Eight Days: From Times Square Naked Cowboy to Mark’s Death

This post is inspired by Rosamund Lupton's novel, Afterwards. As a member of www.fromlefttowrite.com, I received a free copy. Lupton weaves a skillful story of a parent's love and criminal mystery in a medical setting. There was no question about the memory this novel provoked for me. 

After the conference dinner, John and I walked back to the Edison Hotel via Times Square. Neither of us had been in New York for a while and it was great fun to just walk among the crowd on a Saturday night. The Naked Cowboy in his tiny tighty-whiteys strummed away and we stopped to buy a t-shirt for Mark. I have no idea what that t-shirt said or whatever became of it.

            When we walked into our hotel room the phone was ringing. Strange, I thought. Everyone calls us on cell phones these days. My niece’s voice sounded anxious from the start. “Bren, Rebecca has been trying to get hold of you all evening. Call her immediately. Mark has had some sort of accident.”

            I didn’t panic right away. I’m a glass-half-full person who thinks every problem has a solution. “Don’t worry. I’ll call Rebecca right now.”

            Rebecca’s voice sounded twice as anxious. She was driving with a friend from Huntsville where she and Mark were in school at Sam Houston State University to a hospital in Houston. A helicopter ambulance overhead was taking Mark.

“They wouldn’t let me ride in the helicopter with him because I’m not related to him! We don’t know anything except he fell off the back of an ATV and hit his head. I was right behind him on another ATV and I thought he was joking when he got up. You know how he can be. Then he got very angry, almost violent and we knew something was wrong. The emergency vehicles came and they decided he needed to be flown to Houston.”

After exhausting all questions and answers I could come up with, Rebecca said through her tears, “I’m so sorry, Bren. I hope he’s going to be okay.”

“Don’t worry, Beck. I’ll get on the phone with the hospital now and stay in touch until they know something.”

Mark and I in 1996.

The next few hours stretched forth as the eternal nightmare no parent ever wants to experience. I finally reached the neurologist who had already done surgery on Mark. He said Mark’s brain was swelling and they did surgery immediately to relieve pressure. He would give me no further prediction of how Mark was or would be and said he would be in touch as they knew more.

Scared but still telling myself, Mark would be fine, I decided to call an old friend who was a neurosurgeon in Lexington. When I got him on the phone and described the situation, he said, “Get a flight and get to Texas as fast as you can. Yes, I would have agreed to the surgery to relieve pressure.”

I made the call thinking he would give me reassurance, now my panic soared. John began working on his cell phone to get me a flight and a taxi to the airport while I returned calls to Rebecca and family to update them. I shook with fear and chills as I dialed each number. John wrapped me in blankets with one hand as he held his phone with the other.

The taxi drive in the middle of the night through strange parts of New York City would have scared me on other nights. Now I had far greater fears. The driver deposited me safely at the airport. I took a sleeping pill on the plane to force myself to get some rest on the flight. The realization had set in that I would need all the strength I could muster.  

I arrived at the Houston airport about the same time as Rebecca’s mother coming in from Lexington. A friend of Mark’s from Sam Houston State picked us both up and delivered us to Memorial Hermann Hospital. I didn’t have a choice of hospitals and would not have known how to choose, but I learned later that Memorial Hermann is one of the nation’s best and the place where Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords will rehabilitate in the coming years. No parent wants or deserves to spend eight days by their child’s side and ultimately lose him but the staff at this hospital made the experience as bearable as they were able.

We scrubbed up to enter the ICU. Only two or three of us could go in at a time. Being very familiar with ICU, I walked in knowing what to expect. And yet. This time my dear Mark was lying there with tubes coming out of every orifice of his body, his head wrapped in bandages and multiple machines attached to him. I swallowed back the hot spit and willed myself not to vomit. I resisted the urge to climb into the bed with him and use every mode of comfort I knew so well from twenty-five years of parenting him.

