| Title: | ARCHIVE-- Topics of Interest to Women, Volume 2 --ARCHIVE |
| Notice: | V2 is closed. TURRIS::WOMANNOTES-V5 is open. |
| Moderator: | REGENT::BROOMHEAD |
| Created: | Thu Jan 30 1986 |
| Last Modified: | Fri Jun 30 1995 |
| Last Successful Update: | Fri Jun 06 1997 |
| Number of topics: | 1105 |
| Total number of notes: | 36379 |
I've copied this note from Human_Relations with the permission
of the base note author because I felt that it belongs here
as well.
Bonnie J
mother of a 'special needs' son.
<<< QUARK::NOTES_DISK:[NOTES$LIBRARY]HUMAN_RELATIONS.NOTE;1 >>>
-< What's all this fuss about 'sax and violins'? >-
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Note 961.0 Rage 6 replies
SUPER::REGNELL "Smile!--Payback is a MOTHER!" 309 lines 8-FEB-1990 14:15
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Rage
---
Rage. Raging. To rage. I have not done that in years.
I thought perhaps one grew out of it...like acne. That
you passed some biological boundary that prevented your
frustrations with being powerless from rising up and
devouring whatever urges towards self-preservation that
you possessed.
I was wrong.
I remember the first time I experienced rage. I was
five, and my dog died. I have written about Bessy
elsewhere, I do not need to talk about her death again.
But, I raged that day at my parents' God for being
merciless and arbitrary. Of course, my universe was ever
so much smaller in those days; and the rage I felt was
based on this animal's importance in it. A favored pet's
death these days brings sorrow and a sigh of
resignation, but no more rage.
Then I raged when I was eleven. King Arthur/Knight in
Shining Armor/President Kenedy's son Patrick died
"a-bornin" as the old Scotts ballad says. I raged again
at this God of my parents who allowed one so small and
untried to die without hope. Again my universe, although
stretched from the time I was five, was still small
enough to hold in my cupped hands, and this action saw
the sands there streaming through the cracks between my
fingers. My anger at the useless death of infant children
is tempered these days by at least adult confusion rather
than childlike despair. The adult accepts the way of life while
still regretting it.
Or perhaps I just saw too many die on the 6 o'clock news
during Viet Nam to ever react again to an anonymous
death in the way that I did when I was eleven.
And I raged when I was 24. Jan Mullen and I sat with her
prize show dog and helped deliver a first litter. And
watched her die while they still struggled from her
womb. And watched the pups die one by one for some
unforseeable and unpredictable reason. We fought for
them. We pumped medicines and formula down their tiny
throats and held them close so they could feel our heat
and our hearts... and still they died. Died as we held them.
A small thing to rage over you think, the loss of a
litter of pups? Perhaps it was. But we sat on the floor
of the kennel covered in dried-up after-birth,
sorrounded by heating pads and warm formula in
eye-droppers and cried.
And then we cleaned the place from top to bottom with
boiling water and anticeptic and we waited for the rest
of the dogs to die also. We were lucky. Some didn't.
And over mugs of tea and after much raging we came to an
understanding. Funny, it was that understanding that my
Dad was trying to convey about death and life being part
of the same go-round; that you couldn't not embrace one and
not the other. Maybe we all have to reach the place
where we see that by ourselves? I don't know.
But, I do know that after the puppies I raged no more.
Until this morning. This morning, at almost 40 [just a
few fleeting weeks left], I felt rage rising up in me.
It was a surprisingly "unsurprising" feeling. It fit
like the glove it always had been...and left me spent
after it had gone.
Before anyone rushes to my side...no, noone died this
morning...no cats or dogs or puppies or unborn children.
No, this morning, I watched someone murder hope.
I took Eric to the dentist. [Do all chapters in one's
life start with such innocuous pap, I wonder?]
When we arrived he shrugged out of his coat and hat and
went to stand in the doorway to the reception area to
stare at a poster. It was a wonderful poster of 100 cats
and one mouse.
There were angry cats, and smiling cats, and whimsical
cats, and wiley cats, and frowsey cats, and...well, you
get the picture. And there was one mouse. Somewhere. We
both stood in the doorway and hunted the mouse for ten
minutes until the hygienist came and ushered him away,
still peering with longing over his shoulder looking for
the mouse.
Released, I wandered over to read a magazine, but I
found my eyes straying every once in a while to search
for the mouse.
Sometime after I had been sitting, a mother and her
daughter came in. I didn't really look at them, just
sort of perceived their existance and knew from the
shadow that lurked in the corners of my perfieral vision
that the girl was looking at the cats poster.
