YIPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



Seeyall
Madeleine
20 December 2005

Families and Acceptance

I was just re-reading last night’s blog and came to the part about the “family” I had in London while living at 1 Warrington Gardens. I began to think about the “families” I’ve had through the years. There was, of course, my family of origin. This consisted of a mother, father, myself and 2 older sisters. I don’t remember much about my childhood family, but I do know I didn’t feel like I belonged. I did feel like I belonged to the other “families” I collected through the years.

 I guess my little family in London was one of the first. We had a lot in common. We were all travellers, far from home and familiar surroundings. We were all very poor. We were all young. Those things alone give a common ground. I felt like I belonged.

 My next family was while I was living in Germany and these girls were all Australians. We worked for the American army, mainly as waitresses, and dated the soldiers. Now what more could any young girls want. That was another 12 months of my life. We shared secrets and stories. The one about our German teacher took a while to get around, but apparently he tried to get each of us in turn into bed. I remember when it was my turn. He kept trying to convince me that until you had slept with a man, purely for sex, that you were not truly a woman. We finally discovered that he had used the same line on each of us.

 My next family was in Australia. This was with my husband, son and daughter. I did feel like I belonged within that small family. Within his family, I knew I didn’t belong. I was the “woman’s libber”, the “burn the bra-er”, the woman who refused to wear a wedding ring if her husband didn’t. I didn’t even try to go down the track of keeping my own name. They never did accept me.

 This is what belonging and families mean – acceptance – warts and all. My family of origin did not accept me warts and all, but my “family” in London and in Germany did. My extended family in Brisbane did not accept me, nor, I believe, did my husband. But my children did. And that, for me, made it a family.

 So when was my next family?  I think the next lot, I had two at close intervals and they may have overlapped a bit. I had my Transactional Analysis training group. That was a family to me. They accepted me and I eventually felt like I belonged. We trained together and we did our own personal work together. Again, we had much in common, and an acceptance of each other’s foibles. This group probably had the strongest bond because we disclosed personal stuff to each other, and in doing so, really got to know each other as not many people do.

 At a similar time, I belonged to an internet list – my first one ever. I felt they were my “family” as well. Again, there was a sense of acceptance from them and we had one major experience in common. We were all parents of children with Downs Syndrome. When my daughter died, they rallied as best they could. From all over the world, I received cards and telephone calls. I couldn’t believe it when I received a call from Brazil from a man I’d never met in person, and he was crying for my sadness.

 Some people get this feeling while they are at university. I didn’t. Most of my classmates were mature age students with families and commitments that didn’t allow us to create that sort of a family feeling.

 Right now, I guess I am family-less, but it is in a difference sense than at times in the past. I have close friends that I call family; I know that if something really bad happened, that my work mates would rally around, they are like a little family. I know these people accept me warts and all. But over the years I have had little “families” that I would see on a very regular basis and I don’t have that now. I’m trying to work out if I miss it or not and I don’t think I do. I know another “family” will come along when I need it. And that’s all I need to know. “Life is like a box of chocolates...you never know what you're gonna get.” I will wait for my new “family” and see what happens.

 Madeleine

Saturday, 17 December 2005

Memories: 1 Warrington Gardens, London.

I don’t know where this memory came from. It’s funny how they pop up here and there. When I was 21, a friend and I decided that it was time to travel. We organised ourselves to go to England for a 2-1/2 week holiday. We booked our tickets, got our passports, organised our whole trip, even down to a bus tour through to Scotland and back. Very excited young women we were. Both of us were still living at home and this was to be our big adventure before, as good girls do, we settled down to get married and have children. Remember, I’m talking about 1968.

We arrived in London and I remember the first thing I noticed was the green. Coming from Canada, I was used to green, but England has the most incredible shades of green. The other thing we noticed was how dirty and smelly London was.

We spent a couple of days in London and then began our tour. At the same time, we began to develop some different ideas to a 2-1/2 week holiday. Maybe, just maybe, we could stay for longer. We had both arrived with £100 each in our pockets. A lot of money at the time, but, not enough to live on for very long. During our tour, along with other happenings, we began to plot and plan. When we returned to London, if we could find jobs and a place to stay, we were going to hang around for longer than our 2-1/2 weeks.

What a major decision this was. Only now, writing about it, am I aware of the power of this decision. Neither of us had been away from our parents for more than a couple of weeks holidays. Joan had a job to go back to. I had quit just before I left and was planning on moving in with a friend in Ottawa (I lived in Montreal). We had limited finances and limited experience with the world. This decision to stay in London, was probably the biggest decision I had ever made in my almost 22 years.

We both got jobs. And lo and behold, we found a place to live. There are many memories of that time in London and further afield. I stayed in London for over a year and then spent another year in Heidelberg in Germany. I eventually returned to Montreal late in 1970.

What I want to talk about is: 1 Warrington Gardens, our first home in London. It was one of the terraced houses that are common in London. This particular house had been divided up into rentable accommodation. I discovered the “bedsit” accommodation. This is a one room flat, which has some small cooking facilities, a bed, couple of cupboards and little else. You live in one room.