Others arrived hour by hour. Sims flew in from Oregon, Leah from Philly, college friends drove over from Hunstville, his best friend Patrick Wallace from Kentucky, an elementary school friend and my step-grandson who both lived near Houston. My sisters Ashley and Margaret, Rebecca’s sister Hunter Quinn. And, of course, my dear husband.

John had flown back to Lexington, performed necessary duties with work and house and got to Houston as soon as he could. We had just married in January, this was April. From the moment the phone call came in New York until this day, John has been my tower of strength. Who thinks they’re signing up for death and grief and catastrophic change in their wife three months after they say, “I do?”

So a “crowd of witnesses” had gathered in Houston. By Monday, the neurosurgeon gathered everyone present around a big conference table outside of ICU. The surreal atmosphere hung heavy around us. The people around that table loved Mark unquestioningly. But as the doctor asked and then listened to each person weigh in about Mark’s life and death, I fought the urge to scream, “No! No! Nobody gets to decide about Mark’s quality of life and pulling some plug except ME! I gave him birth! He is bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh! Stop it!”

Some shred of humanity or pastoral identity choked those words back. I knew the doctor was allowing everyone to have their say for multiple reasons—I suppose most compassionately to aid in the grief that was ahead of each one of us. Still, I wanted to cling to my baby boy with every scrap of maternal instinct in my being—primal ferocity.

The beeps and blips of the machines attached to Mark became familiar to us. His heart pumped on—young, healthy. His brain activity declined. By Wednesday, my intuition knew the boy I gave birth to was gone. Mark was so identified with his intellect. He once told me the curse of being smart was that “no matter what I become, I cannot exceed anyone’s expectations. If I’m president, my elementary school teachers will say, ‘I’m not surprised. I knew Mark would be something great.’” All that potential gone—forever.

Still, there was my son’s body—a big, beautiful, healthy body. We could not layer waste upon waste by burying his healthy organs with him. I wanted every usable piece of his body redeemed, reused, giving life in someone else’s body. Thus began days with hospital ethicists, doctors, chaplains and social workers. In order to donate Mark’s organs, he had to be brought out of the induced coma to verify brain death. I was scared. What would that mean? Would he feel anything? Would he know anything? My gut stayed tense for days as we each took turns standing by his side, talking with him, touching him, reminding him of stories and place and people we had shared. I couldn’t help but wonder if bringing him out of the induced coma would reveal changes. Could he possibly surprise the doctors? Was there an ounce of hope? So many questions, such medical answers but this was not their next patient, this was my Mark!

Thursday, Friday and Saturday, we continued to take our turns standing by Mark’s bed saying our good-byes—long, surreal, mind-numbing, gut-wrenching good-byes. We stared at the brain monitor—numbers that determined when they could declare the end of my baby’s life. Numbers! Leah and I were the only two in the unit at one point and we both used that moment to sing to Mark the songs we each sang to him as an infant and toddler. Each person’s grief and loss seemed to bury me under another layer. How can anybody, even me, go on with the weight of this grief?

John’s resourcefulness never takes a vacation. He got the idea and cautiously presented it to me that we might want to save some of Mark’s sperm.

“You never know what the future will present, Bren. Will Sims need to use that sperm? Will Rebecca one day want to have Mark’s baby? You never know.”

            The cruel twist is that John knew the pain of multiple miscarriages from his previous marriage and I was too numb to have ever thought of this step. The hospital officially said, “No, we do not perform that service.” John was tenacious. He found a urology intern who was willing to harvest the sperm; John found a sperm bank listed in a free local paper and the potential for future grandbabies toddled off to the bank. In 2006, after the birth of Sims’ son, Tristan, and Rebecca’s marriage to another, we made the decision to discard the sperm. I have never regretted that we saved that piece of Mark for four years.

            Even the cremation plans were complicated. The medical examiner asked John, “Do you mind if your loved one is cremated by an African-American crematory?”

            “Of course not,” John responded.