I chuckled silently thinking what a creative piece of
work that was...both the art and the hanging of it in a
waiting room for children. Then...
"Come away fromt there! Noone wants to trip over you all
day!"
The tone as much as the words jarred me from my reverie
in which I was reading about the bones of great whales.
It was....viscious.
I looked up to see the daughter scurry across the
waiting room to stand before her mother.
"Sit down, don't just stand there."
She sat.
"Stand up...take you coat off. Does someone have to tell
you everything?"
She stood, took her coat off and folded it neatly.
"Sit down, I said!"
She sat.
I was saved from immediate acts of social
inappropriateness by Eric arriving back on the scene at
this very instant with the hygeinist in tow to describe
in detail how:
"one-of-his-sealants-had-come-loose-but-had-been-replaced,
thank you."
A brief flurry of typical dentist office business
transactions followed that mercifully removed me from
the proximity of the parent and child.
While I stood at the desk, Eric returned to the poster.
The little girl, who had been sitting like a statue
beside her Mother wandered unobserved over to stand with
him. They chatted as stranger children will to each
other...testing the waters, outlining each's knowledge
of the furry creatures they were looking at, then
settling down to an organized search for the miscreant
mouse.
They were still avidly searching when I was done and
ready to "move 'em up" and "head 'em out".
"Emma Lee! Get out of that woman's way! Who said you
could stand there? You are blocking the door!"
I lost it.
I stepped in front of Emma Lee. [That was what did it,
you see...she had a name now...she wasn't "the little
girl" anymore...]
"You weren't talking to me were you?"
"Of course not, that 'girl' is in the way..."
"But, I am the one standing in the doorway. Emma is just
chatting with Eric here about the poster...you must have
been talking to me, because I am the one blocking the
doorway..."
"She's always in the way...just let me grab her..."
"Is Emma your daughter?"
"Unfortunately, yes..."
"For her, you mean?"
"What?"
"Emma?"
A tiny voice answered...but eyes never looked up.
"Yes?"
"Have you and Eric found the mouse yet?"
"Yes..."
"Mom, Emma found it! See it was hiding here..."
"Emma, it was nice to meet you...I hope we see you again
sometime when Eric visits the dentist"
Emma looked at me and I was rewarded with a smile. The
eyes behind the heavy glasses sparkled with wit and
pride with her accomplishment.
"Bye, Eric."
"Bye Em'...thanks for finding the mouse!"
"People don't talk to her much...you know...the way she
is and all....don't let her bother you..."
"Madam, Eric and I have enjoyed meeting and talking with
your daughter...she is polite and eager to please. You on the
other hand exhibit neither of these qualities and
personally I wouldn't raise so much as my voice to keep
you from being run down by a truck."
The hygienist flashed me a thumbs-up and whisked Emma
out of the way into the back room.
"Eric, we are leaving, now!"
That in the voice I reserve for moments when I don my
"She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed" hat. Eric jumped and we were
out the door and down the sidewalk before the woman
recovered her ability to speak.
"Mom?"
"What?"
"You're not mad at me, are you?"
"No, I am livid at that little girl's mother..."
"Why does Emma look that way?"
We settled into the car...pulled out into traffic.
"She has a condition called Down's Syndrome, Eric. It
has to do with her genes...do you remember that book you
were reading that talked about genes?"
"Yeah...it said they cause eye color and hair color and
stuff like that."
"Well, it can also cause diseases or syndromes to
happen. And that's what Emma has."
"What does a 'syndrome' do to you?"
"When your genes get messed up Eric, it makes the whole
'machine' run a bit rough. Emma has to work very hard
probably at things you do without knowing you are even
thinking. In some cases people with Downs' Syndrome are
really incapacittated...but Emma seemed pretty bright.
Her physical appearance is affected though. The eyes have some
extra skin....and are little and closely set. The tongue
is quite thick and large, which makes it seem to stick
out all the time. It makes you 'look' ...welll...."
"Dumb?"
"Dumb. But Emma wasn't, was she?"
"Emma found the mouse."
"Right. Emma found the mouse. Poor Emma."
"Does Emma's Mom have a syndrome?"
"No, Emma's Mom has something much more deadly..."
"What's that?"
"Terminal bigotry."
"What's bigotry?"
"The fear and hatred of anyone and anything that is
different from you or what you think everyone should be."
" I wouldn't want to have her Mother as 'my' Mother."
"Neither would I....I didn't say that, Eric."
