34 to 50

The first event of note that happened when I was 16 occurred on a Friday morning. I rode my bike to school because Dad was having car trouble. The route I took cut through the college (better paved, less traffic at that hour), down a hill and a right turn onto the bike path.

I came down the hill, turned onto the bike path, and spun out because of a deposit of loose sand that sent my rear tire skidding at right angles to the rest of me. I landed with all my weight on my left arm, amd made the mistake of leaning on it to get up. I'd broken the out bone in my arm and cracked my wrist. I spent the next month in a cast.

Meanwhile, Mom had another crisis. She was in the hospital for a week---I saw her on Sunday, and she was rambling.

On Tuesday afternoon, I bought two tickets for a talk by Gene Roddenberry at the college, one for me, one for Agnes. That night, in the middle of the night, Dad knocked on my door and said he was going to the hospital. A while later, he came back and said that Mom had died. I don't think I really woke up for either knock---I've heard of ghosts appearing to people at the hour of their death, but it hasn't happened to me.

In some ways, I would say that 16 is a good age for a loss like that. You're ready to cut the ties, at least I was---too, it was my first realization that if you spend enough time watching someone die, even someone you love---or maybe especially someone you love---you get to the point where you're ready for it to be over, and I'd said my good-byes months before, sobbing in the bathroom during her first crisis.

I'd never seen my father weep before, and that freaked me out. The ladies from their church came over, bringing food and mouthing the same phrases, "I'm so sorry." (Useless.) "I know exactly how you feel." (Bullshit.) "I went throught the same thing when my mother/father/goldfish/second cousin twice-removed died." (Yeah, right.) I was trying, for some reason, to organize the linen closet, and yes, my arm was still in a cast, but I didn't *want* any help folding the goddamn sheets. I wanted them all to go away.

That night was the talk at the college. Dad drove me over to get Agnes---her mom helped me pull my hair back into a ponytail, because of my cast---and she was more upsset than I was. She couldn't understand how I could want to go out with my mother dead. What could I say? Going or not going wouldn't bring her back. Fortunately, her mom had a clue, and helped me persuade her. We went.

The only thing I really remember from the talk was GR talking about how they wrote the eps; he had an article about a drug being developed, and talked about how something like that could be fictionalized, even in the 24th century. Naturally I'd remember the writing part! And to this day, the best thing my mom ever gave me was a thesaurus---I mentioned the first day of 9th grade that my writing teacher recommended it, and she had it when I got home from school the next day. I won't say my mom always got where I was coming from, but she always supported my writing.

The funeral was a nightmare; tons of out-of-town guests, all crying, it seemed. The funeral home did a terrible job of making her up---it haunted me for a long time that she didn't look at all like my mom---and Peter thought I was being a brat and was nasty.

It all settled down; everyone went back home and for a while...I don't know if I'd call it normal. Dad and I didn't have Mom as a buffer any more, and I was always fleeing to my room when he started yelling. We got invited to Thanksgiving dinner with some people from church (my first exposure to sweet potato casserole, yuck!), and Peter came down for Christmas.

In the middle of January (1977,if you're keeping score), I went over the handlebars of my bike AGAIN and this time, I broke BOTH bones, greenstick fracture---Dad wouldn't let them operate,so they're still slightly crooked---and I spent the next two and a half months in a cast.

One good thing came out of my orthopedic disaster---I was sitting in the cafeteria, nose in a book, I think---when a red-headed girl came up and asked if she could sign my cast. That's Big Red (as my dad nicknamed her), who is still a very good friend.

When Mom was alive, she'd been stingy about letting me have sleepovers. Dad didn't care. Friday and Saturday? Every weekend? Sure! Usually it was Agnes, and soon it was often it was Red---they didn't get along that well, so it was usually one or the other, but having girlfriends to turn to helped a lot.

.

34 to 50

The first event of note that happened when I was 16 occurred on a Friday morning. I rode my bike to school because Dad was having car trouble. The route I took cut through the college (better paved, less traffic at that hour), down a hill and a right turn onto the bike path.

I came down the hill, turned onto the bike path, and spun out because of a deposit of loose sand that sent my rear tire skidding at right angles to the rest of me. I landed with all my weight on my left arm, amd made the mistake of leaning on it to get up. I'd broken the out bone in my arm and cracked my wrist. I spent the next month in a cast.

Meanwhile, Mom had another crisis. She was in the hospital for a week---I saw her on Sunday, and she was rambling.

On Tuesday afternoon, I bought two tickets for a talk by Gene Roddenberry at the college, one for me, one for Agnes. That night, in the middle of the night, Dad knocked on my door and said he was going to the hospital. A while later, he came back and said that Mom had died. I don't think I really woke up for either knock---I've heard of ghosts appearing to people at the hour of their death, but it hasn't happened to me.

In some ways, I would say that 16 is a good age for a loss like that. You're ready to cut the ties, at least I was---too, it was my first realization that if you spend enough time watching someone die, even someone you love---or maybe especially someone you love---you get to the point where you're ready for it to be over, and I'd said my good-byes months before, sobbing in the bathroom during her first crisis.

I'd never seen my father weep before, and that freaked me out. The ladies from their church came over, bringing food and mouthing the same phrases, "I'm so sorry." (Useless.) "I know exactly how you feel." (Bullshit.) "I went throught the same thing when my mother/father/goldfish/second cousin twice-removed died." (Yeah, right.) I was trying, for some reason, to organize the linen closet, and yes, my arm was still in a cast, but I didn't *want* any help folding the goddamn sheets. I wanted them all to go away.

That night was the talk at the college. Dad drove me over to get Agnes---her mom helped me pull my hair back into a ponytail, because of my cast---and she was more upsset than I was. She couldn't understand how I could want to go out with my mother dead. What could I say? Going or not going wouldn't bring her back. Fortunately, her mom had a clue, and helped me persuade her. We went.

The only thing I really remember from the talk was GR talking about how they wrote the eps; he had an article about a drug being developed, and talked about how something like that could be fictionalized, even in the 24th century. Naturally I'd remember the writing part! And to this day, the best thing my mom ever gave me was a thesaurus---I mentioned the first day of 9th grade that my writing teacher recommended it, and she had it when I got home from school the next day. I won't say my mom always got where I was coming from, but she always supported my writing.

The funeral was a nightmare; tons of out-of-town guests, all crying, it seemed. The funeral home did a terrible job of making her up---it haunted me for a long time that she didn't look at all like my mom---and Peter thought I was being a brat and was nasty.

It all settled down; everyone went back home and for a while...I don't know if I'd call it normal. Dad and I didn't have Mom as a buffer any more, and I was always fleeing to my room when he started yelling. We got invited to Thanksgiving dinner with some people from church (my first exposure to sweet potato casserole, yuck!), and Peter came down for Christmas.

In the middle of January (1977,if you're keeping score), I went over the handlebars of my bike AGAIN and this time, I broke BOTH bones, greenstick fracture---Dad wouldn't let them operate,so they're still slightly crooked---and I spent the next two and a half months in a cast.

One good thing came out of my orthopedic disaster---I was sitting in the cafeteria, nose in a book, I think---when a red-headed girl came up and asked if she could sign my cast. That's Big Red (as my dad nicknamed her), who is still a very good friend.

When Mom was alive, she'd been stingy about letting me have sleepovers. Dad didn't care. Friday and Saturday? Every weekend? Sure! Usually it was Agnes, and soon it was often it was Red---they didn't get along that well, so it was usually one or the other, but having girlfriends to turn to helped a lot.

.