            “Well, then, it will be a couple of thousand dollars cheaper.”

            Would customer service in a white-owned funeral home have asked if we minded if our son was cremated by white people? Another hidden injustice in our society.

Sunday morning arrived and John and I were in a car with some folks who were taking us to church. Who were those people? What church were we going to? How did this come about? I suppose I knew then, but my memory fails me as I try to reconstruct. The eight days had taken a toll and I began to move robotically through the days. As we drove through the streets of Houston, my cell phone rang. The hospital. “Mark’s brain activity has declined, please come now.”

Saying that last good-bye with Mark’s heart still beating haunts me. The number by which experts make such calls about life and death mean nothing to a mother walking away from her son’s beating heart. As we walked out of ICU for the last time, Sims and I turned to each other and grabbed hold. The agony on Sims’ face etched itself into my brain. Mark, the younger brother, had become the older brother in recent years. Now Sims would live the rest of his life without those phone calls, without the UK basketball trash talk to each other, without sharing wives, children and Christmases to come. The grieving began a new stage.

    We returned to Lexington and started plans for Mark’s service. I’m doing the tasks. I’m walking, talking and sometimes sleeping, but feel strangely numb and removed.

Then my son arrived in a box one day. Just like Amazon or Overstock.com, a package came in the mail. I signed for it; accepted it into my hands and stood there unknowing. What is the next step when I’m standing there holding my son in a box?

Inspired by Saturday Night Widows by Becky Aikman

Upon receiving the next book chosen for www.fromlefttowrite.com, I was pleased to see it was a memoir about being a widow. Of course, having been a widow, I assumed my post inspired by this book would be about widowhood. Not so. Becky Aikman's memoir is as much about female friendships as about widowhood. At one point I considered naming my memoir, Girlfriends Get You Through Life—not a great title but a Truth for me. I have constructed my personal group of girlfriends whose friendships consisted of strong building materials that withstand the tsunamis and hurricanes of life.

We named ourselves Kindred Spirits. Even as their pastor, I expected little beyond meeting once a month, studying spiritual material and sharing thoughts about our faith experiences. Oh, ye, of low expectations. In the following thirteen years, we fed each other’s souls and met routinely. We didn’t need to know of well-recognized research on conversation with sisters making for a happier life and we didn’t need for the sisters to be biological. We lived it out.

From the beginning we combined intense spiritual work and serious fun. One of our first outings together, we dressed up—it is an understatement to say there isn’t one unattractive woman in this group—and headed to Keeneland Race Track in Lexington, KY, for a day of racing. Seated in a box, we were having great fun when one of the guys in the box next to us couldn’t resist asking, “What kind of group are you all?”

Mary replied, “We are a spiritual life group from our church.”

His eyes grew wider, and just as I pulled my shoulders back to take my jacket off (Let’s just say I am amply endowed.), Mary responded, “And this is our pastor.”

He couldn’t get the question out of his mouth fast enough, “What kind of church is that?”

Rosemary being the comic and wit in our midst didn’t miss a beat in replying “The Church of What’s Happenin’ Now.”

We collapsed in laughter.

Three biological sisters, Rhonda, Lisa and Martha, predisposed the circle toward blood-like commitment. Rosemary, a Maryland transplant, sought a local substitute for her own remote family. And Mary’s years of broken relationships steeled her determination to “keep it real.”

We hailed from four different decades, thirties to sixties. Age mattered not. Perhaps, we would not have chosen each other as friends had we met under other circumstances. Life tossed out experiences that could have bonded us to each other or driven us apart. Four graduations, six marriages, two babies, one divorce, one separation and more deaths than any small band should have had to bear. We’ve talked through romantic relationship breakups too numerous to count and tended each other through more surgeries than we care to admit—the flotsam and jetsam of six lives over thirteen years inextricably wove us together. Our raucous laughter caused on-lookers to ask, “What can possibly be that funny?” Perhaps they missed Rosemary’s suggestion we raise money for the church by doing a calendar of me, their pastor, draped over her husband’s antique Corvette. Rose, alone could have kept us laughing the past thirteen years. Tears and sorrows necessitated communal distribution; their weight too much to be borne alone.

