench of dampness and mold along with the ever present fog reminded me of the area surrounding the Hotel Castel Vecchio where my family and I were temporarily living. It was located along the Adige.
Hotel Castel Vecchio . . . the thought of the crusty, old hotel caused the bile in my stomach to rise and I forced the bitter taste back. How I hated that place! It had been my self-proclaimed prison- the one that I had kept myself locked safely away in before coming to Hospital Borgo.
Finding a suitable place in which to live had not proven to be an easy prospect in this ancient Roman country. Most of the apartments were too small, and the houses were either unaffordable or ugly. We had been living in the hotel for months and, at that particular moment in time, I truly believed that walking the old halls of the hospital was preferable. In this place, I could stretch my arms out and not touch the walls on either side of me. And, praise God, in this place they would finally cure me. Did I dare hope?
This was the kind of place one would not want to scrutinize too damn closely. I had done that once at the hotel in the early evening hours. I needed a breath of fresh air and, in the almost dark corner of the eaves of the hotel, just a few yards away from my own window, I saw something stick its long neck out and gaze back at me. It retreated. Startled, I felt it must have been my imagination. There it was again. Hastily, I had slammed the window shut so hard that I felt it might shatter its glass. Luigi, the hotel manager, had warned about snakes in the gutters. In his broken English, and making a desperate and funny attempt not to sound Italian, he tried to explain that the hotel was ancient and that its antiquity made it a very desirable place in which to live. Unfortunately, that included snakes.
It was built hundreds of years ago. Because of its proximity to the river, snakes were known to make their way up through the rain gutters of the hotel and occasionally, albeit fiendishly, find their way through an open window. I had learned in the short time in country not to look too closely.
Borgo di Verona was an old hospital, built sometime between World War One and World War Two. It was named for the section of Verona in which it was built. It was located just outside of the original city walls. The Borgo di Verona area was the first section of Verona to be developed beyond its original fortification, along the first bend of the Adige River. It was an antiquated and run down structure with ancient memories held deep within its walls. Hospitals had been built on this war- torn site for centuries. This one had suffered great damage, as did most of Verona during the bombings of the second Great World War. It almost seemed to sigh beneath the weight of its burden. It begged to be replaced with a cleaner and more modern structure.
Beneath the buildings were miles of tunnels that encompassed huge city blocks. Patients could be transported through the tunnels, making it possible to travel from one section of the old hospital to another without having to go outside in inclement weather. They were more like dungeons with wet floors and huge steam pipes hissing and whispering like phantoms and goblins. These ghosts had obviously been abandoned long ago amongst the deep, dark labyrinths that snaked beneath the seething hospital. I was certain that the Goblins liked it there.
I watched as a few people walked hurriedly through the courtyard below. They were hospital personnel busily going about their daily routines. They seemed oblivious to the harsh, February wind which whipped their white coats around them. A nurse dropped some papers and they flew off in many directions. She scurried to retrieve the ones that had not fallen into one of the large puddles of water. A group of students ran quickly past her, laughing as they dodged the woman. They made no attempt to help the woman retrieve her documents. Yes, the world was still out there and everyone was still the same. No one really seemed to care about other people or their problems. Everyone was busy going about their daily business. Would I ever be that way again?
This was a good place for a window. I stopped here often to gaze upon the outside world which seemed so distant to me, most of the time it was as if I was looking through a thin veil. I was an observer. The pain in my soul was too intense to allow me to do anything more than watch. It was safe and it was easy, but, it was not real. When would it be real again?
This was the place on my slow and methodic walk down the hall where I always became tired. Perhaps it was necessary for me to get tired at that particular place.
I continued down the hall to my final stopping point, the huge statue of the Virgin Mary. She watched over the nurses’ station like an alabaster vigilante. She had a beautiful, serene face with bright, pink cheeks and red lips which turned up at the corners in a delicate and knowing smile. As archaic and pagan as I felt the practice of praying in front of a concrete statue was, I appreciated the fact that this particular one always seemed to be issuing an invitation to stop for a while and commune. “Tell me your troubles, Anna. I can relate to you.”
It amazed me how Catholic this country was with its plentiful churches and monasteries. Huge pillars and famously carved statues adorned all of their ancient facades. Yet as elegant and pious as it appeared to be, tiny grottos were crassly and sporadically built along the autostrada. It astounded me that people would actually pull over for a quick novena while en route to the movies or dinner. Yet, pull over they did!
