THE END

In my mind, I have died
more times than I can count:
I've been poisoned with arsenic,
disemboweled by machetes,
shot, suffocated, tarred and feathered;

I've had my limbs ripped apart
by rabid dogs, been eaten alive
by alligators and bears with
vultures feasting on my insides;
I've been drowned in a raging river.

I've been hanged from a tree,
set on fire with gasoline;
been choked to death,
my windpipe snapped in two;
and I've been whipped to a bloody pulp.

I've been thrown off a cliff
and thrown under a train;
trapped in a burning building,
and left to freeze in the aftermath
of an avalanche.

I've been stripped naked
and left in the desert sun
for my bones to turn to dust. . .
and I've been ravaged by
every imaginable disease;

But I have never ever died
by such brutality or in such pain
as when you whispered
those two words to me,
"It's over."

My Two Trips to Toronto

Part One

I remained silent in my distress. I had no say in the matter. Gail was walking straight into the fire, into a marriage that was bound to blow up. She’d be back within a month and remember the failure for the rest of her life. Gail was 38 but would always be a child-woman. She had no control over her emotions, she was unable to relate to others, she had never cooked or done laundry, she had no marketable skills and she had giant illusions of grandeur. Sarah and Jack had protected their difficult daughter, hoping that someday she would become a normal person. It seemed wishful thinking to believe that now was that magic transformational moment. The delusion was understandable for parents of a handicapped child who are in their seventies, but most unrealistic. It pained me to watch this well-meaning charade and know its certain outcome.

And who was this bridegroom, anyway. There must be something wrong with him to not have noticed Gail’s limitations? True that they had only spent a few hours together in her short visit to relatives in Detroit. Fred had been invited to come from Toronto to meet Gail. He proposed to her on the telephone a week later. A short month after that, he comes to L.A. for a week to visit Gail, to meet the folks, to arrange the wedding and to take long walks down Pico Blvd with her. He has an amazing ability for remembering the names of all the streets they cross. And he has an amazing habit of finishing everyone’s sentences. Fred is pleasant and has an accommodating personality, meaning he is content to sit on the sofa doing nothing if nothing is going on. He has an oddly deliberate way of talking and he tells us he played pro footfall football for Jack Kent Cooke and he also played pro baseball. We think the scar on his face must prove it. He knows something about everything and is glad to explain in elaborate detail. Gail listens to him full of admiration and is concerned about his well being enough to bring him a glass of water now and then. The transformation, however, does not extend to helping her parents with the many meals that they are preparing, serving and cleaning up.

Two months later Fred is back with a new black suit and a big box of chocolates for the family. Gail eats most of it out of nervousness. Days later, with aunts and uncles crowding the apartment, the rabbi pronounces them man and wife. I watch it all carefully and am surprised that Gail has not cracked up. Fred seems charmed by her girlish style and attention, even with the eyelash batting, so reminiscent of an old movie. In fact, it’s probably where she learned those feminine charms, on late night TV. I am thinking, “Well, so far so good but once Gail becomes herself again, it’ll be all over”. They fly off to Toronto with Gail’s possessions in two big suitcases. They look happy, Gail even a little giddy as she clutches Fred’s hand. “Well,” I think, “at least she has had this much.”

Phone calls every Sunday morning assure the folks back in L.A. that all is well in Toronto. Gail says that Pops—Fred’s father—stays in his room when he’s not shopping, doing the housework or cooking. She says she’s bored and wants Fred to quit work and stay home with her. He arranges his vacations so they can visit L.A. twice a year. Fred now calls Gail by her full name, Rhoda Gail and she calls him Freddy. She likes to sit on his lap, a slightly unsettling sight because Gail has gotten more chunky.