When we first formed, Mary, a many-years-sober alcoholic, red headed, tri-athlete influenced us to select for our first study material, The Twelve Steps: A Spiritual Journey a book modeled on AA’s Twelve Steps (RPI Publishing, Inc. 1988). This nitty-gritty guide demanded we dig deep and share courageously every month when we gathered. So we did. We started by telling our life stories with truth and trust. I recommended this step for any group who decided to share a spiritual voyage and hold themselves accountable to each other.

What has made these friendships work? Trust, accountability and a fierce commitment of time. Teaching each other to live authentically required all three and more.

“Have you opened that bank account in your own name like you promised? Why not?”

“That’s not your problem; give it back to your husband, it belongs to him.”

“What are you doing to care for your health this month? Chocolate doesn’t count.”

“Are you pushing yourself too hard at work? If so, why?”

“Is this guy you’re dating enriching your life or an avoidance of something else?”

“Didn’t we commit to a full day of retreat? Why are you saying you need to go back to work? Home? Shopping? Are all calendars clear for the third full week in July next summer?”

Here’s a mini-list of what this flock has given me: Mary has taught me every day how to deal with alcoholics in my past, present and future. Rhonda has modeled a stunning example of steadfastness and introversion, absent in my own life. Lisa has shared her love of style and even shopped for the shoes to match the yellow silk suit I wore to my son’s funeral. Rosemary physically held me upright the day I resigned as their pastor after my son’s death. And Martha introduced me to my soul-mate and husband, John.

These women have been kind enough over the years to tell me what I have given to them. The list included the ridiculous and the sublime. Rhonda pointed out I taught her and her sisters not to wear horizontal stripes because they are blessed with broad shoulders. She also maintained I gave her permission to question all things sacred so as to deepen her spirituality. Passing along what we as pastors learn in life is as important as passing along what we learn in seminary. These Kindred Spirits confirmed this concept for me.

Martha, the youngest of our group, has shared in these thirteen years her graduation from college, marriage and birth of her children. She has grown from a college girl into a multi-tasking business professional, wife and mother. She shared with me at one point “You are a mentor and guide for all areas of my life. Period. You model living freely as your true self, with no apologies, unlike any person I have ever met. You nurture my spiritual life and build my self-esteem as a strong, independent woman. You offer unconditional love and compassion in the twinkle of your eye and with reassurance as if you are mother of all women.”

Rosemary, the artist among us, reminded me I gave her a book about using the visual arts in worship which freed her to worship in a way that reached her soul as nothing else had. She delighted in reminding me I gave her permission to be an imperfect Christian and not beat up on herself about sin. Her sleepless nights as a teen and young adult were spent worrying she would burn in hell for sins she has since learned have nothing to do with God’s love for her and are probably not worthy of the word sin.     

The Kindred Spirits taught me to accept my role as leader even when not leading. I experienced in this group the difference between being wise and being right. I told my biological sisters what to do and assumed I was right. In ministry, I learned I could have all the answers for others but a wise leader allows them to come to their own truths on their own time.

Girlfriends in community give and receive. As I struggled in relationships with my biological sisters, these women helped me see I was a leader and could lead without imposing my will on others. I could be wrong and still share wisdom. The diversity in this group reminded me of the richness which comes from being friends with people who have walked very different journeys—economically, socially, educationally. Two of us have Master degrees, one has a high school education. Our salaries in range from minimum wage to six figures annually. Our differences which became our strength taught me to be myself and I would not feel isolated or responsible, I would just be me.

I give thanks for the difference all girlfriends have made in my life. I know this much is true—when I die, my list of honorary pallbearers will be the girlfriends who have carried me in life. In addition to the Kindred Spirits, there will be Linda, Rachel, Wendy, Vonda, Boog and Laura.

