Month: June 2021

Each year for sixty four years I have faced the anniversary of my father’s untimely death in 1957 that so drastically changed life for me and my mother and brothers. I remember that morning as vividly as my wedding day and the birth of my daughters. What should have been a sunny holiday spent at the beach with my cousins turned into a nightmare as soon as I arose from my sleep and heard my mom talking with someone on the phone using the past tense when she spoke of my father. I did not have to hear the horrible news from my aunt when I found her in our kitchen puttering away her nervousness. Even at the age of eight I had an intuitive nature and already understood that an earth shattering event had occurred. 

My mother had always been as steady as a rock and as delightfully happy as anyone I ever knew. On that day she was so bereft that she could hardly pull herself from her bed and she uncharacteristically left the care of me and my brothers to her siblings who quickly began to gather in our living room. As I quietly assessed the situation I somehow realized that I would have to rise to the occasion and muster a strength that I did not know I had to make sure that my mother and brothers would be okay. Psychologically I matured from eight to thirty in a single moment. I set aside the frivolities of childhood and adopted a seriousness that would mark the sense of responsibility that I was feeling. 

I suppose that my mother descended into a state of deep depression and perhaps even hopelessness that left her in a state of mind so unlike the person I had always known. It would be weeks before she would emerge from her tears and faraway looks. To say that it was frightening would be an understatement but somehow I understood how difficult the future looked to her and I felt confident that she would pull herself together, which she ultimately did. 

For the next ten years Mama returned to a revised version of her general optimism and courage. She kept us together and made a life without daddy feel safe and secure. She only had moments here and there when her emotions would spill over the top and feel out of control. Mostly she was our stalwart and source of unconditional love and wisdom. I was in awe of the woman she was and continued quietly being as trouble free for her as possible because I knew that she had more on her plate than most people would ever be able to handle. 

When I was in my first year of college my mother began to behave in ways so unlike herself. She experienced more and more periods of depression that would last for a couple of days and then seemingly go away. Her temper would sometimes flare up unexpectedly and in cruel ways that I had never before seen. She was a kind and loving person and her outbursts frightened me. She also developed irrational fears that I tried to laugh away but when I saw her clinging to them I worried that something was more amiss than just a roller coaster of emotions. 

Eventually Mama would have a complete mental breakdown. She closed the windows tightly, drew the blinds and drapes and locked herself into her darkened bedroom even as the temperature soared in the unairconditioned house. She cried constantly and with eyes darting like an animal running for its life from a predator she would speak of being watched by law enforcement for some unknown crime. She even believed that her sisters who came to help her were attempting to poison her. When she watched television she heard messages from the programs that were not part of the script. I was terrified. 

I learned that my mother had a mental illness that would stalk her for the next forty years. When she was sick, which was several times each year, our roles would reverse. I would be her caretaker and she would be like my confused child. It would take years before we had an accurate diagnosis of her condition which was bipolar disorder. 

With great regularity, usually in March, July and October my mother would travel through a cycle of emotions brought on by her illness. Almost always her symptoms began with sadness that prompted unending tears and isolation from the world. If I was able to convince her to see her doctor quickly enough the worst effects would never happen but when she was adamant that nothing was wrong and refused medical help she would descend into an emotional hell. the next phase was mania and that is when she became most unrecognizable. She talked constantly, often spewing vile anger and insults. She was unable to sleep and her the thoughts that raced through her head were filled with paranoid ideation. Eventually she would experience a psychotic break entirely. 

It was alway painful to see her that way. It felt so unfair that such a brilliant, wise, stalwart, and compassionate woman would be laid so low by some chemical flaw inside her brain. My brothers and I worried constantly that she would get herself into trouble but somehow she was blessed to have neighbors and coworkers who watched over her and alerted us whenever they saw signs of her mental illness rearing its ugly head. 

I always loved the interludes during which my mother was herself again. They were like a precious gift that I knew we had to enjoy with gusto because the never ending cycle of her bipolar disorder would inevitably return again and again to steal away her beautiful soul and replace it with a tortured turn of the mind. 

I still advocate for the mentally ill but realize that they are often relegated to neglect in favor of other more understandable problems in our world. There is still so much to be learned about how the brain works and why is sometimes goes awry. The suffering that good people endure along with their families leaves them misunderstood and sidelined from the roles that they might otherwise have enjoyed. We have such a long way to go in our knowledge and compassion and investment in time and money for mental illness. I truly believe that if we were to pour as much effort into understanding why a beautiful mind can become so infected we would actually solve many of the world’s problems. I suspect that much of the negative behavior that we witness is actually the result of a mental defect that might easily be repaired just as we do with hearts. Helping people who struggle with psychological issues will be my goal as long as I have breath to spread the word about their needs. A mind really is a terrible thing to waste and right now we condemn far too many to the dumpster. It’s long past time for finding real and lasting solutions for diseases of the brain.