Now, it seemed as if I too was following suit. In spite of myself, I always stopped to say a quick prayer in front of the statue. Somehow it gave me comfort. I was a hypocrite! I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. For most of my life I didn’t practice my religion and I refused to raise my children in the faith. I often felt that religions had the inane capability of stealing an individual’s soul rather than offering sustenance. I did encourage my children to discover their own individual spirituality. Every once in a while my Catholic school upbringing, nuns and all, reared its head. It reminded me of the snakes in the gutters around the hotel. This thought made me shudder.
My prayers were always the same. They were always for me. “Please God, make me better. Help me to be myself again. Help me to feel well.” And they were always for my oldest daughter Beth who had passed away two years ago. I had not been well since Beth died. Oh, I knew deep in my heart that I was probably going to die as well, and it would be soon!
“Buon giorno, Anna, come ‘sta?”
One of the student nurses came up behind me and reached out to me. She softly touched my shoulder. This was a gesture which always made me feel somewhat uncomfortable. The people in this country were far too touchy. I had never been a particularly demonstrative woman. Although not sparing in affections, I enjoyed my space and usually encouraged others to feel the same way.
“Stanco,” I replied in what little Italian I knew, “molto stanco.”
Did I get my message across? Damn! Was that the right word? I wanted everyone to completely understand just how sick I truly was. So far I had little luck in that department. They just didn’t seem to understand. It was imperative for them to find a cure for me so that I could return to my family and be the woman I had been . . . before. Not that I had been Ms. Perfect, but at least I was me. This was a hideous and mysterious illness that had befallen me yet I was incapable of making anyone understand or care how important it was that I be healthy again. At least it seemed that way.
Slowly I turned and walked back down the hall. My snail-like pace frustrated and embarrassed me. It seemed that every bone in my body ached. Every one of my muscles forced an explosion of pain. I never thought I would admit it, but I wished I could have my wheelchair with me all of the time. They did not allow that. It was important for me to try to walk up and down the hall at least once a day. Where was their compassion? Surely they knew how difficult that was?
Finally reaching my bed, I collapsed under the covers, exhausted from the trek. I made a mental note to look up the word “stanco” in my Italian dictionary which I kept religiously by my bedside. I would do it as soon as I regained my strength. Judging by the expression on the young student’s face, I felt I may have used the wrong word to mean sick, very sick.
I had used the wrong word. In fact, I had told the nurse that I had felt “Tired, very tired.” That was the frustrating part of my situation in hospital. I could not make them understand that I was not tired; I was sick!
Nothing felt comfortable about my bed. I wondered why it was necessary for hospitals to torture their patients in such a manner. It occurred to me that the only times in my life I had been forced into a hospital were when I gave birth to my three children, Beth, Mary Kate, and Nicholas. Oh, I had been in my share of emergency rooms, but I had never been hospitalized for anything other than the birth of my children. I thought of my children. How difficult this time did for them as well, never know when I would be home with them again . . . my children, my sweet, wonderful blossoms. They were my life!
My oldest child, Beth, had been delivered with virtually no pain whatsoever. I had laughed at the jealous nurses who told me “It isn’t always this way. Your next one will be difficult.” They were wrong. Mary Kate, my middle child, was delivered the same way. With Nicholas, it was touch and go, almost proving the prediction to be true. He had almost been born in the comfort of my own bed rather than the Army hospital at Landstuhl, Germany where he made his entrance into the world. Giving birth to all of my children had been nothing short of joyous. That was another time and place. This was now. I most certainly was not the same woman. Now I felt the pain and discomfort of my hospital bed.
I stretched my five-foot nine inch body until my toes touched the cold, hard steel of the frame. Sheets never seemed to be long enough for my tall figure and these were starched to the consistency of a board. I tucked my feet up and under the blankets where it was warmer and a great deal softer. It was more pleasant to think about my children than my present environment, so I allowed my mind to wander whenever it felt inclined to do so.
I thought about the birth of my children which seemed like yesterday. How happy I had been!
Chapter Two
Blossoms
Those were such carefree and magnificent days! Beth and Mary Kate had both been born in New England on warm July mornings, in the same hospital and delivered by the same doctor. The only difference was that they had been born eight years apart. Easy deliveries, they were true gifts after what seemed like a forever gestation.