Response to The Expats an excerpt from Sweet Lonesome Journey

This post was inspired by mystery thriller novel The Expats by Chris Pavone. Kate Moore sheds happily sheds her old life become a stay at home mom when her husband takes a job in Europe. As she attempts to reinvent herself, she ends up chasing her evasive husband's secrets. Join From Left to Write on January 22 as we discuss The Expats As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

The following post is an excerpt from my upcoming memoir, working title--Sweet Lonesome Journey to be published in 2013.

My precious Mark and Sims, ages ten and thirteen, walked me down the aisle of a packed Central Baptist Church to start the wedding of my dreams and the marriage of my nightmares. Moisture filled eyes followed us to the altar. Everyone celebrated I had found a young, good-looking professional man because they also had watched and prayed as I lost Bart to cancer. I irrationally thought two and one half years amounted to enough time for my grief—which verifies out how grief cripples your judgment.

The gorgeous wedding ended and the marriage began. I accept full responsibility for this huge marital mistake. However, I do wish to note for the record, no family members and only one friend voiced misgivings about this match. Even my therapist later apologized he had not noted the signs of –what? Mental disorder? Dysfunctionality? Woundedness? All of the above? And that’s the part related to Dan. My part in this colossal mistake? I underestimated the psychological healing I had yet to do. At this point, I remained clueless concerning damage I still carried from childhood wounds. I didn’t know the work that still lay ahead of me. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

Shortly before the wedding, my groom-to-be commented, “Your friends seem to think of you as being very sexy. I’m not comfortable with that.”

“No kidding.” I replied. “Did you think you were the only one on the planet who had noticed?”

The warning gong should have clanged with concern over his unhealthy attitude about sex, relationships and more, instead, his thinking ticked me off. This constituted the beginning of my daily urge to say to him, “Do you have applesauce for brains?”

On the honeymoon when he brought up issues he had not mentioned in a year and half of dating—all issues related to his need to control me, such as what I wore, where I could go and who I could be friends with, my stomach knotted in fear. My expression in all the honeymoon pictures looks like I’m gritting my teeth. I was. He assured me he just found it “necessary to rake back the glitter” when confronted with someone who shimmered like Brenda. I replied, “You’re doing the job with a god damn backhoe, not a rake.”

I repeat—I offer no excuse for my part in this gigantic mistake. Devastated by Bart’s death and desperate for emotional security, I thought I found a good man. A college professor who attended church, had two sons of his own, Dan shared many of my values and desired the kind of home life I wanted for my boys. His issues with sexuality and obsessive, irrational thinking escalated from the honeymoon until the day our divorce finalized. I learned an important lesson about myself from this marriage: I had very low tolerance for someone who needed to control me in order to feel safe himself. Circumstances necessitated I become my own authority at an early age, he didn’t stand of chance of controlling me in my forties. I also learned I didn’t have enough relationship skills to bridge the psychological divide between Dan’s dysfunction and my own.

Grief Comes Calling--Again

During the fifth month of her pregnancy of her first child Natalie Taylor is devastated by the sudden death of her husband. Her journey with grief is chronicled in the memoir Signs of Life. Join From Left to Write on March 29 as we discuss Signs of Life by Natalie Taylor. As a member of From Left to Write, I received a copy of the book. All opinions are my own.

Robert Mark “Bart” Bartella

He may not have played it exactly as written,

but there was indescribable charm in his interpretation.

Paganini quote used for Bart’s funeral cards

I met Bart the summer I worked as a cocktail waitress at the Firebird Lounge in the Phoenix Hotel, downtown Lexington, Kentucky. I needed income during the summer when I didn’t teach so a friend suggested that I make an audition tape for an on-air position at WVLK radio station which crowned the top of the Phoenix Hotel. In 1972, with women’s voices uncommon on the radio, the station staff said my voice sounded too high. One of the radio staff knew the cocktail lounge on the ground floor needed a waitress and suggested I apply there.

