Wake-up Call

There has been a great deal of change in my life since the last time I sat to blog.  I will, at some point, work through it all, and write it down, but some of it has been too raw for me to sift through.  Some of it has been absolutely wonderful. 

Just to summarize, I turned 50 in June, and just a month later became engaged to CG, July 28th.  From that happy crescendo, I crashed to the ground just 3 weeks later with the death of my amazing mother.  The next few months were an awkward blend of messages from people who know me… “Congratulations!.... sorry about your Mom”… or "So sorry for your loss, but you must be thrilled to be engaged"....it was hard to know what to feel, but I made it through.  I know my mom really thought CG was the right guy for me, and knew he'd treat me right.  That means a lot to me.

I will delve into the whole scenario someday just to sort out how I feel about being a “Middle Aged Orphan”.  Yes, that really is a term… it’s a strange phenomenon and can leave a family in tatters.  This blog post, however, isn’t that story.  It’s the story of friends of mine, and how they changed the trajectory of my life.

I started working for a large, very recognizable oil company in 1989.  When I began, I worked as a technical assistant to a group of geophysicists.  The work was interesting, but the things I was being asked to do, like filing and folding maps, wasn’t intellectually stimulating.  My boss recognized that I needed to have a little more substance, so agreed to let me join a group managing seismic data.  Seismic is the study of sound waves through the earth.  Sound waves can be directed through the rock below the surface of the earth, and then recorded as it bounces off different rock formations.  The speed the sound comes back to the surface tells a geophysicist what sort of rock lies below, and can help determine whether or not a specific area is a good place to drill for oil or gas. 

My job was to manage that data.  I had never really been exposed to that sort of stuff, so the learning curve was pretty steep.  Thankfully, I was trained by a woman the gorgeous Miss “S” who had actually worked out in the field as a jughound.  A jughound is a guy who walks for miles, carrying a huge, very heavy cable on his shoulders.  This cable is equipped with many spiked receivers that are pounded into the ground using the heel of his heavy boot.  Most "juggies” work in very inhospitable places like the arctic in freezing cold conditions, or working in the heat of summer on a prairie somewhere.  I was absolutely shocked when I heard she’d done that job, because she was a well groomed, well coifed woman, who wore beautiful clothing and jewelry. 

“S” is warm and funny, and we soon became fast friends.   We started going for walks every lunch hour… she to shop and me to offer a second opinion.  She was very sweet, and recognized that as a young mother with two small children and a husband in school, I didn’t have money to spare.  She started bringing me in garbage bags full of beautiful clothing she had either tired of, or didn’t like as much when she got it home.  These were designer labels, sometimes with the price tags still attached.  While my husband and I were poor as church mice even when he got out of school, because of her generosity I didn’t look as though we were struggling.

Knowing she had the means to help a little, she approached her handsome husband “C”, who was running a large seismic company's operations, to ask if he could use a weekend worker.  That conversation changed my life.  "C" said he could use another part time guy, so my then husband took the job.  He worked just a couple of weeks before “C” recognized he had a great engineering and problem solving mind, and offered him a full time job.  From there, he was promoted to heading the equipment repair department, and eventually into the local leadership team for operations. 

Needless to say, “S” didn’t need to work, but being childless, she enjoyed the camaraderie in the office, and I have to say, she was one of the hardest working women I have ever known.  I respected her very much, and was devastated when she and her husband moved to Houston to manage international operations and further grow the business.  She quit her job and decided to be a stay at home wife. 

“C” had started at his company at it’s inception, when there were just 5 people in an office.  It’s now one of the two largest Seismic companies in the world, employing over 50 thousand people world-wide.  Part of their success is due to "C" and his dedication to both the company and it's founder.  He wore beautiful suits, and became the face of the company, but never forgot he’d started his career as a jug-hound, and would roll up his sleeves to help repair equipment, or go out to show a crew how to do the job properly.  His employees loved him, and would’ve walked through fire if he'd asked.

I can remember my ex telling me once he’d been handling an equipment issue in Houston.  Apparently they’d had some trouble with cattle chewing holes through the casings on the geophone cables.  As he sat there, up to his elbows in dirty equipment, “C” came in, threw his Hugo Boss jacket over the chair next to him, rolled up his sleeves and started fixing cables right alongside the crew.  When he left, the guy sitting on the other side of my ex said “Who the hell was THAT?”  To which my ex replied “That’s the guy that signs your boss’s, boss’s check!”

