The Red Suitcase

My parents were a mystery to me when I was an adolescent. At a time that I was beginning to experiment with drugs and sex, apparently my mom and dad were too.

It was 1975, and my parents were in their early 50’s.

One afternoon, my pal Dennis and I snuck into my parent’s bedroom while they were out. There was good reason for this stealth mission---they had recently redecorated it with a mirrored tile ceiling, a white faux fur bedspread, black and white Grecian wallpaper, and black lacquer furniture. This love shack of a bedroom conjured up images real and imagined, almost too much for a 13-year-old girl to grasp.

As if the wonder of their bedroom wasn’t enough titillation, the actual “holy grail” that we were after had been shining like a beacon before me for weeks. I had seen the red suitcase in their closet, and I couldn’t understand what it was doing in there. No one was planning to take a trip, and the rest of the luggage was neatly tucked away in the basement.

There had to be something explosive in that suitcase. My parents had started down a strange and lusty path of pot smoking, ménage a trois’s, and hysterical fighting. I had witnessed much of this from my vantage point of the bedroom next door. I never got a visual of any of this, but I had heard them in their room with one of my mom’s friends, and I had smelled the pot, and had heard my mother urging my aunt to try it one night when they were over for dinner.

I was sure that the red suitcase contained something forbidden, and possibly shocking.

I opened the sliding closet door, and grabbed hold of my prize. Dennis was standing beside me, urging me to hurry. I placed it on the bed, held my breath, and opened the latches.

First we gasped, then we laughed, then we began rifling through the contents. There were battery-operated vibrators, a few dildos and a huge strap-on, that Dennis proceeded to insert one of the vibrators into, extracting some leftover bodily fluid that “grossed” us both out.

There was that lid of marijuana that I was sure that I had smelled, and a copy of “San Francisco Screw” magazine---the centerfold being a blown-up photo of a vagina; an image that I can still picture vividly in my mind as if it were yesterday.

After about 10 minutes, all of our curiosity spent, I closed the suitcase and placed it back in the closet exactly where I had found it. I think that I may have lifted some of the pot from that notorious lid as a consolation prize. I figured that they would never know, and even if they did suspect, they would never be able to admit that it existed in the first place.

I was angry and outraged, but I just laughed it off, told my friends about it, and internalized all of my fears about who my parents were, and who they were becoming. They were unrecognizable to me, and there were times that I hated them.

Yes, the red suitcase was symbolic of a bigger picture for me, and my experience of my parents. I saw them as betrayers and abandoners. I accused them of being selfish and neglectful. I may have even accused them of not loving me. It was impossible for me to see or fully grasp how their own lives were changing, even unraveling. I was a complete little narcissist, like every other adolescent on the planet. My parent’s existed for me, and the very idea that they had their own problems, needs, and desires, were not a part of my paradigm.

Today I can look back at my parents in 1975 and see them through a different prism. Through all of the drama and change, the passion and the folly, the shocking and bizarre, I can forgive and accept them as having been human---just people struggling through their own lives. It’s really not that hard to figure.

You see, I have my own red suitcase.

Facing death

You rarely work on a Saturday, but sometimes you prefer it. Most of the administration, office staff and doctors aren’t there on the weekends, and it feels more relaxed and casual. You won’t have to compete with the doctor for a look at the chart, and the physical therapy department is closed. You figure that you’ll find most of your patients either in bed or in a wheelchair in their room.

As is your routine, you grab the charts of new patients from the nursing station, and begin flipping through the pages, making special note of the person’s age, sex and diagnoses. If there are patients with dementia, you put those charts aside. They will most likely require a phone call to the family so that you can get accurate information. As a social worker, you usually conduct a long psychosocial interview, and assist families and patients with discharge planning when needed.

One new admission catches your eye today. You’re always intrigued when there’s a relatively young patient. He’s 50, and you immediately wonder why he’s here. Stroke? Cancer? Infection? You turn to the History and Physical sent by the hospital. There should be some answers there. Yes, the H & P tells a part of the story. He is here because of an spinal abcsess. He had been admitted into the acute hospital because the neglected infection had gotten so bad that he could no longer walk. You also note that he has a long-standing heroin addiction. He was transferred to the nursing home yesterday to start a course of IV antibiotics.

Before you go into his room, you start talking to his nurse. You had noticed that there was a sign outside of his door that read “please see the nursing staff before entering this room” You figure that he has a staph infection, which is contagious, but want to be certain before going in. You take particular note when she says that he is HIV positive, and also has hepatitis C, and possibly B. You figure that this is most likely the result of shared needles. You begin to feel apprehensive about meeting this patient, so you mentally steel yourself before you go in. Heroin addict, HIV, hepatitis; you’re not sure who you’re dealing with here.

When you enter his room, you immediately notice how thin and pale he is, but you see that he had been a nice looking guy. In fact, his face still bares a boyish quality that you find appealing. His teeth look as though they have suffered obvious neglect, his hairline is receding, but his eyes are blue, clear and engaged. As you briefly scan his body, you notice tattoos that run the length of both of his arms. They are inelegant, almost ghoulish looking tattoos, and you wonder about their origin.