My predictions of imminent failure for this marriage are wrong. I realize I am a lot less insightful and more bound by conventional notions than I thought I was. I am glad for them that they found a working relationship--but I’m still puzzled about how it works. Many stories that Fred tells and assertions he makes are far-fetched and sometimes not even possible. He promises but never remembers to bring the Olympic medal he won with the Canadian Olympic baseball team. (Do they play baseball in the Olympics?) But he is easy going. He is happy to talk about sports with Hal, his brother-in-law, about shopping with Jack, about relatives with Sarah and about museums with me. He explains about everything to Rhoda Gail who, as time passes, looks more and more bored with the lessons. Their twice a year vacations for the next years are spent in Jack and Sarah’s living room. With time there is less lap sitting and the black clouds hover more and more often over Gail’s head. We are happy to see that Freddy doesn’t seem to let Gail’s negativity affect him. We want to believe everything is honky-dory, as Gail might say.

My first visit to Toronto is four years after the wedding. The Ehrlich family house is a 1940’s bungalow set on a big suburban lawn. Pops greets me at the door in Bermuda shorts and an apron, doesn’t say much and soon withdraws to his room in the back of the split-level. Gail and Fred welcome me with open arms. They insist on vacating their own bedroom for me and sleeping on sofas. Before her wedding I had given Gail a cooking lesson and a simple cookbook. Now she wanted to show me that she can cook, though Pops usually did the shopping and cooking, she said. She broiled the half-inch thick steak ten minutes on each side and served it with canned beans. Admittedly, she had made enormous strides but that steak was hard chewing but we all chewed as necessary without comment. The next day Fred went to work and Gail and I spent the day watching one soap opera after another; Pops made sandwiches. I noticed Gail was looking like she had gained 20 pounds from all the sitting. She said she didn’t feel comfortable out walking alone and would only go with Freddy. She didn’t exercise with housework, either, because the place was pretty cluttered. Pops did the cleaning. I was really touched by their efforts at hospitality but was bored to tears. After two days I said I had a train to catch, checked into a hotel and explored the city for a few more days on my own.

t.b.c.

Autobio. 9
Cumulative Structure

Life Lessons Learned from My Mother

By Carolyn Cummings

When I watched my Mama pin a diaper on my baby sister, I tried to do the same with my doll. Sitting in the big rocking chair, she rocked with my sister until she fell asleep. I had a small rocker placed beside Mama’s where I rocked with my doll, until I imagined she fell asleep, too. When Mama put my sister in her crib, I put my doll in the tiny doll bed. Then Mama read me a story and we took a nap together.

And I learned about caring and gentleness, the love of books, the importance of rest, and a tiny bit about the huge size of a mother’s love.

When my sister became a toddler and we played with the same toys, Mama preached to me the importance of sharing. Growing up together, my little sister and I shared everything…..a double bed in our room, measles and mumps, a dollhouse, one small rocking chair, poison ivy, and one swing in the back yard. We had to take turns; ‘sharing’ was what Mama called it.

And I learned to compromise, to respect others, and tried to live by The Golden Rule.

When my family went to church every Sunday, I watched my devoted Mother, surrounded by little children in her Sunday school class, share Bible stories and God’s love. Whether at the piano during the worship service or in the nursery rocking a baby, she offered her help wherever she was needed. She was doing what she loved to do.

And I learned the importance of knowing my heart and my God-given passions, fulfilling my purposes, and making time for both.

When Mama decided to make new matching dresses for my sister and me, I’d watch her feet pump the treadle of her sewing machine, as her hands carefully directed the fabric beneath the needle. Her handmade buttonholes finished off each garment with perfection. I learned to sew by making doll clothes. Mama was my teacher.

And I learned to turn sewing into a hobby and a career, a creative outlet that I still enjoy.

When spring finally came, Mama planted dozens of rows of vegetables and fruits in her garden. Daddy helped her plow long, straight rows in the rich, black soil. I helped her drop in the seeds. Mama spent hours weeding in her garden under the hot summer sun. When the crops were ready to pick, she preserved the food by freezing or canning.
Hundreds of jars of canned vegetables and fruit filled the basement shelves.

And I realized that hard work is not something to be feared, and it always has its rewards.