“C” and “S” seemed to live a charmed life, and were utterly devoted to each other.  They were a striking couple, he very tall and muscular, with a full head of sandy brown hair and the most piercing blue eyes I’ve ever seen.  She, the delicate dark haired beauty.  They laughed loud and often, and their love for each other shone through every time I ever saw them together.

After the move, we continued to keep in touch even though we were so far apart.  I missed our daily walks, and even more the talks we had.  She had a gentle way of showing me when I needed to stand up for myself, so it was during a visit to her I decided to end my marriage.  She never encouraged me to do so, just allowed me to talk it through, throwing in intelligent and insightful questions as I vented and wrestled with the decision.  It was the right choice for me.

In around 2001, “S” and her husband bought a property in Mexico, and were working toward a retirement there.  Her husband had recognized the stress he was under during a large merger, when he personally had to let 5000 people go, and decided to take a year off.  I came to visit during that time, and asked him if he planned to return to work.  I remember him looking at me, pausing for about 30 seconds and replying “The only way I’m going back is if they offer me an OBSCENE amount of money to come back.” Gesturing with his hands the way you do when describing the size of a very large fish.

The next time I saw him was about a year later… I walked in to my office, and saw him signing in to attend a meeting.  When I asked what he was doing there, he just did that gesture again, and mouthed the words “OBSCENE...OB-SCENE!” at me with a wink.   That was the last time I saw him.  He retired for good in 2004 before he hit 50, and they moved to their paradise in Mexico full time.

Over the years, we kept in touch, with invitations to come down to their home to visit, or me going to an all inclusive and asking them to join me for a week, but it seemed like the timing was never right.  Our communication slowly dwindled to a yearly Christmas note and I’m embarrassed to say this year I thought to do it, but promptly forgot and never did send the update even with all I had to share this year.  My bad.

On January 2, I got a text from my ex.  It’s rare for us to communicate now that our boys are grown, so I opened it thinking he was looking to connect with them.  The note was a shocking three liner letting me know “C” had died on New Year’s Eve.  He was just 57.  I caught my breath, nearly throwing up when I was hit with what the magnitude of my dear friend’s loss would be. 

The details I was able to get from mutual friends are even more sad.  "C" was a vital man.  He was born into a family with some struggles, and as a result, he'd given up alcohol when he was 24.  He never touched another drop.  He ate well, and exercised.  He was doing things right.  The day he passed away, he had complained of indigestion and begged off going out.  I'm not sure whether it was during the afternoon when his wife ran out to do errands, or whether she had gone out that evening to see friends, but the fact is, she briefly left him alone.  When she came home she found him, already gone.  My guess is, his indigestion was actually a heart attack in progress.  I imagine what that must feel like for his wife... how heavy must those feeling of guilt be?  I can imagine her asking over and over "What if I'd stayed home?"....

I reached out to her immediately, a couple of days later got a brief reply, and am now regretting that I didn’t take the time to email her much more often.  I will not head to Mexico for the “Celebration of Life” but will reach out in depth in a few months.  I know, from experience, there are tons of people around for the first while after a loss, but that falls off, and there is little to fill the void.  I'll ask her to come for a visit, or will arrange to meet her down there.  I will be there to listen to her vent, to give a shoulder if she needs to cry.  And I will remember, every time I crawl into bed with CG that my time with him is a gift. Any moment, one or the other of us could be gone. 

Either way, after the dust settles, I hope someone will be there to listen to the one left behind.

Later...

No means No. Period.

Well, I have been very lax about keeping things up here.  Life has just gotten in the way, and I’ve found when I’m happy, it’s hard to find something to spout about, but today I found something. 

Before I go on, I want to say I am the happiest I've been in my adult life, ever, and I couldn't be more grateful.  I am in love with the right man.  He makes my good life great.  I wouldn't be who I am, though, without going through the trials and hardships I've had in my life.

Lately, the news has been full of teen suicides brought on by bullying, and today I read a particularly poignant story of a girl who took her own life after being raped.  The reaction of her peers was extremely negative... and I mean toward her, not her rapist.  Really.  I found I could relate to her story, and caught myself thinking "There but for the grace of God..."