Mary Kate was gorgeous! She had curly, brown, Shirley Temple locks that covered her head and framed her face like a doll. She resembled a little leprechaun and loved to dance around our tiny apartment. We were certain that this child would be our ballerina. Every dance step known to mankind was practiced to perfection and then performed proudly with an inordinate amount of exuberance. Her loving audience consisted of my eldest daughter Beth, my husband William, and me. She invented dance stops on the spot and with wonderful ingenuity. Each dance routine generally ended with a grand finale consisting of one leg over her head or balanced over one of her shoulders. All of this was done on top of the coffee table! Yes, this child was blessed with an easy-going and pleasant personality. She also possessed a tiny, brown spot in the center of her left eye, a keyhole. It was a “portal to her soul.” When Mary Kate entered the room, peace and serenity were restored to my universe.
Beth was my first born, fathered by my first husband during my first marriage. Beth was blonde and beautiful with huge, blue eyes and her father’s delicate, French features. That morning, as I lay on the delivery table with my daughter draped across my belly and gazing into my eyes, I did not know it, but that would be one of the few times in my little girl’s life that she would be healthy, happy and content.
I had to be honest and say that life when Beth was born was far from carefree. Nor was it glorious, not at that point in my life. Eric, my first husband, tried his best to be a good father to Beth. Unfortunately, drinking had been his favorite pastime and remaining faithful to me proved difficult for him more times than I cared to remember. Most of the time, in spite of the fact that he could not remember the night before, he would vehemently deny being unfaithful. He never knew where he had spent the nights when he did not come home to us. When he was sober, he was loving and attentive. Life with him was a merry-go-round ride set on fast forward and I came to the point where I knew that, for the sake of my own sanity, I needed to jump off.
By the end of our seven year attempt at marriage I thought I was the ugliest woman alive. To make matters worse, Beth had developed full-blown asthma. She spent most of her winters and part of the spring in the Intensive Care Unit of our hospital. When everyone else was celebrating the beauty of the purple- lilac season in New England, I was sitting in a hospital room beside my daughter. I was praying that she would be home with me for Mothers’ Day.
Nicholas, my youngest, came to us in Germany on a cold and snowy night in December. We had been having car trouble all week and I was worried that we would not be able to get our unreliable Taunus, a German monster-of-a-car, started when we needed it to get to the hospital in Landstuhl, some seventy-five kilometers away. Luck was on our side that night. Although William had to push it and quickly jump into the driver’s seat, he found that after a few practice runs, he became quite adept at the process. In turn, the car would cooperate and its tiny engine would turn over just in time to get me in the car beside William.
Handsome and beautiful at the same time, Nicholas possessed long, curly lashes which enshrouded the most beautiful pools of blue. My son, born on St. Nicholas day, arrived quickly with a whoop and a holler, also characteristic of his future personality. The doctors and nurses in the delivery room questioned us about the newborn baby boy’s name. Informing them that we had not yet decided on either Joseph or James, after each of our fathers, the assemblage in white pronounced him “Nicholas,” since it was Saint Nicholas day in Germany. There just seemed to be no other appropriate choice, so Nicholas it was. We had spent nine months trying to decide on the perfect name for our third child, and there it was!
Mary Kate was just two and a half years old when Nicholas was born. Beth was eleven.
Ten years after Beth’s birth would begin the most glorious years of fun and excitement for the Benton family, as we explored the German cities and villages. William had taken a job in the evenings with The University of Maryland as a computer instructor and this extra income afforded us the opportunity to travel to any country we desired.
Germany was our favorite with its meandering country roads and quaint little villages tucked away in valleys which always seemed to be hidden in a mysterious, soft mist. We adored the narrow, winding, cobblestone streets. These streets often led to sprawling, green country-sides which were surrounded by gently sloping mountains and half-decayed castles. In the winter time, we would venture down to the Bavarian sector of Germany and ski the Alps in Garmisch and Berchtesgaden.
Our summers were spent at Lake Chiemsee. This was a gorgeous lake in southern Germany. The lake was surrounded by the tall, snow covered Alpine peaks. Not far from the shore, but accessible only by boat, was Herrenchiemsee, one of Mad King Ludwig’s castle homes. We visited it often.
Fall meant Oktoberfest in Munich with its wonderful rides, huge beer tents, and waitresses carrying enormous platters of schnitzel in one hand, and in the other they balanced half of a dozen tankards of beer on trays which were perched precariously over their heads. I wondered why they were not listed amongst the “Wonders of the World” for that incredible feat!