You sit down next to his bed and introduce yourself as his social worker, and begin with the usual questions—are you married, do you have children, are you close to them? He tells you in a soft-spoken voice that he married when he was a teenager—and that he is still with the same woman, and that they have 1 daughter, and a grandchild. This surprises you; you had assumed that with his history that he was either single or divorced. 32 years of marriage is impressive. He tells you that he is devoted to his wife---that she has been the glue in their marriage.

He begins to tell you about how he had 4 siblings, but that they had all passed away. Inside you cringe a little. How could he have lost all 4 of his brothers and sisters? Then he proceeds to tell you that his youngest brother had died just a few months ago. He weeps as he tells you about his brothers paranoid schizophrenia, his lack of social skills, and how when he was dying at the hospital he kept calling “mama, mama.” “Do you want to go be with mama?” he asked his dying brother. “Yes, yes” he answered in a small and desperate voice. You feel yourself welling up with tears as well, and you tell him that you lost a brother too. You see that he cares about his family, and he feels a great sense of loss that you immediately connect with. You scoot your chair closer to the bed. You want him to feel your concern; that you’re with him in that moment of despair.

You continue with more questions about his education and work history. He hadn’t graduated high school, and his work history was sketchy. He then admits that he had spent about 13 years in prison. “San Quentin?” you ask him. “Yeah”, he utters without hesitation. He tells you that he had hurt someone pretty badly. You have to ask the question, but are afraid of the answer. “Did you?” You can’t finish the question. “Yeah”, he answers flatly. He knows exactly what you are asking. He had murdered someone. You are repulsed and fascinated at the same time. You quickly run through the possibilities in your mind. Had he used a gun, a knife, or his bare hands? You have never knowingly met someone who has committed murder. You are 2 feet from his bed, and you suddenly wonder if you are in any kind of danger. You think better of it. He can’t walk—he is completely trapped in that hospital bed.

He goes on to explain that he used to beat people up when they owed money. You figure that he had been a drug dealer, but don’t bother asking that question. You have already learned more that you had initially bargained for. You have met a lot of people with varied personal histories in your work, but this was extraordinary. You only read about murderers in the newspaper, or hear about them on the nightly news.

You feel conflicted. He had just wept over his brother’s agonizing life and death, and you felt his sorrow. He had opened up and reached out to you, and now you feel like backing away from him. You’re seeing him through a different prism. In fact, you rise from your chair, holding his chart in front of you as if it would shield his reality from touching you.

You feel in control of the situation, and have successfully hidden your reaction to his revelation. You are in a position of authority, but you begin using words like “dude” and “man”. You slip into this persona easily---you think that if he believes that you’re “cool” and street-wise, that he will trust you. It makes you feel less vulnerable, and protects you from your own sense of disgust and horror over what he had done.

He tells you that when he was released from prison, he contacted the wife of the guy whose life he had taken. He asked her to forgive him, and he said that she did. He tells you that this wife said that he “probably deserved it”. You have a gut reaction to this, and wonder what kind of woman she must be. You wonder if you could forgive someone who had intentionally killed your husband. You doubt it.

He says that he lives with what he did every day, and that if he could take it back, he would. You feel skeptical. You’ve always wondered what kind of person could choose to take someone else’s life. It just doesn’t jive with your moral compass. He said that he “knew” that he was going to do it, that he “had” to do it, and you are filled with disbelief. Had to? Knew?

It’s emotionally incomprehensible to you, and suddenly you feel glad for having been raised in a small town with working class parents who instilled in you a sense of right and wrong. You’re relieved that you’re not the kind of woman who thought that her husband deserved to be murdered. You’re overcome by how lucky you are, when compared to that damaged soul lying in the bed in front of you.

Perhaps it’s his “karma” you muse, the fact that he is laying in that bed, helpless, full of infection and regrets. He’s vulnerable now. He is being murdered at his own hand---his past choices being the weapon that he wields.

Still, you think about how he had wept over the death of his brother. His grief was palpable---not merely for show. Through all of the deadly choices that he has made, he feels pain, loss, and even fear, and you can't deny that, or run away from it.

You return to his room a few days later and pull up a chair next to his bed. You extend your hand, and plainly ask “how are you feeling?”

He tilts his head slightly, perhaps surprised by your return, and replies, “You came back.”

A usual morning

This morning the usual grind
dogs grunting at 5:45, wet noses bumping my cheek
get up, mama, get up!
The sun is up!

Husband snoring, or pretending
it's your turn, not mine you think
but you steel yourself and rise
to the occasion

Stumbling down the stairs
steaming milk
6 dogs peeing in the dawn
a race to the back door
nearly knocked over
I curse "stupid dog"
a tear into the kitchen
6 noses buried in metal bowls
crunching
inhaling
belching

Back to my latte
back outside for round two
6 dogs have to pooh
Ugh
Why do I live this way?