I try to avoid bitterness in my real life.  I try not to ask “why me?” in most instances, and I sincerely try to embrace challenges as a life lesson.  Things rarely bug me once I've taken the time and thought them through, but I'm not perfect.  One of the few times I feel my heart twist with jealousy or bitterness, is when someone shares the story of what it was like to experience sex for the first time.  Usually it’s a cute story about their first love, and how awkward it was, but sweet too...  Everyone’s first time should be like that.  My story is vastly different.  You know I'm a middle aged woman... but when you read the following, I'd like you to imagine it happening to any one of the cute young girls in your life. Your daughter, neice, cousin, friend, or yourself.....  

For me, things went something like this…

For most of my teen years.  I was at a small, all girls boarding school in Italy, where I had a large circle of friends and felt very secure.  There were only 80 high school girls living at the school, and about 30 more who came as day students.  The boys I had contact with, were at an all boys boarding school across town, and our interactions were limited to after school and weekends, and were mostly chaperoned. 

Life changed for me in 1979, when my dad was offered a job back here.  I was uprooted at the end of 11th grade, and had to start all over finding friends and trying to fit in for my senior year. 

I know, right?  That would be a bitch for any girl of 17, but to add to the awkwardness, the school I went to senior year was co-ed and HUGE.  I went from having very close friends and an active social life, to being 'that weirdo' who grew up in Europe. 

Most of the kids who were in my new school were in the same cliques they’d been in for years.  Some were still hanging out with the people who had been in their first grade class.  That makes it hard to break in to any social circle, especially if you’re shy.  I felt alone, awkward and out of place… I made a couple of friends, but my social life was limited.

I'm a people person, so being isolated like that isn’t comfortable for me… and at 17, being dateless was not a natural state either.  I ended up meeting a boy from another area of the city I live in, and I fell hard.   I thought he was that “someone special”.  He was tall and handsome.  He was muscular had a great smile,  big blue eyes and shoulder length feathered blonde hair.  He was the bomb for me in 1979...

He was older than me by about two years, so he was working, and he was a little bit dangerous having grown up in a blue-collar area of the city.  That was like catnip to me.  We began dating, and in retrospect, I cared much more for him than he did for me. 

I was looking for affirmation from someone in my age group so I did all the classically stupid things a teenager would do, such as making myself available to him any time he felt like seeing me.  Paying for movies or dinner dates even though I was only working part time and he had a full time job.  I even forgave him when he stood me up without so much as a phone call the night of my graduation.  His excuse for humiliating me?  He "forgot".   

We dated at his convenience for about a year.  Because we didn’t have cell phones or texting plans back then, I didn’t always know where he was or what he was doing, but rumors spread that he’d become involved with the little sister of a friend.  It made sense, because I was a lily white virgin, still holding him off from home base, and she was a girl from his ‘hood.  Younger than me by almost two years, but WAY more experienced in “street smarts” as it were.  She was just 16, but had lied about her age, and was already a stripper making thousands….

 I elected to believe his BS when he told me I shouldn't believe the "lies", but when we showed up at a party at the house he and a couple of friends were renting, and she was there, their behavior convinced me the rumors were true.

I was upset watching her grab his butt, and giggling with him right in front of me.  He began to get drunk, and was ignoring me rather effectively so I decided it was time to go home.  I quietly went to leave, but before I got out the door, he said we should go have a talk. 

His bedroom was not unfamiliar to me, we’d necked in there a million times, so when he suggested we get away from the crowd and have our conversation there, it didn’t cause any alarms to go off for me.  Not even when he locked the door, so the people just outside the door wouldn’t “come in and interrupt us”.  Remember, I was only just turned 18 at the time.

He told me he had gone out with “little sister” a couple of times, but they were just friends.  He said he had no interest in her, and  I had no reason to be insecure.  When I told him I was upset that he went out with her behind my back, he tried to placate me by kissing me and telling me to lie down with him for a bit. I wanted to believe he was telling the truth.  As I said, this wasn’t unfamiliar territory.  We’d necked several times before, without things getting too heated.   This night would be very different. 

I remember exactly what I was wearing, where I bought it and how I felt when I was getting ready that night.  It's seared in my memory as clearly as though it happened yesterday. I’d bought a new outfit to wear over that night.  A pair of high waist, yellow jeans with slash pockets, and a cute little yellow peasant blouse with cap sleeves and little pink roses embroidered on the collar.  Certainly not suggestive clothing in any way.