When our mother told my sister and me about her days as a teacher, I knew that in spite of the hardships of the one-roomed school teacher, she admired her students. She loved to see her students grow and stayed in touch with many of them for a life-time. My sister and I played ‘school’ naming our dolls and teddy bears as our students. We made pretend worksheets and report cards, then using a red pencil we graded their imaginary work.

And as adults, both my sister and I became teachers, completing a combined total of about fifty-five years in classrooms across the country, staying in touch with many of our students, just like Mom.

When our family invited guests for dinner, I watched my mother dovetail the cooking responsibilities in the kitchen, set a stunning table with her good china, crystal, and silver in the dining room, and arrange fresh flowers in a vase on the buffet. When she lit the incense in the living room, we knew she was ready to welcome guests into her home.

And I share her loveof hospitality, the joy of setting a special table, cooking my specialties, and serving guests, whether for an afternoon tea or a huge Thanksgiving feast.

When I listened to my Mother play the piano, I appreciated the hours of practice she put in and the beauty of the finished work. When the neighbors gathered around the piano to sing the popular songs of the day, it was my mother who never missed a note on the sheet music. She was my first piano teacher.

And my sister and I learned to appreciate music, enjoying both vocal and instrumental accomplishments. I still love to sit down at the 88 keys with little sis. We laugh as much as we play, going through the stack of old duets that we played fifty years ago.

When I watched my precious little Mother go through the foggy years of Alzheimer’s disease, keeping her sweet and gentle spirit, I realized that she
was still teaching me valuable lessons of life.

And I want to remember and be just like her.

I feel the warm drops in my aching left ear.I pass out when the sharp scalpel blade slits my eardrum.I am eight.

Osteopath Dr. Bob shoves the powerful fingers of his right hand down my throat and tears away offensive tissue.Six weekly sessions of finger throat surgery to pay off an insurance premium. Six terrifying weeks of unremitting torture, spitting shreds of flesh and blood. Barbaric. I am ten.

My kid brother wraps me up in his powerful arms, lifts me upside down and lowers me head first to the floor on my nose—all 165 pounds on my nose. Smashes it. Terrifies Fritzie. I laugh.

At 40, I wake up in my hospital room screaming with pain.A ten-inch incision to remove a gall bladder sewn up with black silk thread.
I scream again and again.Time stretches to eternity before the hypodermic needle injects morphine.Six weeks later, pus flows from an infection at one end of the incision.A half-inch of black silk stitch pops out unaided.

The nurse razors away pubic hair.Prickly pokes of lidocaine and a small groin incision.Catheter tube shoves all the way to my heart.A flood of warm dye is injected. Photos taken.Repeat six times from November 1990 to December 2004.Balloons push against the plaque-filled coronary artery walls.

Heart attack on July 5, 2000. Kaiser doctor misdiagnoses angina as “exercise-induced ashthma.” Treats with inhalers. The more the pain, the more the inhalers. Later photos show scar tissue on heart.
Toss me in hospital gown flat on my back onto cold steel gurney for bumpy two-hour ambulance ride to Sunset hospital.Stent inserted at the blocked spot but keeps closing from cell growth. Back to Sunset.

Thirty-five one-hour sessions on consecutive week days of EECP—-enhanced external cardiac counterpulsation—-hurt. Inflatable straps around calves, thighs, buttocks pump blood from legs and butt into upper body with each heart beat. First calves, then thighs and buttocks—-378,000 pumpings. Still can’t walk around the block angina-free.

Pharmacological stress test pain unbearable, unremitting, irreversible. “Worst looking arteries I have ever seen,” says Dr. Shen.

Lumbar spondylosis with crippling lower back pain.

Tissue thin skin rips when gently brushed. Bruises. Bleeds. Buy stock in Johnson & Johnson.

Basal cell cancer on nose tip sliced off and a flap of skin cut loose to cover. Barrymore nose now crooked.

Internal hemorrhoids tied off but keep bleeding.Four Citrucel capsules a day with eight ounces of HOH.