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “I’m Baptist. I’ve only tasted liquor two times and don’t know any drinks except the beer and whiskey the alcoholics in my family drink.”

The manager of the Lounge, a woman, replied, “I don’t care; you have great legs.”

The first week I worked, Bart came in with his ex-wife as his date. He ordered Drambuie, an after-dinner liqueur. I asked him to say it three times and spell it before I knew what to request from Joe Lewis, the bartender.

Bart scrambled to ask, “Are you married?”

“Yes.” I replied.

He inserted, “But not happily.”

Still married to Dennis, I had not yet given birth to Denny and thought I had a good marriage. Bart proceeded to chase me around three Kentucky counties for the next three years before mine and Dennis’ marriage deteriorated and we divorced. During the summer I worked at the Phoenix Hotel, Dennis also grew acquainted with Bart. Bart arranged for athletic tickets for us, advised us about our first home mortgage and they knew each other in a distant way. When Dennis and I separated and I moved to Lexington, Dennis called Bart and said, “Brenda is moving to Lexington and doesn’t know anyone there. Would you look in on her?”

Bart, more than pleased to fulfill that request, “looked in on me” more than Dennis had intended. He was thirty-two years older than I. Yes, you read that correctly. He had two daughters, one two-and-a half years younger than I and the other two-and-a half years older. I told him from the beginning that I would see him socially that summer while Dennis and I were in divorce proceedings but that I could not get serious about anyone and I would date other men before I would consider marriage again.

We saw a lot of each other that summer. Bart wined and dined me at Lexington’s finest restaurants. We spent long weekend afternoons at the pool in his apartment complex and met each other’s families. While my eyes opened to the vision of dating an older man, they also opened to a new vision of myself as seen through this man’s eyes. I knew that Dennis and his family viewed me as part and parcel of a poor dysfunctional family. This new mature man saw me only as an individual. My family didn’t seem to be clinging to me in his vision.

Finally, the clanging cymbal of love rang for me. Finally, I got it why movies and books and songs got written about this thing called love. Love happened to me. I had no idea the power of this love. In those early years, I didn’t know love would enable us to make love with a colostomy bag in between our bodies and cry together afterwards. I didn’t know love would enable me to pack a surgical wound that went six inches into Bart’s body. I didn’t know his love for me would mean he agreed to have another child when he was sixty-two years old. I learned that love for us meant all these and so much more.

I exacted a promise from Bart before we married that we would at least discuss having another child when Denny turned three years old. When Bart was sixty two years old our Mark, his first son, arrived. Their relationship played like a symphony which required only two musicians. Bart also decided to legally adopt Denny because he wanted Denny to feel loved by him and be a Bartella.

Ten very happy, fulfilling years followed before Bart died of lung cancer in 1985. He said we had a “one issue marriage.”

The two-shaded blue stretchy knit bathrobes clothed our little family of four for more years than I had imagined when I made one for each of us. Bart supported my sewing projects because he thought it occupied my days and assuaged my desire to go back to work. My Bernina sewing machine, the best on the market, challenged me enough to buy him one more year of a stay-at-home wife and mother. Then I gave him the ultimatum of law school or another child. He chose to have another child, a wise decision. We were three years in to this stay-at-home career path at this time.

The Stretch and Sew store in the Landsdowne Shoppes taught technique for new knits. Matching bathrobes smacked of cutesy to Bart’s no-nonsense mind, but he wore his more and longer than any of the rest of us.

For better or worse, too many of the memoires in that bathrobe mix in my brain with the sound of the ice in his glass followed by the stream of rum and coke. He awakened around five a.m. every morning and many Saturdays and Sundays, he sat there in his big orange recliner wearing that bath robe and well on his way to drunkenness by time I awakened around eight or nine.

The crashing realization that I loved this man as I had loved no one in my life sloshed around in my heart with the cruel irony that he was an alcoholic. Dressing the family up in matching bathrobes doesn’t cure alcoholism.