When he became a little insistent with me, trying to get his hands in my shirt, I fended him off.  He continued to pull my shirt out of my waistband.  I told him I wasn’t comfortable, and started to move away.  That’s when things turned.  In a fraction of a second, he held me down, pulled my shirt over my arms by the tail and then leaned on my hands with one forearm.   The shirt was covering my face, and effectively curtailed my being able to lower my arms. 

With his other hand, he pulled my bra, up over my breasts without undoing it, and bit me.  Then he proceeded to undo my pants and rip them and my underwear off just ONE leg.  He used his hip to pry my legs apart, with me saying “No” louder and louder.  That didn’t even slow him down.  Keep in mind, he was about 185 pounds of drunk young muscle, and I was about 118 pounds of female, with no upper body strength.  What was I to do?

He proceeded to rape me.  He didn’t care what he was tearing or bruising.  I screamed for him to stop, but nobody outside the door even heard me because the music was so loud.  I became so numb, that when he lifted me on top of him I couldn’t even fight him any longer.  Once he was spent, he fell asleep, leaving me to pull on my other pant leg, and try to clean myself up before going out to walk the gauntlet of people at the party to get to my car.    

I struggled to unlock the door, so when he heard the door open, he followed me out to the party, and put his arm around me.  Because I was in shock, I stood there like a zombie for about 15 minutes before I found an opportunity to escape when he went to the bathroom. 

I drove to my sister’s house because I’d arranged to stay there that night.  The moment she saw me, she knew something wasn’t right.  My face was puffy, my makeup and hair a mess, and where the collar of my shirt had rubbed, my neck was raw.  I basically stood there, stiff and shaking while she put two and two together and demanded I take my pants down.  When I was standing there in my panties, with my pants around my ankles, she could see the angry bruises starting to show.  You could see where each of his fingers had bitten deep into the flesh of my arms and legs. 

I had bruises all over my arms, the bite on my breast, and to add to the injuries, he had torn my peritoneum open which allowed for an infection to set in just as my bruises were fading, days later. I went to the doctor when I realized I wasn't healing, under the auspices of having my first "real" check up.  When he saw the damage to me, he knew exactly what had happened. 

My doctor urged me not to press charges because the victim is often the one who pays the price.  I agreed because it would be hard to keep from my parents if I did.  In collusion with my doctor I went through months of torture trying to deal with the physical damage because the treatment was to have a large q-tip soaked with silver nitrate solution inserted inside me to burn away the damaged tissue.  I suffered this without alerting my parents, because they'd warned me about my rapist months earlier.  They hadn’t liked him right from the first seconds of meeting him…


Because I wasn’t able to talk with my mother about this situation, I talked to a few of my new "friends".  Many of them asked me why I would talk about it at all.  It should be something I locked away.  I was told it wasn't a "big deal" and I should just "get over it".  Many asked what I was wearing that night.   Everyone offered an opinion on how it could never have happened to them if they'd been in the situation.  They'd have kneed him in the balls, or screamed louder, or bitten or scratched.  They acted as though I hadn't tried to defend myself.  Some even accused me of “blaming” my rapist because I’d “allowed” him to deflower me and then regretted losing my virginity. That was the one that hurt most, and caused me the most damage.

I didn’t seek any sort of therapy, and so my behavior was not healthy afterward.  I spent years wondering what I had done to “invite” him to rape me.  Maybe people were right.  Maybe I didn't fight hard enough....  

I began to believe I didn’t deserve to be treated any better than he'd treated me..  That I had asked for it because, after all, I had gone into his bedroom alone with him…  I MUST'VE let him go past the point of return, and then just let it happen. 

Even my wonderful, strong mother’s reaction was way off base. I didn’t tell her what had happened until my infection became so bad I had to be hospitalized to treat it.  Her initial response was that it was my fault for seeing “that boy” after she and dad had told me they didn’t like him. 

My physical problems continued for years, culminating in surgery to repair the damage when I was 24.  When I was put under, I wasn't sure I'd have a uterus when I awoke.  That was devastating, because I always wanted to be a mother more than anything in the world. 

The emotional damage was insurmountable.  I had self esteem issues for years afterward.  I convinced myself I had brought this on myself, and that I was being punished.  I honestly believe I sought out men I thought would mistreat me because THAT’S what I deserved.  I allowed behavior no woman should allow.