Qualaquin for night leg cramps. Atenolol to slow heart beat. Entocort for colitis. Plavix to keep platelets in their place. Lisinopril to keep arteries open. Levothyroxin for hypothyroidism. Isosorbide for blood vessel relaxation. Simvistatin to lower cholesterol. Omeprazole to shut down gastric juice flow. Fluocinonide gelfor lichen planus of gums. Proctosol with cortisone to staunch anal hemorrhaging. Nitroquick to pop for angina pain. Gaviscon to control reflux through collapsed esophageal sphincter valve.

Annual manual sodomy by primary care physician to confirm enlarged but smooth prostate.

Physical therapy by Charlotte twice a week for three months for inoperable lumbar spondylosis. I am caught in Charlotte's web.

Stress echo treadmill test with Dr. Rahman April 2.

As me: “How do you feel?”

I feel great. One evening at a Clubhouse 3 concert by the Orange County Youth Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Maestro John Koshak last Saturday night washes away all the pains and anxieties and sends a healing wave of pure joy through my being. Koshak’s arrangement of Leonard Bernstein’s “West Side Story” played magnificently by 86 high school virtuosos sends tears streaming down my face. I can still drive my two passengers with walkers from portal to portal. They love the music. Music is powerful medicine. And Tiger sinks a winning 24-foot putt. I'm alive. I'm 87. It's a miracle.

I’m never quite sure how to broach the subject, or whether to bring it up at all. Second sight, ‘the gift’, precognition, all of them sound a little bit over the top, to many people. To my family, it was pretty well an accepted trait that could show up in one of the family in any given generation. It wasn’t like we were all fortune tellers complete with a crystal ball, but it was, definitely, there.

My mother had it, but, her mother had seen it as an evil trait, that could be whipped out of a child, so Mom was very careful about what she revealed when she was younger and didn’t talk about it, outside the family, when she got older. She had once talked a friend out of taking an airplane flight, and the plane had crashed on take-off. She could tell your future by ‘reading the cards’, not tarot cards, just plane old Bicycle playing cards. But, the stories about my brother, Orville (Ringo), and his particular abilities were some of my favorites.

When Orville was four, my parents moved their family of four from Eastern Colorado and settled in a small house in Laramie, Wyoming. As always, they were strapped for money and a telephone was a luxury they couldn’t afford. This made communication with my Aunt Ruby (Mom’s sister) and her husband, Uncle Mike, very slow. They had promised to make the seventy-five mile trip from Ault to Laramie when Mom and Dad were settled.

A couple of weeks had passed and my mother had written to her family upon arrival and getting a house, but now she sent a letter to Ruby on Friday, asking if they would like to bring their family up for a visit on the following weekend. The next day, Saturday, Orville had been outside playing and came in to the kitchen to get a drink. He told Mom, “Aunt Ruby and Uncle Mike are coming for a visit.”

Mother told him, “I know. I wrote to her yesterday and they’ll probably be here next Saturday or Sunday.

“No,” was his reply, “they’re going to be here today.”

Mom used to tell us that she had to stop and think before she asked the next question, which was, “Will they be here in time for lunch?”

“Yup,” was the reply, and he went back out to play.

She said that the look on Ruby’s face was priceless when she and Mike and their two girls showed up for a ‘surprise’ visit only to find lunch was ready and waiting for them. When they asked how she knew, she told them that Orville had told her. Ruby knew how their mother had felt about this ‘talent’, and shared the discomfort, and she didn’t mention it again.

The next incident wasn’t so easy for my mother to deal with or something that Orville could understand. They had been in Laramie for a couple of months and, as happens in small towns, Orville had gotten acquainted with a teenage boy who made a little bit of money by doing odd jobs in the neighborhood. He had learned his name, Bobby, and would wave to him as he passed by on the way to or from a nearby house.

One afternoon Orville came bursting through the front door and ran into the kitchen and told Mom that Bobby had gotten hurt. Mom dried her hands on her apron and started toward the door saying, “Come on, let’s see if we can help him,” thinking that the accident must have happened in the street.

Orville grabbed her hand and said, “No, mama, he’s not out there. He got hurt at his house.”

This made Mom pause, as she didn’t know where Bobby lived. She knelt down and asked Orville, “Do you know where Bobby lives?”