Germany was home to us. Nicholas had been born there and when we received orders to return to the states, we were reluctant to leave our “second country.”
I had been told when I was a young girl that I had a double crown on my head.
This made it very difficult to comb or style my hair. This also meant that I would show allegiance to two countries in my life. I felt sure that Germany was one of them. Little did I know!
~
I met William not long after my divorce. It wasn’t love at first sight, but we both felt a strong, mutual attraction. We couldn’t have been more different. I was a New England girl who had never really left home, and he was the son of a Command Sergeant Major in the United States Army. Traveling the world was all he really knew.
I smiled as I remembered our early years together. Our first date had been a Frank Zappa concert. Wild and crazy as it was, I loved it! I had been raised on classical music and The Boston Pops. Watching Frank Zappa jumping around on that stage, throwing a small, stuffed poodle - shocked me into an entirely new world. I resolved that our relationship would be a “learning from each other” relationship. I would teach him how to appreciate the fine arts and he would teach me how to have fun. Right! In theory it could have worked. He won out. I soon abandoned my rather snobbish persona and embraced a much more laid back and fun lifestyle. I soon discovered that it was a lot more fun rollicking and dancing around at a rock concert than it was sitting dressed in formal attire at an accomplished, if not somewhat boring, symphony.
William Benton was tall, lanky and handsome in a bohemian sort of way. He had the grandest sense of humor I had ever known. His mop of curly, brown, shoulder length hair attracted me, as well as his soft blue eyes. His left cheek gently and lovingly sported the most beautiful dimple I had ever seen. He seemed to enjoy every aspect of his life, including his work, which often involved long hours into the night on his computer. William wrote programs when writing computer programs was a very rare talent. Write them he did, and in seven different languages! And he could always make me laugh!
A year after we met we decided to make a life together. I felt that any man who could reduce me to tears with his practical and not so practical jokes until I lost all sense of respectability was well worth keeping. I knew I would finally be very happy.
After one too many freezing, midnight excursions to shovel the drive way after the snow plow moved through, as well as mornings when neither one of us could get to work because of “storm of the century” snow conditions, we decided to leave the harsh winters of New England behind us. William enlisted in the Army.
Chapter Three
Room Mates
As I lay in my hospital bed in Verona, Italy, I found that I could lose what little was left of my “true” self in the past. Remembering life as it used to be gave me an inordinate amount of joy. It took me away from the harsh reality of my present existence. If not for William’s smiling blue eyes and gentle voice, I was certain that it would be enormously impossible for me to continue each day. He gave me the courage to be well again. Just the sound of his voice could transport me into a reality of peaceful existence. At least, it used to. Now, it seemed that nothing could do that for me.
I was awakened from my reverie by a loud crash down the hall and the sound of someone wailing. I knew that this was nothing to worry about. They were simply hospital noises. I had grown used to such disturbances and I barely winced.
As I lay in my bed, I gazed up at the lofty ceiling above me. A long, fluorescent light was affixed directly over my bed. It seemed to hang precariously and I wondered if it might someday fall. The room was extremely austere; no television, no vanity, no bathroom. There were little luxuries at best. Beside my bed was a dingy little table and at the foot of my bed resided an old musty wardrobe with a door that squeaked every time I opened it. It would awaken anyone who was sleeping or attempting to sleep on the entire ward.
I must make a note to ask William to bring me some water when he came to visit. Only Rosa, one of my roommates, drank the dirty, bacteria filled water from the tap. I was certain that the only reason Rosa was able to do so was because she had been raised on the stuff and her intestines had obviously become accustomed to it.
Rosa, everyone knew Rosa. Her deep, raspy voice could be heard three floors down and her non-gender like appearance made it difficult to tell if Rosa was a man or a woman. It was also impossible to determine her true age. She seemed ancient and hardened by life. Rosa constantly coughed blood into a tissue. She had done that for years, however now it was out of control and painful. Her complexion was grayer than her hair, and she spoke her language far too quickly for me to understand. Everyone in the hospital did. I found that I could only pick up some familiar words now and then, but it was enough to realize that Rosa was suffering from some form of cancer. Judging by her raspy voice, in all probability, it was cancer of the lungs. This made no sense, as she was there on the Gastro-Intestinal ward with me and two other women. Rafaela was a young student and Claudia was the wife of a wealthy Veronese businessman.