The apple tree is the big attraction
all Spring and early Summer
Crunch, crunch, crunch
These apples are small
and must be bitter
crunch, crunch, crunch
they love them
and mourn when all are eaten from the tree
another year to wait

Bleary eyed scooping
nature always calls
after breakfast at 6 AM

Lighting another American Spirit
all dogs sate for the moment
back to my latte
on the beautiful balcony
in a bedroom that smells like sex
and dog butts
and cigarette butts
since I sometimes smoke in the bedroom late at night
like lastnight with my glass of Italian white wine

On the balcony
I order my day
while husband rushes off
muttering about feeling tired
one more day until a weeks respite from work

First the shower, a wake up call
as hot as most people can tolerate
hair wet, pulled back
pulling on gym pants, bra top
it's the treadmill today

Stalling for awhile
the newspaper, my latte
another cigarette
in the garage
after my peanut butter and toast
breakfast of champions

6 dogs wandering about
following me
hoping for another
bitter green apple

Flipping the switch
to the on position
I mount my motorized steed
and sweat more at 47 than I ever did
in my youth

6 dogs watching
stopping in to check my progress
won't she ever be finished
they waggle
and wait for another
bitter green apple
I'm a sucker for wagging tails
and wet noses
and big Golden grins

B-24

Speaking of World War II heros, here is aa awesome photo that belonged to my father. I'm trying to research where this was taken. My dad is in the first row.

Another B17 photo

Another photo from our Memorial Day ride

A ride of a life time

Every year during Memorial Day weekend, there is a steady stream of activity in the skies over my house. One by one, they pass by. First, the B-17, and we cheer and applaud with excitement. We’re awestruck as this lumbering ghost ship passes overhead. We can see the turret where a veteran of WWII operated a machine gun, blasting the enemy buzzing past. Next comes the B-24, then the B-25. We hoot and holler, jumping up and down as though the pilots and passengers can see and hear us as they pass by.

After several years of watching this spectacle, we decided to take a ride ourselves, so we drove out to the local municipal airport, and boarded that B-17 for the ride of our lives, There were 8 other passengers and 2 pilots. Everyone looked thrilled about this once in a lifetime experience.

It was 9:00AM. There were excited faces, some young, some old, some veterans, and some are daughters. On the tarmac, I see a living legacy of our veterans. There’s the B-17, a B-24 and 25, and there’s a P-51, all used in active duty during WWII. There is a sense of great pride among those gathered here on this Memorial Day.

We board the B-17. It smells like machinery and grease. The seats are on the floor. You sit on a cushion, and the seat belt is attached to the floor of the plane. I wonder what good this could possibly do you. On either side there are 2 windows with machine guns sticking out of the plexi-glass. My husband takes a photo of me with my arms wrapped around one of them. I’m playing strafe the Nazi, with an enormous grin on my face, doing my best to make machine gun noises, but I sound lame. We passed though this section of the aircraft, and I sat with my husband in the middle of the plane with elderly gentleman. He served in the Korean War, and it’s his 3rd trip in one of these iconic planes. He had ridden on the B-24 and B-25 in previous years. Greg and the Korean vet are sitting on the floor on one of those cushions, but I get to sit on an office chair where the radio operator used to sit. The old radio is still there, but inoperable. There are old dials and switches, old tubes. I want to play with them, but suddenly become apprehensive. Maybe I shouldn’t touch them. I strap myself into my swiveling office chair with that burlap seat belt, but I’m having a hell of a time figuring out how to lock it, but it doesn’t matter. I’m too excited to care. I looked up and there was an open hatch directly above me. A built in sunroof!

The plane started to move down the runway, but we stopped at the end. It was a “cold” take-off, so the pilots had to spend about 10 minutes warming up the 4 engines. One at a time, the propellers started. I could see them from my little window where I sat. They run the engines full blast for a few minutes, and then we started to move again, but faster this time. Before I knew it, we were lifting off the ground. I quickly unbuckled my burlap belt and stood up. (They had told us we could stand up as soon as we were off the ground) I immediately poked my head out of the hatch and looked out behind. The Livermore Valley glistened in the morning sun and patches of fog. The wind was whipping through my hair, and I suddenly felt like a happy dog on a joy ride in her masters car, head poking out the window, tongue happily hanging out of my mouth; colors and movement everywhere!

We flew north at about 2000 feet for about 15 minutes, and I was transfixed, standing next to one of the machine guns gazing out the window. I saw familiar sights, even my own home as we passed over my town, but what was even more astonishing to me was what I felt. As we lumbered through the sky over Contra Costa County, I felt a great wave of emotion. I soon recognized that what I was feeling was a combination of pride and admiration for our fathers and mothers who lived through a definitive time in history. I also felt a great sense of loss. On average, 1000 WWII vets die each day. In a few years, this generation will be completely lost to us. My father has been gone since 1976, and maybe those moments on that B-17 brought him back to me, if only briefly.