"Yeah, I know...it was one of those 'private'
conversations we have..."
"Right."
"You're really mad...huh?"
"I am really mad...huh."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Is this a good time to mention that you just drove off
exit 10 instead of 11?"
"Yes, I think this is a good time to tell me that...."
We got back on the highway and found our way home and
went about our business of the day...Eric to take his
'ice-cube-keeper' to school for test runs; I to zip
down the highway in yet-another-snowstorm to build
someone's high-tech student workbook.
I hope Emma finds her way home one of these days.
| T.R | Title | User | Personal Name | Date | Lines |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 980.1 | Further thoughts | WMOIS::B_REINKE | if you are a dreamer, come in.. | Thu Feb 08 1990 22:46 | 220 |
This note follows the first one in h_r
<<< QUARK::NOTES_DISK:[NOTES$LIBRARY]HUMAN_RELATIONS.NOTE;1 >>>
-< What's all this fuss about 'sax and violins'? >-
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Note 961.1 Rage 1 of 6
SUPER::REGNELL "Smile!--Payback is a MOTHER!" 211 lines 8-FEB-1990 14:39
-< Further thoughts... >-
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The Dreams of my Parents -- A Parable
---
I used to sing a song by...well, sung by anyway, Judy
Collins...actually now that I think about it, I think it
is one she did write. It started out:
Father always promised us
that we would live in France.
We'ld go boating on the Seine
and I would learn to dance.
We lived in Ohio then,
Father worked the mines.
On his dreams like boats we knew
we'ld sail in time,
What follows is not truly fact...nor is it truly
fiction, It is true, but not factual...these
conversations did not take place...they are based on my
imperfect and necessarily personal view of what probably
happened. But they help me to understand.
---
My Father had dreams.
He dreamed of not being hungry. And he dreamed of not
being cold. And he dreamed of being someone that his
children would look up to and ask for advice. These
things he accomplished. For a brief moment in time, he
even realised that he had accomplished them. And then he
dreamed some more.
He dreamed now of the things that his children would do
that he had never done. The places they would go; the
people they would meet; the things they would do. And he
built his life around these new dreams. He sacrificed
his happiness, his peace of mind, his soul...so they
would have and do these things.
And his oldest child said:
"So, who asked you to do these things for us?"
"I don't want to be this, or go there, or do
that...'this' is who I am...love me."
And he said:
"I have slaved my life away to show you these things. If
you do not take them, you do not love me; and I cannot
love you..."
And his oldest child said:
"So be it."
Now his younger child was more naturally inclined to
follow in her Father's footsteps. She was not more
inclined to agree however, and when...as it must...there
came the time for her to also become herself instead of
her Father's shadow, he said again...
"I have given you everything I have to give and still
you do not appreciate it."
And the younger child said:
"You have taught me to be strong, and resourceful, and
to stand on the truth. So, I stand here."
And he said:
"So be it."
And some years after that, when he died, he died
thinking that these children who owed their existance to
him...who admitted freely to everyone else in the world
but him that he was the guiding light of the adults they
had beco...he died thinking they did not love him.
And until he died, they never knew that he told everyone
he met how talented his two daughters were...how proud
he was of them. The dreams got in the way.
---
My Mother had dreams.
She dreamed early-on of escaping the farm; of having
beef on the table more than just in the fall when they
butchered the beef-cattle; of having sandwhiches of
something other than mustard and bread. And she dreamed
of more than one suit of clothes and fancy stockings and
dancing. And she dreamed of a man not in her home town
to take her away from it all.
And she got these things.
And then she dreamed more dreams.
She dreamed of the young women that her daughters
would become; how they would be pretty and exsquisitly
drressed; how they would marry well and raise their
children to come and sit at her knee. And how they
would be so correct and polite and soft-spoken' how they
would know the old songs and the old people.
She didn't have a chance.
Her knight-in-shining-armor was busy making them into
his likeness; and although he would not be pleased by
the outcome either...they would certainly ressemble him
more than they ever did her.
And although her determination took her away and set her
free, her duty brought her back and chained her. Freedom
was a momentary chapter and she came back to her
beginnings to take care of her ailing Mother and other
dreams were shattered.
And she said:
"How can you say these things and do these things?"
And her oldest would say:
"You never cared to intercede for me when I was little
so don't bother me now."
And her youngest would say:
"Mother, we were raised to be this...and we are...so why
are you surprised?"
And she would say:
"Where have I failed? I must have failed to have such
daughters..."
And her daughters would say:
"Never thought of myself as a failure...but If you think
so, then so be it."