My mom later admitted many times over that she reacted badly.  She became an outspoken advocate for women whenever she got the chance to change someone’s view.  I remember several years ago, when my uncle, her brother in law, was pontificating about how women invited rape by dressing provocatively.  He was an ordained minister, and was discussing the topic of his next sermon.  He stated his case, not knowing what had happened to me, and ended his point with the question “What do women EXPECT when they dress the way they do?” 

My mother calmly let him finish, and then said “Listen.  I will bet you a million dollars, you could walk down the street stark naked and you wouldn’t have to worry for one second that some woman couldn't control her urges enough to keep herself from having sex with you!”  The look on his face was priceless. 

Why do we continually blame the victim? 

Happily, I can say I turned a corner some time ago.  I still struggle with insecurity and self worth, but most of the time I can overcome my negative self talk with a little reflection.  The man I spend my time with now, is the man I deserve to have in my life.  And he deserves me.  How lucky is HE?

Wait.  Don’t answer that!  ;-D

Later…

Sad.... not even a little funny.

Ran out of steam this week... Had nothing witty or funny to say, and I'm coming to the realization that most of the things we worry about really have zero significance...

A dear friend of mine, a man I've known for more than 25 years, had a horrible tragedy occur last weekend.  It's really putting all the "crises" I face daily in question.  I can't fathom what they're going through, and frankly I don't want to. 

This friend of mine is a tall, lanky, easy going man who has appeared not to age. Ever... He was one of the "older" people in my college class, having a big 4 years or so on me, but back in the day that seemed to be a loooooong time....He was just always sooo much more worldly than the rest of us... He looks EXACTLY the same as he did back then, and now appears younger than many of the "kids" he went to school with.  

He is brilliant, funny,with a keen but quiet wit, thoughtful and kind.  His heart has always been about three sizes too big even for his 6 foot 6 frame. When we were in college, he dated two of the hottest girls in school.  NO not at the same time... he wasn't that sort of guy.  He wasn't classically handsome, but certainly was charming... and the women he chose to spend his time with were not only gorgeous, but smart too.  That hasn't changed.

He elected not to marry until he was over 40, but when he did, he landed yet another hawt blond.  When he became a father to a set of stunningly beautiful twins 5 years ago, everyone who knew him felt he'd be a great dad.  That fact was evident to me many times over, watching him patiently play with his son and daughter, showing his pride on his face, and his heart on his sleeve. 

His wife is about 10 years his junior I would guess, and they chose to have her stay home with the kids.  She is a doting mother....  I have been getting to know and appreciate her over the past couple of years.  I give her credit, she's managed to hold her own with my tight knit college class...

Last weekend, she took the kids to a lake about an hour and a half from town, where her parents have a home.  They'd spent a lot of time there in the past, and while my friend had just started a new job and couldn't be there, she took the kids up anyhow to have a break.

One of the days there, they decided to spend the evening outdoors... and the events that followed are still unclear.  One of the twins, the son, slipped into the water off the dock, and was later found by his grandfather, floating face down in the lake.  His mother, screaming for help started CPR in anticipation of the emergency crew, who arrived and took over. 

The boy was transported to the hospital in the nearest city while police here located my friend... I am so glad the person in charge of the medical emergency helicopter service elected to transport my friend to his son's bedside.  What an amazing gesture of compassion....Otherwise he would have been on the road for an hour and a half.  The decision has been questioned by some of the general public here.  I'm disgusted by that to be honest.  The trip cost the city $750, and while it could set a precedent, I would ask what those people would want if they were the father of a 5 year old boy clinging to life...

I suspect many of these people aren't parents because they've questioned the commitment of the parents to the safety of their child.  It's easy to sit back and be sanctimonious when you haven't had to parent 5 year old twins.  EVERY parent should know they've had situations happen where but by the grace of God their child might have died.  EVERY one of us has had close calls in our own lives where we could have died despite the best efforts of our parents to keep us safe.

Our little college community will likely raise far more than the helicopter trip cost, and will put that money toward the service they provided.  I am so grateful my friend was able to get to his family.  His boy lost his fight for life that day, and so the next weeks and months will be bleak for this family. 

I'm proud to be part of a group who will support them through the dark days and months to come.... we love one another.  We are a strange group of creative types who put people before tasks, ALWAYS... and therefore are not wealthy, but we're rich in friendships.

Rest in peace little man, and rest assured your parents loved you every second of your short life... and that both of them would take your place given the chance.  Your sister will have to make her way through her life without you to be there to have her back, but she's been left in good hands.

Later...