Rafaela was young and beautiful and attended the University. Her hair was cut short and cropped in the latest style with streaks of burgundy dashing through it. It seemed she was constantly being tested for colon problems, and said she was admitted to the hospital every six months with severe pain. Despite all of the testing, the doctors had not been able to diagnose Rafaela’s problem. Rafaela was tired of it, just plain tired. It seemed to her that every time she met a new love or potential love, she was rushed off to the hospital. She should have been at least two years ahead at university, but most of that time had been spent in the hospital. Rafaela was in the hospital so often that all of the doctors and nurses knew everything about her and often came in the evening and sat on the edge of her bed to talk to her about the university. Company always arrived for her during visiting hours. Conversation, however, was quiet and sparse. It seemed to be irritating to her. They came because they had to and they left just a few minutes early each night. It was always the same. “Rafi . . . when do you think you will be well enough to go back to school? Tuition has been paid for this semester. We need to know when you will be well?”
How could she possibly know the answer to that question when her doctors didn’t know?
Claudia had liver cancer. She lived in the bed directly next to me and was very helpful translating to the doctors for me. She was a middle-aged woman of great compassion, and her family loved her immensely. They were obviously her strength and, unlike Rafaela, she adored the visits. Each night they would come laden with gifts and flowers and sit close to her and touch her face and cry. How she hated to see them sad! Her own consolations went a long way in cheering them. However, one could see that in the end, one could not help but wonder if it was an act on their part. There were always lots of kisses from her grown children, lots of kisses and lots of tears. I loved it when Claudia’s family came. They usually filled the entire room with their special love. It just seemed to seep directly into the very walls. They would often look at me and smile, almost including me in their conversations. I had grown to admire Claudia very much in the short time that I had known her.
Sometimes when Claudia was not looking, I watched her. She was exquisite, although her face wore the familiar mask of pain most of the time. Her hair was long and blonde and usually braided across the top. She had a gracious, patrician nose and brilliant eyes. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I would hear her crying softly into her pillow; most nights I heard her vomiting and ringing for the nurses to come and give her an injection. As painful as it was to have Claudia in the bed next to me, she was my favorite of the three women.
There was camaraderie in that bare, stark room and they were very curious about me, as well. They watched and smiled when William and the children came to visit. Although I did not know it at the time, I was often the center of most of their conversations. Who was I and what was I doing in an Italian hospital? In fact, why was I living in their country at all? Wasn’t my husband tall! What about those children of mine? They were so quiet and shy! Why was it that I never brought myself to express any interest in them? I was so obviously absorbed in myself. They wanted to like me, but I made it very difficult for them. They didn’t seem to notice that I was, in fact, very interested in them. I simply watched from afar.
It seemed that as each day passed, I became more self-absorbed. I was obsessed with my mysterious illness and I worried that these people and their customs seemed very different from my own. It was impossible for me to even imagine how the doctors were going to help me get better. I had heard so many horror stories about the European hospitals. So far, they all seemed to be accurate!
Only one of the doctors could speak some English. He was a gentle man who sometimes came in the evening after rounds. He would smile at me and hold my hand. He told me that there would be another doctor coming by soon. This doctor had been educated in the United States and was fluent in English. His gentle and calming words made me feel a glimmer of hope.
“Finally,” I thought. “Finally, I will get some answers. This will all be worthwhile if they can discover what is wrong with me and then heal me.”
Of course I had no idea at the time that my journey was just beginning.
Chapter Four
A Dream and a Promise
My memories came full force and took me back to when it all seemed to begin. It was that time just before leaving for Italy, back in New Mexico.
“Just call Doctor Johns,” William insisted, “maybe he can give you something.” I finally conceded that it had been several weeks since I had felt well. It was nothing that I could describe, at least not intelligently. Taking his well-given advice, I was fortunate enough to get an appointment the same day. It had been a long time since I had been inside of a doctor’s office and the pristine, antiseptic atmosphere was enough to make me queasy. I didn’t like doctors’ offices or hospitals, not since Beth . . . well, not for some time.
After taking my blood pressure, Dr. Johns looked me in the eyes.
“Anna, have you taken any medications today? Did you take an antihistamine - or perhaps too many cups of coffee?”
I told him I had not.