He thought real hard and then said, “No.”

“How bad is he hurt?”

She said that his voice got a little shaky and he said, “I think he’s hurt really bad, Mama. A policeman shot him with a gun and there’s a lot of blood.” Mom was stunned. Bobby had not seemed like the kind of kid who would get into trouble with the law. However, this seemed to solve the problem of what to do. “Son,” she said, “if a policeman has shot Bobby, then there will be a doctor to take care of him.”

He had taken a deep breath and said, “Okay, mama.”

The next day my mother was horrified to hear from a neighbor that Bobby had been killed. She asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. You know he lived next door to Charlie Johnson, the policeman. He heard the shot and came out of his house and saw Bobby had been shot and was lying on the back porch of his house. He said he couldn’t see anyone else around. They have no idea who did it.”

Mom didn’t pursue the story any further, then, but she had told my father what Orville had seen, and, a few weeks later he told her that he had heard that Charlie Johnson had had a run in with Bobby over Charlie’s treatment of his dog. It hadn’t seemed that big of a deal, at the time, but, now, it might mean something, but they had nothing they could take to the law. You can’t go to the police and say, “My four year old saw a policeman shoot Bobby in a vision.” It haunted my mom that Bobby was murdered and nothing was ever done about it.

There were other incidents through the years, but nothing specific comes to mind until Ringo came home from serving in the Army in Germany. He told us of going out on his first visit to the German countryside with a buddy. They were ‘tooling’ along a small country road when he pulled over and told his friend there’s a little town over the next hill. His friend laughed and said, “From what I can tell, there’s a small town over every other hill in Germany.”

Ringo told us, “I told him that I knew this town. He just laughed and said, ‘Bull shit’, you got to Germany the same day I did’.”

Then Ringo turned to Mom and said, “Mom, I knew every little shop in that town. I knew where the tobacconists shop was, and the butcher shop, and the bakery. We went up and down almost every street in that little burg, and it was scary how well I knew the place. I know that I lived there once, as crazy as that sounds.”

Mom just said, “I don’t think it sounds crazy, son. You know what is true for you.” She was the last person who would judge someone about this type of thing.

About five years later my Uncle Bert, Aunt Gretta’s third (or fourth) husband, fell ill. Ringo had come by for a visit and, as he wasn’t in constant touch, what with a job and a family, I thought he might not know, so I told him. He just gave me an odd look and said, “I know.”

“Did Mom call you?” I asked.

It was a few minutes before he answered, then he said, “No. She didn’t need to call. I always know.”

It took me a moment to come up with an explanation as to how he could ‘always’ know, then I asked, “Do you always know when someone is going to get sick?”

He said, “No. But I always know when they’re going to die, and Uncle Bert isn’t going to make it.”

I felt shivers run up my spine. “Do you mean you always know when people are going to die?”

He gave me a haunted look and replied, “Only when it’s someone I know.” When I didn’t say anything, he continued, “I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, thinking I’ve heard a dog howling, but there’s no sound when I wake up. About a week or two after the howling, I just know who’s going to die.”

“Christ”, I said, “How long has this been going on.”

“About six years, I guess. I’m not absolutely sure, because it took me a couple of ‘incidents’ before I tied it all together. First there’d be the dream with the dog, then, a week or so later, I’d start thinking about this one person a lot and worrying about them, and then,” his voice got softer, “then they’d die.”

I had to ask, “Are you ever wrong.”
He gave me a twisted smile, “I’d like to be, but, I’m not.”

Ringo had had no children of his own (though he had helped his ex-wife raise six step-children) until he was in his late forties. He had remarried and he and his wife had decided to try to have a child. He was ecstatic when he found out he was going to be a dad, but, when he called to tell me, he said, “I won’t live to see him start school.” And, he didn’t. Within a year he had begun to show symptoms of a respiratory disease, and he died when his son, Beau, was four.

He and I talked on the telephone fairly often the last year of his life, but I never asked him if he had heard the dog. Maybe I’m a coward, but, I didn’t want to know when.