With the gift of maturity and Al-Anon, I accept and acknowledge how I enabled Bart’s alcoholism. In the beginning, I denied it as alcoholism. The drunks I knew didn’t dress in coat and tie and go to work every day as successful executives. By the time I knew in my bones he was an alcoholic, I loved him and thought my love would make the difference in his drinking. Foolish love. When he bought rum by the case, I meticulously loosened the state seal, poured out a third to a half and refilled it with water. I deluded myself that I had made the difference when “the issue” went away the last two years of his life. A more accurate explanation--the change occurred because he knew when he retired that he had to either quit drinking or die. Sadly, he did both.

It doesn’t take a Ph.D. in psychiatry to diagnose my marriage to someone three decades older had something to do with the “daddy crater.” But that explanation presents a shallow interpretation of this deep and rich relationship. Some folks said Bart served as my Svengali. He said, “I just provided a stable marriage and home life so you could blossom as you desired.” After his retirement, he joked that people in our home town began to know him as Mr. Brenda Bartella. Other folks called me his “Trophy Wife,” a summation accurate only in the sense that I was the young, attractive and glamorously dressed woman on his arm. Marriage to Bart offered me options I had not considered as roles for me—glamour girl, volunteer, civic leader.

Oh, the trophy wife moments happened—like that fabulous strapless shirred white evening gown which he called “the Rita Hayworth gown that stopped the gaming tables in the Monaco casino.” On vacation in Monaco, we decided to walk through the gambling casino before dinner. Because of the celebrity culture of Monaco such a distinguished older man and attractive much younger woman could only mean—they must be someone famous. As we walked around the perimeter of the room, the gamblers stopped their games and stared at us as if we were the newest People Magazine cover. In moments like Monaco, I pinched myself and asked, “Am I still Brenda Sims, the poor white trash girl from the projects?” The answer to that question even after marriage to Bart remained, “Yes, I am Brenda Sims and I have grown into a sophisticated young woman who still has a good deal of growing to do in spite of a white gown and a trip to Monaco.”

To finish with the speculations on the character of our marriage, my family joked that Bart thought he chose a glamorous sex object and got a Baptist Sunday School teacher instead. He didn’t get one or the other, he got both. The jokes and theories created part of the fun because our marriage rested on solid knowledge of each other. We enjoyed music, sports, books, movies, travel and shared parenthood. Since Bart had peaked in his career, he gave himself permission to enjoy these experiences in a way that he didn’t allow with his earlier marriage and his older children. Grateful for a second act, he made the most of it.

I do not underestimate the financial impact of this marriage on my life. It moved my standard of living from struggling lower middle class life to secure upper middle class. I remember the first time I thought, “I don’t have to parcel out the strawberries because there are enough for all of us to eat as many as we like.” I remember when Bart directed me, “Buy diapers in large quantities when they go on sale.” I had never had enough money to buy more than the quantity necessary short term. Upon seeing an advertisement in the paper that a scissors expert would be demonstrating at McAlpin’s Department Store, Bart suggested I run over there to buy several different kinds for our household use. What? Specialized scissors? I seemed the height of luxury to this girl from the projects.

Bart provided a lovely 5000 square foot home, swimming pool, constant travel and even after his death, paid for my two Masters degrees, Mark’s undergraduate degree and Denny’s long and winding road through education. Bart, of course, had a comment about this financial impact too, “I know Brenda could walk out of this marriage any day of the week and make it on her own in fine style.” The glue of this marriage of broken persons was love.

When I insisted on a pre-nuptial agreement for the marriage that followed Bart’s death, my attorney tried to dissuade me. “Brenda, you are not a wealthy woman.” He had no idea how vast that inheritance appeared to little Brenda Sims.