And she would lament:
"Why don't you come more often..."
And they would say:
"To listen to you complain about who we are? Forget it."
And so, this day, she sits at home; or travels to
Florida and everyone thinks she is wonderful. But her
daughters are wary; and she thinks herself a failure
because they are who they are. And they think her
cold-hearted and proud because she never defended them
or herself when it might have made a difference.
---
I met...no, that is too strong a word...I saw a Mother
today. And I went right home and wrote about her in
RAGE. I was not only rude to her, I was righteously
angry with her and let her know it. I did what I was
raised to do. I fought a dragon. And my Daddy would have
been proud...and Mother (although she would have
deplored the fact that I actually spoke rudely to this
woman) would even have approved.
But I am reminded by several of my dearest and most
trusted readers...to ask why and how this woman got to
be a killer of hope.
Perhaps, she had dreams?
And perhaps she made the same the mistake that my folks
did with her dreams...and dreamed them "for" her children
instead of just "about" them. And then her child not
only would not fulfill her Mother's dreams but created
in their place nightmares.
Perhaps she had too many dreams break so that she
herself broke along with them and all that remains is a
husk that mimes the action. Perhaps it is a miracle that
she even has the energy left to be a kiler of hope?
---
I guess we none of us handle the loss of dreams very
well. I hope not all of us are so beaten that we attack
those that do not fullfill them; but I suspect that even
the more reserved of us harbor resentment.
---
I have dreams.
And I have a child.
God help me "not" make my dreams for him. God help me
teach him to dream his own and set him free with them.
And may I have the strength to rejoice in his dreams
even when they are not mine.
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| 980.2 | NRADM3::KING | FUR...the look that KILLS... | Fri Feb 09 1990 08:26 | 3 | |
Thanks Bonnie for posting those 2 notes... especially the base note...
Rick
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| 980.3 | ASABET::STRIFE | Fri Feb 09 1990 08:48 | 3 | ||
To the author of the base note -- Eric is lucky to have you for a Mom
and the world is doubly lucky because of the kind of person he'll grow
up to be.
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| 980.5 | SYSENG::BITTLE | nancy b. - hardware engineer; LSE | Fri Feb 09 1990 13:12 | 19 | |
re: .0, .1 (Melinda Regnell) Way to go, Melinda. That took guts. Eric is indeed lucky to have you for a mom. re: thinking about the subject title Rage and terror are 2 of the strongest, most overwhelming, and most unpleasant emotions I have ever felt. In recalling how they felt, they seem very similar, except that terror is this strong overwhelming emotion directed inward (for oneself), while rage is this strong overwhelming emotion directed outward (at someone or something). nancy b. | |||||
| 980.6 | Lost Rage= Lost Passion | USEM::DONOVAN | Fri Feb 09 1990 13:36 | 15 | |
RE:.0
I think I've found life easier since I've lost my rage. It's also
much more bland. My highs were too high. My anger was too angry.
I was driving myself crazy.
Since I've lost my rage I think I've lost my passion. I used to
want to change the world now I feel helpless. But sometimes, when
necessity rears its ugly head, there's fire.
If I was an as eloquent a writer as the basenoter, I could have
written the same note.
Kate
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| 980.7 | Blessed are the children, For someday they may be parents | CSC32::K_KINNEY | Fri Feb 09 1990 18:16 | 21 | |
Well Bonnie, I thought the base note was
very well written and I applaud the writer
for standing up for Emma. It never ceases
to amaze me when I see persons with incredible
power, misuse that power.
A parent (either mother or father) has infinite
power with a child and if they do not recognize
this consciously and use it with care, they
can decimate that childs future. I wish there
was some way to get people to see that, but we are
all only humans after all, and therefore subject
to our shortcomings. The price can be high. And I
am so sorry when I see a child have to pay it. Their
pockets are not deep enough.
kim
(mother of Scott who had many strikes against him when he
started but he learned never to let them strike him out!
He is a helicopter crew chief in the Army.)
*8^}
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| 980.8 | SNOC01::MYNOTT | Hugs to all Kevin Costner lookalikes | Sun Feb 11 1990 18:15 | 20 | |
I didn't feel rage, I just sat and fumed in a similar situation.
We were at the movies, I was waiting for friends to arrive. A group of
Downs kids arrived for the same show, and one sat down with me. We
started discussing the various coming soon films, and who was her
favourite actor/actress. There were two spare chairs at the table, and
two elderly well dressed women sat down. (We are talking about a very
very up market, overpriced area this cinema is in). When this young
girl and I started talking again there was silence on the other side of
the table, so she asked them a question. They not only ignored her,
they got up and found another table...