“Well, I need to tell you that your blood pressure is stroke level right now. We don’t want you having a stroke now, do we?”
Needless to say, I was shocked. “What do you mean stroke level?”
“Just that, if we don’t bring your blood pressure down quickly, you could have a stroke. Have you had any dizziness, blurred vision, numbness or tingling?”
I was not certain.
He took my pressure several more times. He said nothing, and I watched as he pumped the cuff to what was a very uncomfortable pressure. My arm burned with the pain. Taking it one final time, he looked deeply into my eyes. The silence in the office was deafening and, when he finally spoke, I jumped with a start.
“You know, Anna, I wanted to ask you. I heard that your daughter passed away. I was surprised that I was not called. Can you tell me something about it?”
God, no! Did I really have to go there? This was the last thing I wanted to talk about. This was supposed to be about me. Why did everyone always assume that any medical problems I was having, just had to be related to Beth’s death. Well, he was asking. I had to answer.
“Yes . . . Beth passed away several months ago.” “May I ask you how she died?”
I sighed, reluctant to go on. “She died of asthma.”
“Asthma!” he said surprised. “That’s quite unusual, isn’t it? I mean, in this day and age. Why wasn’t I called?”
I shrugged. “They told me it was not so unusual, really. It seems that more and more children are dying that way. Just the month before, University Hospital lost one of their nurses. Several weeks ago a small boy, a friend of my son’s, died the same way. They found him lying at the end of his driveway. He was on his way to school. He never made it past his own driveway. The neighbors saw his little feet sticking up above the grass. It can happen very quickly.” Give me a break, I thought, he knows the answers to these absurd questions. Hadn’t the entire medical community discussed her death into the ground?
“I was treating her for that other problem,” he went on, still keeping the cuff on my arm. “I’m referring to all of the suicide attempts.
Was that problem ever resolved? Did the one thing have anything to do with the other?”
“No,” I said. I hated that word, suicide, it was horrifying to me. “They were two separate issues for Beth. Yes, she was suicidal – no, she did not die that way.”
Dr. Johns called his nurse into the office and she pressed a somewhat bitter tasting pill under my tongue. He sent me home with a prescription and a warning that if I should experience any chest pain, I was to call him immediately.
I was horrified. Stroke level! I could die! Right then and there! I could die as quickly as Beth did. I could just die. The thought was frightening and I began to tremble. I didn’t want to think about death, especially my own. I had far too much to accomplish in this life. What would happen to my husband, my children, or my job? Now was most certainly not the time to get sick. I knew we were facing a major move to Italy and I would be needed to help make the transition easier for the children. Yes, I had been through a lot. More than most people could endure and keep their sanity. But I had done well. I held up under it all and hadn’t faltered once. I was a strong woman. I prided myself in that.
Once home, I crawled into my bed and pulled the covers up close around my chin. I was afraid to move. “I have to give the medicine time to work, if I move I might have a stroke.” I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest and I became overly aware of each and every breath I took.
“Please, God, don’t let me die.”
The phone beside the bed rang and I jumped. It was William. Sobbing into the receiver I begged him to come home. I relayed the story of my visit to the Doctor’s office.
“I’ll be right home,” William replied, and the phone went dead. I suspected that he thought that something like this might happen. He seemed to almost expect it. William had told me earlier that he felt that I had gone through the perfunctory movements of a funeral. It concerned him that he had not once seen me actually cry.
“Don’t hold it in, Anna. You have to let yourself go once in a while.”
Losing Beth had been devastating. I, too, thought it was strange that I could not bring myself to cry out in pain. What was the matter with me? What kind of a mother was I?
After what seemed like an eternity, William came walking through the door carrying some books and a blood pressure monitor. My sister Leigh accompanied him.
God, Leigh! I should have called her. She might have been able to help. Leigh was a nurse. She would know, she always knew!
My sister, Leigh Delaney, had moved out to the desert not long after we did. She couldn’t bear to be away from Beth, Mary Kate and Nicholas for any length of time, so she decided to join them in their adventure in taming the west. Building a home not far from us allowed her to partake in every family activity. Having her with us was wonderful!