The repercussions of losing Bart in 1985 rippled forth in my life. I suppose I lacked awareness myself of the ways in which I could not let go of him. Ten years after his death, a new seminary friend commented, “Since knowing you, I also feel like Bart is just away on a business trip and will be back soon.” The mirror she held up for me reflected that I communicated a relationship with Bart that existed only in my heart and mind. I also endured nightmares in which Bart still lived but had moved on to another house, wife and family. Stating the obvious, I had deep-seated fears that all men would leave like my Dad.

In 2001, after meeting John, my last and current husband, I saw an advertisement on TV for a new film about a great love story. I thought, “Oh my god, I’m being reminded of great love and for the first time in sixteen years I don’t wish for Bart to still be alive!”

RIP Clarence W. Sims AKA The Raggedy Ass Son-of-a-Bitch

Photo by John Lynner Peterson

I have written about my Dad in this space before—like the section on Dad from my memoir here:

And this post about my last visit with him.

Last visit with Dad

 The last few years have been a healing experience for me with Dad. After admitting I love him, I accepted that I would never get what I needed from him as a father. This acceptance permitted me to enjoy him as a human being. He was a one-of-a-kind character.

Dad declined rapidly in the last few months. My half-brothers and I began to talk about his death, burial and funeral service. I knew officiating at the service would be something I could contribute that others couldn’t. I knew the service shouldn’t be in a church and shouldn’t be religious. A one-size-fits-all service by a clergy person who didn’t know him, sounded disgusting. I had to do it. Could I?

I got the call that Dad was gone at 8:30 Monday morning. I started thinking. I determined I would not make comments about Dad that were untrue. I could find lots of positive qualities and decided I would make jokes about his shortcomings. And, once again, my friend Don Lichtenfelt came through with poignant quotes, poems and connective material.

Oh, Facebook also provided some fodder. Dad’s favorite tavern, Leroy’s posted on their page a tribute to him that stated he sat on the corner barstool, ordered a cheeseburger with onion and a 7 and 7. They closed with “RIP Shoestring.” I knew his eulogy had to be delivered from a barstool.

We left for Evansville, IN on Wednesday morning. The visitation started at 4 pm with a service at 6:30. People started arriving. As I stood at the far end of the room, a woman through the door at the other end.

“Who is that?” I asked my half-brother Greg, “She looks a lot like me.”

“It’s Carol Sue.”

One of the Sibs

Oh my, Carol Sue is my father’s first child from his first marriage, eight other marriages followed. I scarcely knew her as a child but remembered she danced as a go-go girl at a bar in downtown Evansville in the Sixties. She’s 71 now.

And that was the beginning of the funeral experience. More to come.

Books that Changed my Life: Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway by Susan Jeffers

Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway is the practical person’s guide to programming your mind to get what you want, live the way you want to live and help others do the same. Whether you fear is being alone, intimacy, public speaking, making decisions or fear of dogs, Dr. Jeffers' book will walk you through a common sense re-training of your mind to move you beyond your fear.

Jeffers maintains that at the bottom of every fear is simply the fear that you won’t be able to handle whatever life sends you way. So she asks, “If you knew you could handle anything that came your way, what would you possible have to fear?” The answer is NOTHING!

Then she offers these Five Truths about fear:

1. The fear will never go away as long as I continue to grow.

2. The only way to get rid of the fear of doing something is to go out ---and do it.

3. The only way to feel better about myself is to go out and do it.

4. Not only am I going to experience fear whenever I’m on unfamiliar territory, but so is everyone else.

5. Pushing through fear is less frightening than living with the underlying fear that comes from a feeling of helplessness.

If you activated only the principles found in this blog post, Jeffers approach to curing your fears could change your life. I have used this approach to living life for many years now. I thought my son Mark’s death—the nadir of my life—provided something no amount of mind control could see me through. I feared that I was incapable of moving forward in the face of that monstrous grief---I was wrong. Giving up or giving in to the fear of grief would have been a disservice to Mark’s life and to me. So I felt the fear and lived through it anyway.

What do you fear that you need to conquer?