The film we finally saw was My Left Foot, and it wasn't those kids who
talked during the show, there were others up the back. Those who know
me, would probably be surprised I didn't make a scene, I usually do,
but I was so angry I didn't know what to do. But I remember those
ladies and if I ever see them again, they'll know it!!!
...dale
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| 980.9 | MSESU::HOPKINS | LOVE is all you need | Mon Feb 12 1990 14:30 | 8 | |
Reading the base note I just about began to cry. I will never forget
being at Childrens Hospital with my daughter and a little girl told
Tina "you're lucky...you have the best mother in the whole world". She
said "I know" so matter of factly. It broke my heart because EVERY
child should think they have the best mother in the whole world and
this little girl had a mother who just didn't care. I'd take all of
the unwanted ones if I could. Thanks Bonnie for sharing that with us!!!
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| 980.10 | DZIGN::STHILAIRE | Food, Shelter & Diamonds | Tue Feb 13 1990 11:57 | 31 | |
When I read the base note I felt sorry for Emma, of course, but
I also felt sorry for her mother. How can any of us know what she's
been through? Maybe if she had gotten more support in being the
mother of a handicapped child she wouldn't be such a mean sounding
mother now. There is also the possibility that this woman may not
always be so cruel to her daughter. It sounds trite but she may
have been having a very bad day. Maybe sometimes she's very loving.
How can we know unless we could know her whole life story. All
we know is one brief episode. Don't we all have brief episodes
in our lives where we have acted unpleasantly? I would hate to
be judged for all time on the way I may have acted on one of the
worst afternoons of my life.
I know that would never want to be the parent of a handicapped child.
I would not want to have to put that much of my life into having
to be with a person who had problems that bad. If I ever were pregnant
and found out the baby had Downe's Syndrome, I would have an abortion.
I know that it would be wrong for me to bring a child into the
world that I might not be able to love, so I wouldn't do it. I
also feel that life is tough enough for people without handicaps,
nevermind with.
I guess the reason that I feel sorry for Emma's mother is that for
all I know, if I were in her place, I might not be able to do any
better. I was luckier, and I got exactly what I wanted when I was
pregnant. My only child is female, smart, pretty, healthy and personable.
She thinks I'm a good mother and we get along great. But, it's
been easy being a good mother to her.
Lorna
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| 980.11 | PENUTS::JLAMOTTE | J & J's Memere | Tue Feb 13 1990 15:35 | 24 | |
Although I understand some sympathy for Emma's mother...I found
Melinda's piece extremely good writing and it brought to my mind
someone who I admire a great deal.
Bonnie Reinke and her family have done an excellent job with their
son and brother Steven. Steven was evaluated recently and he has
exceeded all expectations for a child with the handicaps he has.
Clearly this was achieved through love, acceptance and a lot of
patience.
I wonder if Melinda would have missed the exit after she visited Steven
and observed him in the Reinke household. I think she might have...
and she might have written a very different story a lot better then
I could tell it. But her reason for missing the exit would not have
been RAGE it might have been JOY.
The handicapped are out of the closet...they might require some extra
energy but they can be loving members of families and productive
members of the community.
Personally I don't have time for Emma's mother...but I have time for
Stevens!
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| 980.12 | Parenting and Self-Esteem | CSC32::DUBOIS | The early bird gets worms | Fri Feb 23 1990 14:57 | 24 |
< It sounds trite but she may have been having a very bad day.
< Maybe sometimes she's very loving.
This is very possible, but I don't think it excuses her. Just by the
statement that she considers it unfortunate that Emma is her daughter
indicates the harm this woman does without thinking. She decided to
keep the child. In my eyes this means that she must do her best to bring
the child up happy and safe. Happy, to me, includes a good sense of self.
My mother is similar. She is a warm, loving person, *most* of the time.
However, when she last visited us she called Evan (age 1 1/2) by a term
that we consider negative and which she used "affectionately". I have no doubt
that she *meant* him no harm. Nevertheless, this was the type of thing
that she and my father did to me, and my self esteem suffered for it.
This was the type of thing that my father did to her, and her self esteem
suffered tremendously. We brought it to her attention, and asked her not
to do this any more. She was still fuming over it days later.
This (and other events that weekend) brought up many other things that I had
endured growing up, and Shellie and I are now considering changing over our
Wills so that she will not be named guardian of Evan should we both die.
I love my mother, but I do not want Evan to grow up as I did.
Carol
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