Leigh was the second sister in the Delaney family, and because of that both she and I were very close. We had shared a room together as little girls. I could remember that it was always Leigh who went on the secret missions in the dark, down stairs, on Christmas Eve to see what Santa had brought us. She had guts! As we got older and became interested in boys, we would often lay awake until late at night, laughing and sharing stories about our loves. My laugh was so boisterous that it echoed down the stairs and into the living room. Many a night our father would scold us for being so loud. Leigh was the lucky one. She could laugh silently. I had tried very hard to do the same. If Leigh could do it, then by God, so could I! But, it was impossible for me to do it and we found ourselves in trouble more times than we could count.
Once on a cold winter night while gazing out of our bed room window long after we were supposed to be asleep we both swore we saw a flying saucer. It changed our lives for a few weeks. We had run downstairs to our parents who were watching TV in the living room. We were filled with excitement! As we all looked out the kitchen window, we watched it disappear into a tiny speck of nothing. We never knew what we actually saw. My father had checked the following morning and nothing unusual had been reported. We had seen a flying saucer. We were certain of it!
Leigh was now a single Aunt and she needed to be close to the kids. If that meant packing up all of her belongings and leaving a great job back east, then that was what she would do!
Not long after she arrived and unpacked all of her belongings, she sent Nicholas out into her new and un-landscaped back yard. She instructed him to design her swimming pool.
“Show me where you think it should go, Nick, and draw lines in the sand for me. Don’t forget to include how big you think it should be. That will be important.”
He didn’t hesitate and before long he had the entire blue print in sand for the largest swimming pool he had ever seen.
“And that is exactly where it will go. I love the size!” she laughed.
True to her word, the huge pool was built before her first summer arrived. Needless to say, all of the Benton children learned to swim at very young ages and the neighbors were none too happy about the endless parties around the Delaney and Benton family pool.
Leigh was beautiful, with long blonde hair and a soft complexion which always seemed to glow with happiness. The children adored her. They often went to her with secrets that they felt they couldn’t share with us. She was there for them through thick and thin. If one of my children even so much as scraped a knee, they would go running to Leigh’s house. When I simply patched them up with a band aid and a good loving hug, Leigh would frown and bundle them into her car to take them down to the clinic for a tetanus shot.
“You can’t be too careful,” she would admonish. “They could lose a leg!”
What would I have done without Leigh, especially with all of the times Beth had to be hospitalized? As luck would have it, Leigh worked on the third floor of the hospital. Beth’s room was always on the second floor, directly below her aunt’s office. When William and I could not be beside our daughter, Aunt Leigh was!
William, Leigh and I sat on the edge of the bed and William handed me the blood pressure monitor.
“Here, Babe, maybe you could keep track of your pressure with this. Just don’t get obsessed with it. One of the women at the office told me that it is easy to become obsessed with the numbers thing. Just wait a little while and see if the medication is working for you.”
Leigh quickly strapped the cuff onto my arm. She did not fasten it.
“Just keep it where it is until you are ready to take it. William is right. Don’t become overzealous about the whole thing.”
I obeyed like a small child. What choice did I have? God only knew what would happen if I moved too quickly or breathed too deeply! I would most certainly die of a heart attack that very moment. Even worse, I could have a stroke and be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life! A few hours later, now alone in the room, frightened and apprehensive, I clamped the cuff to my arm and began pumping. Much to my relief my blood pressure had come down drastically. I was no longer within the danger zone. I might actually make it through the night. I might actually awake and live one more day with my family!
Exhaustion began to sweep over my body like a dark, heavy shroud. The day’s events seemed surrealistic to me. It was almost as if someone else had invaded my body and caused me to be irrational and frightened. What happened to me? This was not typical behavior.
I fought sleep, afraid that I might die. My eyelids became like heavy weights and I lost the battle. My last feelings before fading off into a deep slumber were ones of relief. I was peaceful and the day’s happenings began to fade away from my mind. I began to dream.
~
Beth was there. I couldn’t see her, but I felt her presence. It was always the same. I had the feeling of tumbling through a voluminous, inky, black void. I was aware that I was passing oblique objects and that I was traveling very quickly. Things passed by me so fast that I barely had time to determine what they were. I could feel wind whipping against my face and my hair being tousled and pulled from my head as I flew. I also felt that there were forms all around me. They seemed to follow me in my descent. They may have been people. I couldn’t discern what or who they were in the darkness of the dream. They made not a sound. Was there an end to this whirling tumble into nowhere, I wondered. Where was it going to end this time? Strangely enough, I wasn’t frightened. It actually wasn’t a formidable place. It almost felt natural. It felt as if I had been there before.