Joan and I rented what used to be the maids quarters right at the top of the house, underneath the eaves, so at the corners of the rooms, the roof slanted down and until we got used to it, we would constantly bang our heads.

Our electricity and gas were run off meters into which you put shilling coins. If you didn’t have the coins, you didn’t have electricity and gas. No gas, meant no heat. The bathroom was down a level, and was shared by all the tenants.

We were lucky. We had two rooms, a lounge, and a bedroom, as well as an incredibly tiny kitchen underneath the sloping roof. Lucky neither of us was very tall, but the boys who came to visit found it difficult and would tend to stay in the middle of the rooms.

There were 72 stairs to our flat. No lift of course. Why do I remember that there were 72 stairs? I don’t know. I do know that we counted them, sometimes at the end of a long day at work, after an even longer evening out with the boys. I remember someone else who lived in the building using these stairs as an exercise tool. She felt she was getting fat and needed more exercise. So every day, she would run up and down the stairs for exercise.

The phone was a pay phone 2 floors down. We all used it. We became like a little family and I can remember almost all the others who lived in the house while we were there. Greg, who lived downstairs was one of the few guys. He was gorgeous and all the girls had a crush on him. Joan and I went down to his flat one morning, barged in on him, and informed him that we were cooking breakfast for him and his visitor. And then asked him what he had in his fridge for us all to eat.

I remember the guy, not his name, just him, who loved drying women’s hair with a towel. As none of us had hair dryers in those days, he was very useful to us.

I remember my first Christmas away from home. All of us feeling a bit like orphans so we decided that the biggest flat would be our home for the day, and each flat would supply part of the meal. None of us had any money. So the New Zealand girls from across the road came over with their pots and pans. Joan and I did something. The boys did something else. We had a lovely Christmas, our first Christmas ever away from our families.

I met my husband to be there as well. He was a friend of Greg’s. One day, from my flat, I could hear someone come from Greg’s flat to use the telephone. Knowing Greg’s list of girlfriends, I decided I would get him into trouble with which ever girlfriend he was ringing. I ran downstairs, opened the door, and said:” And what do you think you’re doing, using my phone?” in my loudest voice. Then I looked, and it wasn’t Greg. It was a man I’d never seen before in my life. This was how I met the man who was to become the father of my children. And that’s another story.

I remember our “verandah”. We would climb out our window onto the roof and there was London below us. We could see who was at our door before we ran downstairs to let them in, we could see what was happening for miles around. The “verandah” made up for a lot of other shortcomings of our flat.

I remember running down the stairs and grabbing the railing and it gave way on me. The building was a wreck. The ancient carpet which must have been original it was so old and worn.

I remember a party. In London, the tubes finished at about 10 p.m. so when you had a party, it was understood that you were likely to have overnight guests if you wanted a decent party. This night about 12 or 13 had slept in our little flat. The next morning, we all traipsed down the stairs, to be confronted by the janitor who was not really happy with the goings on in his building.

I’ve got many pleasant memories of that time in London. In December 2002 I was again in London and decided to check out the old building. Much to my disappointment, the whole block had been torn down about 7 years earlier and had been replaced by an expensive block of flats with a doorman and the works. Lovely building, but not what I’d been looking for. I guess, the old building couldn’t have survived all those years in the state it was, but I was disappointed. Checking out my old house was one of the things I’d been looking forward to during that trip.

Madeleine

Thursday, 15 December 2005

PS if you want to see a photo of our "verandah" check out my gallery. I've also added a picture of the house and a "classy picture of me"

The vagaries of memory.

 I wrote the Forrest Gump article last night (well early this morning), and I originally wrote:

“We were still living in Brisbane. So the kids would have been, Susan was less than 6 and my son was 5 years older. I had gone to Sydney to visit a friend who had recently come out and was staying with a couple of gay friends of his.”

 When I re-read the article this morning, I checked out the date that Forrest Gump had been released. 1994. Bugger!!  We were not living in Brisbane. We were living in Perth. The kids were more like 21 and 16, in fact my son would have left home by that stage. I was not still in contact with that gay friend of mine. He had come out many many years earlier, and I think by 1994 he had taken the “cure” and had become straight. We lost touch after that, I don’t think he liked my response to his “cure”. He eventually got married and had kids.

 Then I start to wonder if any of my memories of that evening were accurate. I changed the article and posted it anyway. It is my memory and as such is real to me, no matter the accuracy of the details.

 This brings me to the vagaries of memory. Memory is a uncertainty. We think we remember what happened to us, but I know that when I talk to my son about some memories I have of him, his memory is quite different. We often don’t even agree on the overall details. So, what does that mean for my work. Well, I am a counsellor (a Social Worker), and I work with memory every day. People remember nasty things that happened to them as a child, and I help them work through those memories.