I have a wonderful memory from my childhood. It is the sound of one of our neighbors practicing on her clarinet. Back then few people had air conditioning so everyone kept their windows open allowing the noises of life in each household to reverberate through the neighborhood. The young lady was a several years older than I was and a member of her high school marching band at the local public school. She was rather good and I looked forward to hearing the melodious tones of her instrument each evening as she became more and more adept in her performances over time. I can almost still hear her even as more than sixty years have passed.

I went to wonderful parochial schools were I received a top notch education but music was sadly rather lacking. In junior high I was a member of a choir and we learned the rudiments of reading music, but mostly we just sang from a rote memorization of our parts. In high school I was placed on a track that precluded artistic electives. Instead my schedule was filled with extra languages, sciences, and mathematics. While I appreciate all of the knowledge that I gained in those years my one regret is that I did not have the opportunity to learn how to play an instrument. In fact the school did not have either a band or an orchestra. 

Creating bands and orchestras is an expensive venture even if the students rent their instruments. It involves a major investment in teachers, assistants, sound systems, music, acoustically designed rooms. My school had to choose between state of the art science rooms and what the powers that be saw as the frivolousness of music equipment. I suppose they wisely chose science but to this very day I wish that I had received an opportunity to learn how to play a clarinet or a piano or maybe a cello or violin. 

Some of my classmates took private music lessons but I was a “scholarship” student who earned my tuition by excelling in my classes. I was a kind of investment in the future for my school and music was not on the menu. Thus I only dreamed of having the skills to create lovely sounds like my neighbor did.

When I was studying to be a teacher I had to take a basic music class. We all had to purchase a recorder and learn how to play a few songs. I became quite adept at performing “Go Tell Aunt Rhody” and other ditties but that did not satisfy my longing to be a real musician. In the same class we had to master “Three Blind Mice” on a keyboard but my short stubby fingers struggled to reach between the keys. I would later learn that a truly talented music teacher knows how to find just the right instrument for each person. 

My eldest daughter signed up for band classes in intermediate school. She wanted to play the flute but was never able to get a single sound from that instrument. Instead she had a knack with the oboe and worked to master that instrument for three years. Because I had such a longing to play I invested in private lessons for her and hundreds of dollars in replacing broken reeds. The oboe was a difficult instrument but she slowly progressed and then found that if she continued with it in high school she would have to play with the percussion students during marching seasons. Because she was a talented dancer she chose instead to join the dance team and left her music behind. 

I became obsessed with the fact that nobody in my direct family actually played an instrument. My husband did bit on the guitar and my mother-in-law was somewhat accomplished on the piano but nobody actually excelled like that neighbor of my long ago. I longed to hear real talent from one of my own. I had a paternal cousin who made the keys on a piano sing like angels so I felt certain that somewhere in the complexities of genetics there had to be some DNA that would lead to great musical talent in my offspring and their descendents. 

Soon I had grandchildren and one by one they all chose to join the band in middle school with varying interest in continuing through high school. From those seven four became somewhat accomplished. Grandson Jack played multiple instruments from his time in band including brass, piano and guitar but he, like his mother, chose to follow a different artistic route in high school. Benjamin became a tuba player and enjoyed it so much that he stayed for the full band experience in high school where he ultimately became the Drum Major. Ian chose the cello and with each passing year he became more and more adept. He has a passion for music that shows in his incredible performances. He plays like an archangel. William is a violinist but he does not share the enthusiasm of Jack, Ben and Ian. Nonetheless I am overjoyed that some of my fold have so beautifully mastered the art of music. Finally the kind of beautiful sounds of my youth are being reproduced by my grandsons. 

If I had the opportunity to learn one more thing it would be to master an instrument. It would not matter to me what that might be. It would simply be wonderful to be able to sing to the heavens with my skill. As an educator I believe in providing all students regardless of income with a chance to play an instrument. I don’t really believe that an education is complete without at least a rudimentary introduction to such a competency We should all experience moments of rising heavenward with our music like my neighbor did with her clarinet. It is perhaps the most gloriously creative act that humans may do. The sound of music raises us all from the commonplace into the domain of angels.