 However, the memories are their memories, other people will remember the incidents differently, coloured by their own emotions, by what was happening to them at the time, by their own defence mechanisms, and lots of other stuff. So what does that mean to my work.

 It means that each person’s memory of events are real, to them. The impact is real. As with my memories of the Forrest Gump movie, the details may not be accurate, but it is my memory, and is real to me. It is based on everything that has happened to me in my life, every emotion I have felt in my life, every person I have met in my life and many other factors. This memory may even be coloured by events that happened after the event. But it is still real to me. And no one can take that away from me. And no one can disagree with me. We can argue about the details, but it is my reality, not theirs.

 So that’s what I write about, that’s what I feel, and that’s part of who I am. My memories, of my life, the things that happened to me, are all part of me. My son’s memories of the same even, are all part of his emotions and who he is and has become. And his memories are real for him.

 So for my work, that’s what I work with. I work with other people’s memories. Even though I know that others might disagree about the details, the emotional impact is what is important and that’s what I work with.

 I’m not quite sure whether I need to say anything more right now. I will leave this, and maybe come back to it later.

 Madeleine

Saturday, 10 December 2005

9:08 AM

27 today

Kenoath writes that I’ve been quiet this last little while and he’s right. There’s been something going on for me which I’ve not been ready to write about. Now I think I am. Whether I’m ready to post it or not, is another matter. My daughter Susan was born with Down’s Syndrome and an uncorrectable heart defect. Over the years, the heart defect caused most of the problems. In 1998, Susan decided that life was not worth living, and she died. I wasn’t there with her. I felt a bit guilty about it at first, and then my son reminded me that as long as I was there, she probably wouldn’t have allowed herself to go.

 Today, Susan would have been 27 years old.  It’s been 7-1/2 years since she died, and for some reason this December has been a shocker. I was talking to someone about her the other day. “How old would Susan have been?” they asked me. I replied “27. And I can’t imagine what she would/could have been like”.

 And I think this is the sad bit. You see Susan was 19 when she died. And I can’t imagine what she would have been like at 27. The years between are too great for someone that age. She would have grown from a teenager to a young woman. With the Down’s Syndrome, I’ve got no idea what the future would have held for her. With a “normal” child, you know that you would be missing out on work, study, boyfriends and hopefully eventually, the long term relationship that brings the grandchildren.

 With the Suze, I’ve got no idea what her life would have been like had she lived. I do know that before the heart problem became such an issue, she was a smart little toad. She was loving (and don’t dare say “All children with Down’s syndrome are loving”, cause they’re not). She was incredibly capable. She would have been able to live independently. She would have been capable of holding down a job. Sick and all that she was in her last years, she insisted on going to work.

 There are so many thoughts going around and around in my head. I’m not sure where to start and where to finish. I just know that I’ve got to write. Whether anyone ever reads this or not is not important.

 I remember writing many years ago about the hurt/pain/anger (?) whatever the feeling was about the losses in my life. Susan was a teenager. As such we should have been arguing about clothes, boyfriends, school work, going out and stuff like that that teenagers and their mothers argue about. Instead we were arguing about Barbie dolls, and childish things like that.

 So somehow I feel I’ve missed out on the joys and pleasures of the “normal” daughter. And I have. I will never see my daughter married, happy, with her own family and loved ones. Not like her brother. I will never welcome her partner into my house, and care for him the way I care about my son’s partner.

 But what I did get was something I never expected. You see, Susan had a purity, and I know that’s an old fashioned word. Her feelings were real and direct. If she liked you; she adored you. If she disliked you; she hated you. If she was happy; she was ecstatic. If she was sad; she was inconsolable. If she was angry; the whole world knew.

 Now I’m remembering stories. Like the time she broke her leg. Because of her heart condition, she had one of those electric buggies and used to go out with her class at school. They would take the train to and from the outings and learn about travelling around the city. She was in a class of other teenagers who had intellectual disabilities. This one day, they got onto the ramp coming down from the overpass and one of the lads decided it would be a good joke to take her brake off the buggy. So here was poor Susan freewheeling down this long ramp. If she had steered to the right, she would have ended up in the middle of a busy road. She eventually stopped but hitting a road sign. Problem was, she hit it with her leg, with the full weight of the buggy behind. To make a long story short, her leg was broken.

 For years afterwards, whenever Susan needed to be angry, she would remember what Daniel had done, and focus her anger onto him.

 When she felt sad, she would focus her feelings onto her best friend who was killed in a car accident. And that’s another story. Probably not to be told tonight.

 The sadness is easing. I don’t feel as bad tonight as I did over the weekend. I know I will feel better tomorrow, and even more better on Friday. This too will pass. If there is anything I’ve learned in my 59 years it is that nothing stays the same. Even feelings of grief. They pass. They return. But over time, they do not return with such strength. Except some years. But those too pass.

 I think I’m okay now. I can let it go for the time being.

 If anyone is interested, read SusanWhy? which I posted on the 14^th October 2005

 Madeleine

Wednesday, 7 December 2005